March 4, 2015: Ashcans and Unobtainable Dollars

The air is filled with smoke, smog, chemicals.
It’s after noon but the sun is nowhere to be seen.

I was given a mask with a filter, reminiscent of some World War storm trooper gas mask.
The mask doesn’t seem to be effective, the smell is still getting through.

It just appeared over night. No one saw anything, no one heard anything. The sun rose, and there it was, big black clouds blocking the sky. And that stench…like burning hair.

It looks like a giant metal monster.Broken stained glass eyes, smoke stacks and antennae jutting up like an industrial crown. Black smog billowing from his ears.
His cannibal dynamo chest open. Flames, iron shackles, goats and chickens.

The drumming isn’t enough to drown out the sounds of crying children and the weeping of old men.

The newly formed town army stood in ten lines in front of the monstrosity.
Three hundred children are standing in line, waiting to enter the flames.

They shouldn’t have lied. They shouldn’t have hid their real kids.

There’s real holy laughter in the river. I saw it all!

I feel like our fates are just clouds of sexless hydrogen.

They lead the children into the machine, one by one. The parents trying to hold back cries.

The clouds grow darker.
The crying is quieter.
The line of children is shrinking every minute.

Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless!

I have to turn away.
I cannot watch this savage religion, this congress of sorrows – these sacrifices that are the result of unquestioned worship.

I walk away, dropping the mask, turning my back on the flames and the ash and the monsters.

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