The rain fell. It was a typical, cold autumn rain that would leave everything soaked for days because sun was too low in the sky at this time of year to dry it. In another month or two, the rain would freeze as it fell.
He looked out of one of the two small windows in his stone hut, windows for which the glass had been salvaged from a crumbling house... one of those cheap constructions that had been built before the incident. The window looked out on a valley of sorts, formed by the small, rocky hills that this particular commune had settled in. The rain filled the valley and formed a small stream, and this stream flowed over a small, sad memory.
From his window, he could see where some poor fool had tried to build a shelter in the valley. Apparently it had never occurred to him (her, perhaps?) that the grass in the little valley grew greener for a reason... In any case, all that remained were some stones from the shallow foundation and a small pile of rotting wood. No one knew who had built the little lean-to; they had likely moved on after their floor turned to mud with the first rain. He wondered what became of them. Survival was often harder than one believed, as many of those who had survived had learned he hard way.
He had known what it would be like. Perhaps "known" is the wrong word; after living homeless for a year, prior to the incident, he had a much better idea of what it would be like. He grinned, recalling how society had appeared from the bottom up. From down there anyone could see where the weak points were, if they paid close enough attention. He thought about how he had bemoaned the lack of creature comforts, and how trivial his problems back then seemed now. A vagrant's livelihood depended largely on the surplus that society could produce, and on his or her ability to scavenge for it. It was a miserable existence, to be sure, when something as simple as a tissue to blow one's nose on was a true luxury and when one was often at the mercy of thugs, but at least there wasn't too much competition.
After the incident, his experience in living off the excesses of the bloated society of which he had once been a part was very much to his advantage. Scavenging was second nature to him. He had almost been prepared for the collapse, and he chuckled to himself as he realized that being almost prepared was enough to make him a king in the eyes of those who had been caught completely by surprise. A king of the destitute and desperate, of course, but a king nonetheless.
"Don't hail the king," he whispered to himself, now bracing himself against the window in a fit of giggles, "he's just the court jester who got the crown by accident."
He looked out of one of the two small windows in his stone hut, windows for which the glass had been salvaged from a crumbling house... one of those cheap constructions that had been built before the incident. The window looked out on a valley of sorts, formed by the small, rocky hills that this particular commune had settled in. The rain filled the valley and formed a small stream, and this stream flowed over a small, sad memory.
From his window, he could see where some poor fool had tried to build a shelter in the valley. Apparently it had never occurred to him (her, perhaps?) that the grass in the little valley grew greener for a reason... In any case, all that remained were some stones from the shallow foundation and a small pile of rotting wood. No one knew who had built the little lean-to; they had likely moved on after their floor turned to mud with the first rain. He wondered what became of them. Survival was often harder than one believed, as many of those who had survived had learned he hard way.
He had known what it would be like. Perhaps "known" is the wrong word; after living homeless for a year, prior to the incident, he had a much better idea of what it would be like. He grinned, recalling how society had appeared from the bottom up. From down there anyone could see where the weak points were, if they paid close enough attention. He thought about how he had bemoaned the lack of creature comforts, and how trivial his problems back then seemed now. A vagrant's livelihood depended largely on the surplus that society could produce, and on his or her ability to scavenge for it. It was a miserable existence, to be sure, when something as simple as a tissue to blow one's nose on was a true luxury and when one was often at the mercy of thugs, but at least there wasn't too much competition.
After the incident, his experience in living off the excesses of the bloated society of which he had once been a part was very much to his advantage. Scavenging was second nature to him. He had almost been prepared for the collapse, and he chuckled to himself as he realized that being almost prepared was enough to make him a king in the eyes of those who had been caught completely by surprise. A king of the destitute and desperate, of course, but a king nonetheless.
"Don't hail the king," he whispered to himself, now bracing himself against the window in a fit of giggles, "he's just the court jester who got the crown by accident."
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