Stories

A Place We Call Home By: Lance Aleong

A Place We Call Home Written By: Lance Aleong

Just above their heads lie the broken oxidized barbed wire. This is where "The Other side Live’s." They live-in structures that can’t withstand the generational pain. And cannot maintain their original prison-like facade. A facade that has shaken and broken from the pitter-pattering of footsteps.

These are the ones who never left, they felt they could bend the iron into their own individualized oasis. All of the twisted metal-rivets that surrounded them, while their resources where still limited because the landlord burned all the books there where.

They replaced them with groceries they brought from the Landlord, and the landlord taxed all of their needless governmental wants by at least 40% or more. This didn’t stop the tenants from filling their apartments. They lined their broken plastered hallways with pictures of thriving lifelike African communities with children at play.

They filled their refrigerators with electrolyte’s and gave the water to their animals. Their convoluted barbwire minds began to resonate. The others would envision their lives beyond the oxidized barbed wire materializing into versions of "Freedom." But most of the community had other plans. They drugged them. They mentally and physically impregnating the visionaries, Until a new generation of dependency was born.

They coined their lifeless iron Apartments as “The Place We Call Home." Time moved forward, they never mentally made it. They faked their way into a new Maury Povich sitcom. They kept watching… laughing… an participating, as their children recorded.

No one even noticed the children’s playground was gutted and back-filled with cement; damn near two years ago. They didn't realize the trees started withering and disappearing, until the stainless-steel dome was installed.

Replacing their natural light with a window. They didn't even know their air supply was being taxed, until the Landlord began cutting it off, and now the mentally dead just lie there and died there. Their bodies are stacked up into the awaiting off-duty Ambulance parked in the basement.

They all laughed and said as another empty Ambulance returned,
“This is Our Fallout Shelter ‘We Call Home.”

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Time moved forward, they never mentally made it. They faked their way into a new Maury Povich sitcom. They kept watching… laughing… an participating, as their children recorded.
— Lance Aleong