Accidental Death of an Anarchist

It was night. It meant darkness, the silent throttle of the black. A time when everyone’s fears surfaces, none were safe from its deathly glow. Silently it seeped into the dusk, chewing on the light, inflicting pain upon it.

Occasionally there was a red sky, as thought war had struck in the heavens and the blood sepped down to the earth. All objects carried the tinted red, the ground, all. It is merely the black ridding of sanity.

The most hide into there homes, secretly fearing the night, although we would never admit it. Many strange occurrences have appeared because of the night. This was definitely the time.

Emily woke up abruptly in bed, her senses sharpening, adjusting to the environment. She kept her eyes closed, an old fear she lived by. Never open them at night, for she might see strange beings standing in her room; they may condemn her to death. At eight years old she was still young enough to believe stories her older siblings told her, mainly about ghosts ...