The Flagpole

The light was almost gone now. The low slung and pregnant clouds could not be blamed for blocking the light. The sun was setting and was just winking a curvaceous slice of brilliance at the underbelly of the cloud cover. The reds and blood orange colors contrasted upon the black clouds and threw a few rays at the figure. The wind began to howl.

Upon the left cheek of the face of the figure a flash of almost neon red briefly escaped to the wind. The refracted light was quickly extinguished with the full setting of the sun. What had caused it? A closer look would have revealed a small tear. The figure was crying. His lower lip quivered ever so slightly. Dark descends on the land.

The man, the figure, continues his duties. The wind from the fast approaching front began to whip his pants legs. The rain would come soon. He had to hurry.

Suddenly a new light of brilliant yellows and platinum whites are cast upon the clouds. Again and again it happens before the first reports of the guns reaches the ears of the man at the flagpole. He shakes his head. He stamps his feet. He continues to strike the Colors from the flagpole. He has to complete his task. He is the last Patriot.

For you see, it is the army of the progressives attacking the last enclave of conservatives. Soon the enclave will be no more because there is no hope of getting reinforcements. The man at the flagpole will die tonight and the Colors will be struck as a free flag no more. The struggle for a free life is done.

The guns go silent. The army is successful. No more dissent will be heard. The quiet is deafening. Darkness covers the land. The new Dark Age begins.