The Darkest Lies

by Barbara Copperthwaite

A moon hangs so fat it oozes an aura into the sky that almost

blots out the stars surrounding it. It looks down on land as flat as an open palm, and as unforgiving as a clenched fist, and gives no answer to the screams of fear and rage that float up to it.

Bloodshed was a drug for the elite, not the masses.

There was no point complaining about feeling permanently shattered, because no one could fix it.

I am killing innocence. I am slaughtering purity. I am butchering potential. There is no more powerful feeling than that.