The Union

by Leah Vernon

I wasn’t a hero. I was just trying to get out alive. I was an opportunist. Not a savior.

I became part of the texture of the instruments, hypnotized by the ripple of the octaves. My body was live art. A fine specimen, delicate and smooth, more satisfying when consumed slowly.

I was nothing they said I was. I thought none of their universal thoughts. I was not a machine or a computer.

I was flesh. I was human. I was a heart that pumped to the beats of...

she was just another illusion created to hide the cruelty of our society. Pretty things were meant to distract.

With every drip of perspiration, a little piece of me died to hydrate the soil. The circle of life. Something had to suffer for the other to thrive.

I didn’t want their land or their riches; the rebels could have it all. Maybe they should’ve wanted escape, like me. It was easier to just leave it all behind. Instead, they wanted to take back something that belonged to no one.