The world wasn’t spinning out of control—it was tearing apart, one jagged piece at a time.
Across the Eastern horizon, smoke spiraled into the bloodied sky, a harrowing echo of distant violence. Nadia’s hands trembled as she turned off the radio in her tiny New York apartment, its tinny speakers relaying another grim update about an escalating conflict overseas. She leaned against the kitchen counter, clutching her cold coffee cup like a lifeline, but nothing could steady her now. Her brother, Alex, was set to deploy next week. Nineteen, full of bravado, and still too young to vote.
“What does it matter?” he’d said over dinner last night, his voice thick with defiance. “Voting won’t stop the bullets.”
Nadia had no answer. She couldn’t tell him to lay down his gun when the world around them glorified violence and scorned peace. She couldn’t even tell him he was wrong—because, deep down, she wasn’t sure he was.
In another corner of the globe, near the banks of the Jordan River, Kareem crouched low among the reeds, the smell of cordite and decay filling his lungs. His cousin’s lifeless body floated just feet away, face down in the murky water. Kareem clutched the rifle that he swore he’d never carry, a weapon pressed into his hands by forces he didn’t understand and couldn’t refuse.
“You don’t believe in war, do you?” his friend Ahmed had whispered days before, his voice heavy with accusation. “Then why are you here? Why do you carry their gun?”
Why, indeed.
Thousands of miles away, the debate in Washington echoed through marble halls. Senator Howard rubbed his temples, staring at the unread legislation piled on his desk. Handfuls of protests surged outside his office windows, their chants demanding integration, peace, respect. He knew the futility of his position; a single vote wouldn’t change centuries of injustice or stop the steady drumbeat of war.
But he still tried.
The bill failed by a landslide.
In Selma, Alabama, the streets churned with hope and fear. Mary clasped her hands tightly, the rosary tangled in her fingers as she marched forward. She’d seen the photographs of Red China, the hollow faces of starving children. She’d read the reports of firebombs falling overseas. Yet it was here, in her own town, where hate felt the most personal, its shadow lurking behind every suspicious glare and muttered insult.
And still, she marched.
Four days in space. That’s how long Captain Frank Grayson had been away from Earth. As the shuttle descended through the stratosphere, he looked forward to quiet nights at home with his wife and kids. But when he landed, Earth was unchanged. The news anchors spoke of conflict and corruption, pride and disgrace. Grayson felt hollow. They could send a man to the moon, but humanity seemed trapped in its own orbit, spiraling toward destruction.
Nadia stood on the roof of her apartment, watching the city lights flicker beneath a shroud of pollution. The world was on fire, and she couldn’t breathe. Her blood boiled with rage—not at Alex, not at the far-off leaders who pushed the buttons, but at the human condition itself.
“This is madness,” she whispered to no one.
Somewhere, a preacher offered grace over a table. Somewhere, a mother buried her child and left no marker. Somewhere, someone hated their neighbor but prayed for forgiveness.
Somewhere, the world continued its slow march to the edge.
And as the night deepened, Nadia repeated the words that haunted her dreams:
“You tell me, over and over and over again, how we’re not on the eve of destruction. But I see it. I feel it. And I don’t believe you anymore.”
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