Pre script: black day is a day, which would repeat every 6 months, the third Mondays of September and March, when the panels all over the world would be launched high above the clouds. The panels, solar indeed, would shadow out the entire earth from dawn to dusk as they charge themselves to run the earth for the next session.
A scotch older than him trickled along his eyes as his corpse was carried away, placed in a bacterial cup to the far off cemetery, when the procession of the Congers' passed by. It had to look like the tear, for fate had destined so. The flesh was eaten up by the yeast-feed and the bones were charred into obese sugar. All left was a soul free, dwelling by the red cloud, to rise above the world of plastered smiles and clustered panels.
It was the black day. Ismav woke up early as the alarm struck 4 in the afternoon. The day was still pitch black. The weather was cold, perhaps around 330 Kelvin he guessed trying to feel it, for the record shall be nowhere. He was old now, forty years of age weighed onto the sensor initiated crèches. He walked through the corridors and into the balcony, not a pinch of light anywhere to be seen. The metal rumbled along the carbide floor, for the sensors were hibernating, thanks to the black day. He saw into the sky, that emptiness, clouded as it was, by the cluster of solar panels, as it seemed for nothing could be seen.
Black day became a convention every six months, that day when you could do nothing but sleep or cook on fire. His family went out into the local barren garden to cook the human meat, made out of the yeast from belly button. Ismav counted in spending over wax lights and coffee. He burned the wax in its pot, poured coffee from the retention flask, brewed a day ago, and finally sat at his chair. He was waiting for the one news, pondering over how he cast the vote by the new system, the pain his finger suffered as the acid drilled his nail, feeling it over with his other fingers.
The result was finally declared from the citadel in the old mike that hung since a thousand years, over the Nu Red Fort in the city of Nu Dale. "Over a century, we have witnessed the corruption of I Am Admi party, and today, as our new leader Veeraj Gandhi said, 'The nation, in the black hour, when the entire world stales in the dark, our nation rises to freedom and peace.' Indeen National Congers thrones back" a fanatic declared.
The result was finally declared from the citadel in the old mike that hung since a thousand years, over the Nu Red Fort in the city of Nu Dale. "Over a century, we have witnessed the corruption of I Am Admi party, and today, as our new leader Veeraj Gandhi said, 'The nation, in the black hour, when the entire world stales in the dark, our nation rises to freedom and peace.' Indeen National Congers thrones back" a fanatic declared.
Ismav's heart stuttered breathless as he coughed the coriander smoke in astonishment. The country now showed that they believe in Congers over I Am Admi party. Once in history, when the Indeen national Congers were corrupt to the neck and I Am Admi, formerly AAP, rose to power with the slogan "India against corruption." In an open-eyed daydream, he glimpsed over how it fell, how the hierarchy corrupted its roots, and how it split, the righteous members branching out and merging back and how the 'solar space scam' ruined it. He munched the cane slices dipped in coffee with his crumbling teeth and returned back to the bed. He packed himself back in a blanket, clasped his hands onto his chest and wore off his eye cottons. That night he slept tumbling over the foam.
A scotch older than him trickled along his eyes as his corpse was carried away, placed in a bacterial cup to the far off cemetery, when the procession of the Congers' passed by. It had to look like the tear, for fate had destined so. The flesh was eaten up by the yeast-feed and the bones were charred into obese sugar. All left was a soul free, dwelling by the red cloud, to rise above the world of plastered smiles and clustered panels.