The year 2015

A genetic modification caused by a Russian chemical accident has polluted the Earth, and people feel it far and wide.

Months have passed, and the cleanup, mainly by Western countries, has lost the battle with nature, as deep Russian snow has now blanketed the icy Steppe. 

The engineers from the West are at a stop. The pollution is too deep and the ground too hard.

Darkness has befallen the world, and the consequences remain to become apparent.

Present Day

With the cleanup in Russia at an end, the Earth has been left to soak up the pollutants and dilute the chemical itself, but it is all too late. The months of silence from the Russian state have caused untold damage to the planet. If only they had come clean at the start and had not denied the accident, there could have been hope, but it is not to be. 

Now, the signs of the spill are showing themselves. Babies are born weak with illnesses, and the old and infirm are dying sooner than expected. The wildlife population is fading out, with extinction threatening their very survival

But in a small group of islands commonly known as Great Britain, another most curious symptom of the accident has come to pass.

Every year, as Autumn approaches, the leaves no longer change to the beautiful golden browns, the wonderful yellows and the mesmerising deep, firey reds. Instead, the colour of the change mimics the mood of the population. 

A strange development, undoubtedly, forces the political parties to bend to the people’s will. If all is well, the leaves change to a royal blue, with edges of purple; if the people are not satisfied, Grey becomes the colour of Autumn, a miserable colour that will lead us into a cold, drab winter.

Over the years, political parties have used the new Autumn as a barometer of the people. Arguments in the Houses of Parliament use Autumn as evidence of the current ruling party’s inabilities, and these arguments are valid.

But now, Autumn is almost upon us again, and the leaves have started to change. The world is looking in, and news crews from around the globe have begun to assemble at probably the most famous of all forests, the great Sherwood Forest, home to the legendary Robin Hood.

And as the leaves begin to change into Autumn’s flowery gown, it is seen that black is the colour of choice. Never in the post-accident years has an Autumn turned as black as coal; what does it mean? What is this change?

As the political parties argue their points, the first rioter throws the first brick, and crowds gather in the darkened corners of suburbia. Brick after brick smashes through shop windows, petrol bombs light up the sky, and the burning cars create barricades across the streets. 

Toxteth, Salford, Tottenham, and Cardiff are all burning through the night as looting takes priority. The police are powerless and vulnerable to attack, and gunfire echoes through the streets of Chelsea and Birmingham.

As shops and houses burn, the government crouches in the shadows of Big Ben, a symbol of democracy, but now nothing but a witness to the anarchy on the streets. 

Lawlessness is what black Autumn means; this is the people’s mood. 

 And as Britain burns under the wrath of the population and the people rise, the king sits up on the hill. He picks up the phone, types in a pre-arranged number, and waits for the call to connect. 

A strange story this one. It makes me wonder what actually goes on in my head. At first, I didn’t like it, and I very nearly gave up on it, but I had a cup of tea, did some editing, and here it is. Black.

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