The day they arrived was the day I rode my bike home. The rusty ringing of the tire rims against the soiled metal of my bike could be heard from a mile away.
When riding through a puddle in the wizened and cracked road, I heard it. The soft buzzing noise came from over the weeping horizon. Water dripped down my hair and onto my face. I could taste the rain, and smell its smoggy aroma.
That’s when I saw it. The silver propeller-like mechanical bird flew overhead. I knew I needed the run, that they were coming after all this time, but I didn’t, I just froze, the sound of a thousand pelting bullets from the distance.
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