A few small walls did still stand, doing their best “roman ruin.” One corner of the previous structure looked fairly sturdy. The bricks standing strong and proud for their fallen brothers, sticking together as long as possible. It was a picture into the past. A past that stretched out from the hill, claimed great by stories told through the generations who’ve stayed. “A different place,” they’d say. The one’s who kept with the times used semi-current slang to support their fight. “It was off-the-chain, man. No joke, dude. The place was killer. Every night was raging.”
The picture blurred. The ruins, now an eyesore. The slightly-off slang convinced none of the young. Every year fewer believed the stories they barely bared to listen to. It was wasted space. Former members jumped ship.
“Who needs ‘em!”
A time forgotten by the majority, overrun by years. “Wipe it,” they say, stripping everything for nothing, no trade-backs. Memories sold into a parking lot.
The nest of a past culture, left to waste in a drawn-out death. Obsolete times drawing painful final breaths, waiting to be suffocated under a layer of tar.
For some more of Brian's writing: Sell Your Soul