Dystopia

Kirkby had confessed to the crime of arson (although he did not commit it) and they had sentenced him to death (which was no surprise). As the execution flight took off, they were kind to him, but Kirkby was not interested in food or drink; he wanted to look out - as far as his eyes could see. The world had become basic and brutal, and Antonin Melda (Earth's current emperor and probably its most deranged to date) had signed what would forever be called the Magna Melda - a document approving corporal punishment using opposing elements (earth and air, fire and water). Ground someone (an act formerly known as 'murder') and you were suffocated - deprived of air; interrupt services or interfere with commerce on the few remaining roads ('stopping movement currents with intent to disrupt') and you'd be buried alive. "No thank you, I'm fine," Kirkby said to the flight attendant, staring out of the picture window in awe. The view so breathtaking, it was almost surreal. He had lived in the ruins of California his entire life and had never seen the ocean. "Well, stop fantasizing about it," his father had said. "We're mine workers and that's where we belong. You'll never get out of here anyway." But Kirkby had responded that he would leave and he would see the water and here he was. "More than one way to skin a cat," he whispered, and the attendant leaned in, thinking he had a request (but he apologized and waved her off). True, they'd drop him in the sea and, if he survived the impact, he'd drown (the cost of starting fires these days), but it was stunning - the deep rolling blue of it, the way it felt alive. "Worth the price of admission," Kirkby thought quietly to himself.