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"Music on the Hill"

Updated: May 24, 2021

Guitarist Image

Oh, to hear music again...I was, perhaps, luckier than some. I did have that memory--that faded portrait of my father. To be fair, it was but a flash--the way very early memories often were; but it was, nonetheless, one of the few images that remained of that period.

I struggled along, rifle still in hand, and gazed out at the terrain through the lenses of my suit. There was a missile that had struck some number of years ago not far from here--not close enough for vaporization, but sufficient to leave a large swath of radioactivity nearby what had been the epicenter.

I often found it odd that the Imperials liked to drop agent here on a regular basis. Was the radiation not enough? Would it not work fast enough for their liking? The only thing I could ever guess was it was simply a way of punishing the ones who had resisted the longest. And if the Imperials could not have this ground, then no one ever would. That was, after all, the way they liked to do things. It was true that none of us would ever walk this part of the country again unsuited.

As I reached the place, I saw that rock, that lake in the background. I began to hear what were like distant notes.

I fell to my knees as the depressurization alarms sounded. It did not matter now. The sniper had been expert, the bullet had already pierced my suit--and my organs-- though I had managed to stay alive for a duration; as I strove for this hilltop one final time. Slowly, I removed my helmet and felt the cool, unprocessed air on my face.

The music crescendoed in my ears. And I heard my father play, once more.


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