Tyranny

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Stan stared out of his window, the streets below his tower block were deserted; not a soul in sight or a car on the road. For as far as the eye could see there was nothing to be seen. The town had become a ghost town, empty of people, empty of life. It would have been eerie and mysterious had it been midnight but the fact that it was midday made it even more unnerving. What had once been a thriving, bustling community had been reduced to the brave few taking furtive glances from behind curtains to check on the empty streets outside. This oppressive, repressive regime had sucked the life out of life. It was impossible to live even a semblance of normal life under these conditions. The tyranny had won, freedom had lost, even Stan’s morning cup of tea was outlawed.

And what chance of a revolution? What chance of over throwing this oppression? Sometimes storm clouds built on the horizon, violence broke out but soon order was restored, resistance is futile was the defiant message. Stan let the curtain fall back across the window and went to lie on his bed. 
'Resistance is futile' he muttered to himself. He’d given up, he’d tried to fight, tried to carry on as normal but he’d been coerced into submission by the brutal regime. He’d hibernate, lay low, accept his fate, secretly hoping there was an end in sight but knowing resistance was futile.

Soon the sun would set and the curfew would be lifted for just a few hours. Temperatures would fall from 40 to 35 and then eventually to a manageable 28. People would tentatively emerge from their hiding places, looking scared, tired and stressed. The brave ones would test the waters, making sure the coast was clear before leading a flurry of activity as people tried to fit in a day’s worth of activities into a few short hours.  Even then there would be dangers, there would be tension, it’s everyone for his or herself out there. The regime had managed to divide and rule, turn neighbour onto neighbour, create suspicious minds. You had to watch your back, your front, your sides.

When time was up the people would, like insects, crawl back home, exhausted by their exertions, searching for shelter from the tyranny of the sun.

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