I hear it everywhere. I am in fear of it, and of the People. The People are those who hunt me, hunt me down for my courage to stand for my own creative rights. Hands reaching up to my ears again, I dimly hear the dogs barking I jump up from the computer chair, where the half-finished URL box says: www.ficl . I hop over the torn, scattered pages of books in my post-apocalyptic home.

Running onto the couch and standing up, I fall to my knees and my hands crest the head of the couch. My eyes start to roll and the ringing gets louder. I whimper as I fall to a sitting position on the couch, staring at the back of it with despair and understanding. I hear the front door creak but my energy has been drained. I fall backwards and off the couch, my shoulder scraping and I hear the sound of flesh being torn by carpet. The iron tang of blood reaches my dulled senses, and I hear a footstep inside my adobe. I hear the sounds of a gun being fired and then the sound of my dogs bodies hit the floor. Then they come for me..