[b]The Buried City[/b] [i]248 words[/i] [u]by Meg Trast[/u] Few have witnessed tragedies in such numbers as I. Born longer ago than most remember, I have seen generations live and die. Love, discord, war, famine, struggle, survival...these things have all come and gone, and in these hundred years I have never been so lonely as now. I have never been so empty. The warm sun serves as my only comfort, between brisk winds, harsh sand, and empty, quiet, dark nights. The nights are longer with each setting of the sun. My planet is dead. I fear I may be dead. Have I died? Broken, shattered, and sinking below the surface, do I still serve a purpose? I've seen not a soul for longer than I can recall. I once was full of life. I remember lovers, and children, and I remember hope. Then war came. It was a near-instant death for all present. The lucky few escaped, leaving me to rot and whither and wait for their return. Have I not awaited them patiently enough? Where are the masses who once held me near and dear? I wonder these things, the sun again setting on the horizon. The night will be cold with an all-too-familiar loneliness. As the nights turn to months, and the months to years, I begin to feel abandoned. The years will soon be decades, and sand will blow over me for a century until there is nothing left, and if I'm lucky I'll be remembered as little more than the Buried City.