The remains of the commuters encompass the railway line as well as the crushed carriages. The next of kin have all been notified and by now nearly all of them have arrived on the scene. Next comes the arduous process of identification.
'Look, there by the flashing light,' a woman cries, recognizing the left shinbone of her dearly (and clearly) departed husband, beloved father of three devoted children. And look, there, closer, nearer to the bloody tracks, a young girl successfully identifies the gnawed through fingernails of her older brother, still attached to the bloody stump of his hand.
Somewhere along the line, seeing no other option, the Earth started its own proceedings. To make it easier to soak up the carnage, it encouraged the human remains to blend together with one another as orderly and quickly as possible. But the growing overwhelming stench hasn’t really helped matters run along smoothly.
Then, from out of nowhere, the City issue a decree for an all-at-one mass cremation. One final, fitting ceremony to end all ceremonies. Complete with punch. Everything connected with the events of the day will be burnt to a cinder. Furthermore, taking into account their well developed principle of utility, the City also come to the conclusion that it would be in everyone’s best interest to give the public the opportunity to add their own personal touch to the ceremony. The ceremony they now predict will one day go down in history as the Great Fire Of Remembrance.
Many of the folk now gathered around have decided upon the option of offering flowers to the flames, ones purposely picked for the occasion. Some simply fling in freshly purchased greeting cards, with personal messages scrawled inside. Others just can’t find the time to select something appropriate and so instead they chuck in cards signed to commemorate some other notable occasion. Some even make the most of the arrangement and add whole boxes filled with cards they no longer need or want. And still others decide that to offer photographs to the flames is the best option of them all, as it’s considered appropriately poignant. Of course, a few try to take advantage of the situation. One man throws in a shoebox collection of love letters long kept from his impetuous youth, reassuring his wife with the words: It’s all for the best, it’s all for the best. Another man, an avid collector of the daily newspaper for over the last twelve years or so, now decides he needs a change of direction in his life. So he adds pile after pile of crusty brown paper to the fire, watching the flames climb higher and higher as he contemplates the void of his days to come.
Soon the streets are paved with all kinds of debris, and it’s not long before pandemonium reigns supreme. Decrepit old ladies get thrown headfirst into the flames and the police take advantage of their position by exacting revenge on those poor sods considered to be persistent troublemakers. And the flames keep climbing.
Sit back and watch as the creditors and debtors start tearing each other to pieces. Screams and cheers easily drown out any futile waves of protest. Many can only look on at what’s happening with their mouths agape.
Don’t forget though, please don’t forget, that beautiful doe eyed girl standing back from all the wreckage in the safety of a dream, seemingly bemused by everything going on today, especially the supposed revelation of an entertainment society.
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