Azaleas Don't Bloom Here: A Dystopian Novel

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All that was is gone. All that remains is a monument to the past; a testament to what was. The skyscrapers along Michigan Avenue became tombstones, and a once thriving business district lay empty and dead.

The streets are pot-holed and broken. Weeds grow out of the cracks, and no traffic traverses the boulevard. Looking up, the high rises are grey and dead, towering above, and occasionally dropping its debris like a giant animal disposing its waste. Looking down the street, one sees missing street signs, broken street lamps, and the occasional junker on the side of what used to be a road.

In these monuments, where once an ornate stairwell stood as a testament of wealth and power, it now represents impoverishment and uselessness. In the old offices, tall windows that once stood grand watch over the bustling traffic below, now display only busted shards of glass. The pristine walls are covered with dirt, grime, and graffiti. Oak desks sit rotted and broken, and the once polished floors are caked with dirt, branches and leaves.

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