The War on Beauty

When the rivers ran dry, and the soil lost its life, the world rocked like a ship atop storm water. Revolution surged, and those with nothing sought retribution against those who had everything. In the face of reprisal, the plutocrats became like dragons, bringing fire and devastation among those who dared threaten their hoard.

These clashes, innumerable and immeasurable in their brutality and violence, brought the world to the brink of annihilation. In their impending despair, the wealthy united as a singular force. They created think-tanks to determine how they could irrefutably solidify their power. A sinister idea emerged, like some wicked and primordial monster born from an ocean of malice.

They turned their attacks away from the people, and set aim upon a sacred and shapeless target: the ideals that the people held. With their new enemy determined, the War on Beauty was waged.

The first attack was upon the beauty of the earth, and it was done with astonishing power. Hydrogen bombs were dropped ceaselessly onto rainforests, mountain ranges, and jungles. Great plumes of ash and smoke rose upward and blotted out the sun and the stars, turning the sky to a dome of slate rock. The oceans were marred with potent chemicals and entirely sterilized, turning the water a murky silver. All ecologies around the world were quickly and brutally decimated; not for their resources, but for their divinity.

The people of the world, shocked by this grand display of needless devastation, fought back with rage and fury redoubled. But the loss of so many precious resources weakened the population, and a great number of them, unable to endure in the glaring eyes of such atrocity, simply gave up.

Next, the attack turned toward art. Museums and libraries were hastily burned to the ground, their great works reduced to cinder. Music was eradicated and instruments were destroyed en masse. Clothes were set ablaze in great piles and replaced with plain grey uniforms. The work was quick and relentless, and anyone who tried to hide away so much as a painting or a novel was met with wicked inferno.

The cities that still stood were the next target, but they were not destined for ruination. Rather, huge amounts of wealth were directed toward total reconstruction, and all architectural aesthetic was replaced with flat and stale concrete. Glass and form were quickly excised; skylines became monolithic graveyards, and the streets resembled catacombs. In this huge reform, the elite built themselves impenetrable fortresses. They were grand, dizzying obelisks that reached far into the grey sky.

To the surprise of many, ration dispensaries were established during the reconstruction, and the mendicants who were nearing starvation now had a chance at survival.

The people still fought on, but their passion was withering. They now had food, and although it was a meagre ration of dry bread and flat water, it was enough. Many people even saw this as an act of benevolence, and became grateful to the elite few who now provided for them. Others, no longer driven by desperate hunger, resigned with quiet internal protest.

This subtle shift in attitude was the true intention of the War on Beauty. They attacked anything that offered inspiration, destroyed anything that gave purpose. They provided the population with enough to survive, but with nothing to embolden. With an offer of better rations in exchange for cooperation, they silently tightened their grip, using an army of the hungry to weed out and punish those who dared to sing or draw or wear concealed jewellery.

Still, there were those that fought. They were small in number, and though they battled with passion they had lost sight of what it was they were fighting for. The elite had made great strides in cementing their power, but they knew that any spark, no matter how small, was a threat to their authority. The think-tanks, after much discussion and experiment, devised a permanent solution, and with this they moved to their final attack.

In this last and most insidious effort, an agreement was made between the consolidated elite and the people. A guarantee of food, shelter, and peace forever was given in exchange for one simple procedure: a small, ocular injection. The people, toiling within the permanent gloom of the new world, had no reason to object. They never knew that it was akin to a lobotomy, which left their minds and irises as dull ponds of grey.

The people now spent their days shuffling drearily between worksites and shelters, their thoughts never reaching beyond what was in front of their silvery eyes. During one of these ghostly walks, a young woman came across something glimmering in the street. She bent down to examine it; a heart shaped locket, suspended on a thin brand of gold. Beautifully crafted, it shone against the ashen sun, cradling a brilliant red ruby in its chest.

The sight of this brought something bubbling up in her mind like a long lost dream. It reached for the surface, but, failing to break through, slowly sank back into the dark depths of unawareness. She let it slip from her fingers, back into the dust, and it was in that small and fragile moment that the war had been won.