The Land of SETH

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
a short of what 'may' be?

Submitted: July 20, 2016

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Submitted: July 20, 2016

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THE LAND OF SETH

When looking up the word Seth, it came up as Rich Man.  So I began to write this piece.  In this world of ours.  What would it be like, if all the poor became wealthy.  And the Rich then are made poor.  Not just some.  But all changed.  You out there.  Who struggle and really desire to make the world better.  Would it be so?  I have seen, read and met others.  Who were not happy and not rich.  Maybe I can open a door.  Turn a page.  Allow in a new place.  It could be called the Land of Seth.

*

Dave passed his wife the cup.  Both drank big mugs of coffee.  The thin walls of the terrace echoed with the drone from next door.  They were having a rave up.  Dave and his wife sat on the sofa together.  Faces ashen with doubt.  What a bad life, they sighed together.  Without speaking.  The TV was off.  The street was allowed in through the front door.  The sound of Jags raced by.  Toyed by the leading yobs of the city.  Suited farmers left their modern pads.  To work in the City.  This was the new life of David Cameron.

 

The world had flipped.  The posh were now signing on.  Or packing boxes in nowhere warehouses.  On twelve hour shifts.  Not seeing their partners or children.  Apart of the odd Bank Holiday.  The posh would drive the beaten up mini.  To the nearest seaside resort.  Drive bumper cars.  Smashing them.  Cursing the rise of the poor.  The most part of life they toiled for peanuts.  Leaving the grandparents to bring up the kids.  This was 2020.  David watched his wealth fall to next to nothing.

*

John Smith opened his pay packet.  A thousand pound fell into his lap.  All notes.  The inky stench filled his nostrils.  Money.  Loads of money.  The thought of a banquet of Big Mac Mega meals, came true.  Around the Cabinet table.  The ten hoodies ate.  Scoffing down the Brit fries and slurping on thick shakes.  The Prime Minister spoke with his mouthful.  Okay guys we have to do some work now.  The cleverest MP was given the orders.  Pay the poor.  Tax the rich. 

 

The manservant pulled on his tie.  Trying to choke himself.  Gordon Brown was a lost Labour man.  The downtrodden oaf, straightened up and obeyed his bosses and cleared the mess of litter.  Number 10 was in a sorry state.  Still life went on.  Something was better.  Freedom to live was now available. 

 

Tattooed punks travelled to Paris, New York and Rome.  Dining on the best food.  Served by zero hour contracted top chefs.  Oversized women took the kids to polo matches.  The Queen was visited.  Skinheads took pictures on their phones of her scrubbing the cobblestones of Buckingham Palace.  Time have changed, groaned the royal. 

*

David finished his drink.  Then washed his stubbly face in the small bathroom.  When the ice cold water had melted.  The music next door changed to Classical.  His wife looked quite radiant.  The bathroom was deluxe.  The house was a top terraced house in Mayfair.  His phone rang from Downing Street.  They wanted him back.  Just when he smiled to himself.  The voice said, no, Gordon Brown has run off.  We want you as the next lapdog of Downing Street.  Dave cried, Noooooooo.

 

The end

 

 

 

 


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