Through Darker Glasses

Through bloodstone, the East Villagers saw their neighbors as wolves; through obsidian, the West Villagers saw them as vultures. Each generation ground their lenses finer with fear and fury, until children were born expecting monsters across the river.

When flood warnings came, the East reinforced their walls, certain the West would divert waters their way. The West stockpiled supplies, knowing the East would try to starve them out. Children slept in their shoes, ears straining for betrayal.

The river rose on a moonless night, crashing through windows and flooding homes on both banks. In the darkness, hands reached across the divide—pulling, pushing, grasping. Screams echoed until water muffled them. No one could tell which side was which, just desperate shapes fighting for higher ground, slipping beneath the surface.

The lenses cracked and washed away. Righteous people drowned believing they were being murdered. Stubborn souls died saving strangers they'd been taught to fear.

Survivors blinked in the morning light, seeing clearly for the first time. By noon, they crafted new lenses, harder than before. Their children would learn to grind them crueler, knowing the monsters had tried to drown them.

The river kept flowing, carrying old glass and older lies downstream.