A child of nine or ten sits at the edge of the crowd, alone, playing on a wooden flute. An old woman, small, fat, and laughing, is passing out flowers from a basket, and tall young men wear her flowers in their shining hair. The youths and girls have mounted their horses and are beginning to group around the starting line of the course. The faces of small children are amiably sticky in the benign grey beard of a man a couple of crumbs of rich pastry are entangled. A marvelous smell of cooking goes forth from the red and blue tents of the provisioners. Most of the procession have reached the Green Fields by now. “One thing I know there is none of in Omelas is guilt….” Ursula Le Guin The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas (1973)
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