Flash Fiction

It is only in the end that structure becomes apparent.  When the sleeper awakes and living begins.  If you dream only in colour, is that benefit or distraction.  There are rare occasions when dreams become life.

Fog cooling.  Wind biting.  He stumbled amongst the rocks fighting the desire to vomit.

I approach the bridge without caution. It is an iron wrought bridge, Victorian and crumbling. At the far side of the bridge the sun reflects from part finished paintwork. I want to be in the sunlight, out of the cold of the blinding sea fret. My steps are free of my own thought patterns, I need to reach the warmth. As I step onto the bridge, it's length increases, my strides shorten. I can hear the raucous calling of the gulls, but I cannot see them, below I can hear the constant yatter of the river traffic, the to-ing and fro-ing of the sea bound. I start uneasy, holding the balustrade for support. Faltering, barely yards onto the bridge, can I remember other crossings? I cannot recall ever crossing this bridge before or being so cold, I need the warmth of the other bank. And the other bank appears to be beyond eternity. My body is racked with spasms. I am sick.