Flash Fiction

She wore tight leather jeans and red splash back corkscrew hair. She wore an air of nobility and cadillac heels. She carried nothing but credit and a radiance in her smile. She rolled with the mood, hitch hiking from Marseilles to the empire states of fools.

The republic of the final days was coming to an end and she could see no exits. She would dance with her arms round her memories until the ultimate passing. She would lay before the metal guru and slide, pick up on the untouchables and feel their cries. She would paint her face and ride a subway train.

Ride until the wheeling cry of a lonesome dove brings her from daydream startling back to reality. Until the simple cut of her grey pleated skirt, the stunted growth of her limiting heels feed her depression. She wishes she could walk with that stranger. Dance as her, all night. All night long. But daily drudgery is her darkness, to be faced and embraced. And her low slung shoes rub like hell.