Flash Fiction

And the days are dead. Sun bleached bones litter the ways and no one takes them home. Mementos on a broken road.

Continuing on his inappropriate journey past the impromptu graveyard with his reasoning that of lonely sanity, beyond the stagnant antiquaries that were once building.

The blacked windows of his transport only causing him heat that only brings remembrance, of 1905 and 1932 and 1971 and the woman he created there.

Reaching what he called his destination he disembarked into what stood as his home. He drank of it's bright waters and she was there. Bitter and crackle, steel and flesh.