Flash Fiction

Divine Apathia picked her way delicately across the charnel ground. The grime and decay slowly discolouring the white linen of her long flowing dress. In slow unstructured time Apathia realised that she was alone. She cried out. There was no reply, only the echoing music of her own voice.

She sat down, so to cry. Her lonely salt tears falling on an unremembered history of untouched bone.

She felt a fear that became a dread, and she continued to cry. And a pool formed, and a lake formed, and a sea formed and an ocean and she was an island.

She called from that island to all but nothing.