Flash Fiction

Trailing dust squalls spit gravel at the gaping onlookers who have to cover their faces for protection as he leaves the past behind. At the wheel of the distinctive dust spitler he is refrained from looking rearward by the gaffa covering all the driving mirrors. His face he faced determined forward. Yet again he was moving onward never backward.

This time he had left behind the heat, the oppression, the squalor. This time, like many other times, he was moving north to the broken lands. But for this once he would head on and through to the ragged spaces beyond. As the dust devils recede and the travelling routes become firmer, if no less broken, he purges his recent memories till all that is left is the stench from his grey grubby clothes.

At the first stop, over a full day into his journey, he disrobes of his unwanted garb and naked walks into his blood spattered death. He has been here before. He does not remember. But they do and they were waiting, shotguns loaded.