Flash Fiction

Silas Barnsfather, the unjust man, trod the turf of the debatable lands in a reckless search for the Chronic Research Unit. This sojourn took him through unknown places where he spoke to none but a few and come the weary evening he lodged himself at inhospitable hostelries. Each morning, reluctantly roused, he straightened his thoughts and recommenced his quest.

His days mostly took him over broken ground past the baleful lookout kids of the Mongolian street gangs who ignored him for richer pickings. Past the wreckage of now gone industries, plethora of crucifix and the sins of the guilty. On occasion, when he stopped to eat a little sustenance, a ragged stranger clearly aware of his quest would come close and wordlessly point toward the horizon. He packed his meagre belongings glad to be away from meaningless offerings and trod on. Always heading towards a relentlessly beautiful sunset, always leaving an unbidden sunrise.

Then one of these lonely days amidst the cavernous ruins he came upon a rampant field of magicked mushrooms. The smell from the floating pores was sickening, the effect of the hallucinogen overwhelming. The disembodied voices spoke to him in the tongues of the long dead gone away. In tones of reverence, advice was passed and the outcome would be that the search for the Chronic Research Unit would remain unfulfilled. Silas Barnsfather muttered sympathetically to himself and with a weeping grimace returned toward the forgotten sunrise. His cry could be heard beyond forever.