NEW FICTION:

The wind strobed across his shaved scalp, searing his face, scorching his eyes. He put his hand up in front of him - the sky was so bright he could see the bones in his fingers, the flesh a dull red halo clinging morbidly to the thin straight bone. He swivelled on his heels, shifted his body along his narrow hips - in a glistening circle. There was nothing alive. There was dust, and cinder, and ash - but nothing shifted, nothing moved if it wasn't for the wind. He closed his eyes in order to see more than. He drifted, he wandered across landscapes and horizons, across long moments and small lifetimes - but he saw nothing, saw no one. Endless plains of dust, cinder, ash - he kicked a bleached white fragment with the toe of his boot - and bones of course, always bones. He sighed once, and scanned the dusty, dead horizon. He pursed his lips and murmured to himself in a whisper: welcome to the end of the world my friend, welcome to the end of days.