NEW FICTION:

 

His wings dragged along the dirt, broken, tired and useless - he would have cut them off if he knew how to. But he didn't - so they dragged along the dirt and dust, snagging on old bone and cinder. It was hot, and he knew it - a sweat had been building up across his body for what seemed an eon. He drifted across the stark, brutal landscape, the sky was blood red and sullen, the ground a bleached cream - dry and bitter - there was nothing in between as he dragged his dead wings through the dirt.