His body is cracked and bowed, his clothes stiff with dirt. His day is a doorway and an upturned cap, cans of cider, corrugated cardboard. His nights are darkness blotting like ink and the bitter howls of the ghosts of his past.
Joseph Monroe started building the sarcophagus on the day his father fell under a bus. “Fall under a bus?” he said, “No sir. A nice peaceful death, that’s what I want.” It took him six weeks, and when he’d finished he lay inside and announced that he’d remain there until his dying day. He fixed… Continue reading Body – SmallTales
The shadow that the sun prints on the parched sand is as sharp as pressed metal, and its edge creeps towards him like a curse. He huddles into the shrinking panel of shade. An hour until the second sun rises. Maybe less. He rubs the visor of the envirosuit and wishes again that it wasn’t… Continue reading Shade – SmallTales