Coarse, bitter sand flings across the hills and tumbles its way toward the horizon. A pair of boots, dragging through the hard sea, kicks up a spurt of sand that billows and deflates into the air. Drops of red blood follow the footsteps, vibrant as they color the harsh, yellow dryness.
She clutches her arm. A stinging gash, a soaked cloth, a drenched and sticky hand. She squeezes her eyes shut and grimaces, struggling to relive the last thing before the world collapsed: a gentle kiss on her fading lips, like charcoal pressed on paper, firm and loving. Like the old taste of the sweet earth.
Of course, it’s long gone. She doesn’t have the energy to count the times she’d died in order to live.
The sky is taut over the land, and though the air is thick, she gulps it down greedily. She wonders how such a beautiful world is capable of harboring immense darkness.
She remembers that people aren’t so different.
(I don’t know what it is about reading sci-fi/fantasy that gives me the incredible urge to write and write. It’s oddly rejuvenating.)