S.P. Michael
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Stories (1/0)
Migration of a Hunted Herd
This is her eleventh time doing this. It’s busy. Crowded. Claustrophobic as always. Too many people for what the chipped placard at the sliding door allots. Yet here they all are. The commuters. The citizens. Standing like birds in a storm, they sway with each turn or dip in the tracks. There was a time when people sat. But she can’t remember it. Just another memory the older generation tells the younger. Another inheritance from a time without relevance. A distant golden age of ancestors who built this city and then moved on, having either escaped or died. The seats were stripped from the compartment long ago. Now everyone stands rigidly upright, staring this way or that. She beholds those buildings beyond which occlude the falling sun, imagining its light warming the skyline’s far face.
By S.P. Michael3 years ago in Fiction