C. A. Harland

I walk through fields of brittle stalks, amidst wafting ash and charcoal dust. This cold is dry, and thin, and bleak, and though this sun shines down, its light is empty. This was once a place of life. A place where the air thrummed with birdsong, or the hum of insects, or the rustle of wind through leaves.

Now, the only sound is the bristling of blackened cane, and the coughing of smoke-choked lungs. I try to see it, the colour that must have been here, before the brutal winds washed it away, stripping away light and leaving only barrenness.

There was life here, once. But that was before the fire came.

FFM Day 21

Prompt: In honour of Ernest Hemingway’s 112th birthday, this piece must be exactly 112 words long, include a polysyndetonic sentence, and incorporate two of the following themes: Love, Loss, Wilderness, War.