The wind whistles in my ears, sends my hair whipping across my face and neck. I can still smell the smoke, even as the wind thrusts it violently behind me. Scorched feathers, singed flesh. Above me, the smoke is a dark spiral against the white of the clouds, and farther still the shimmering Gate, its light narrowing to a pinprick as it closes, leaving me outside. Forever.
That won't be a problem for long. Far, far below, so far that I can see only a green and blue smear, is the ground. Approaching.
I smile, the wind in my hair.
DP FICTION #128A: “(Skin)” by Chelsea Sutton
1 week ago
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