300 Days of Writing
Day 45 A Walk:
Leaves and sun-bleached fibulas crunched beneath her steel toe boots. The grave yard was riddled with bones, the quake having cracked open the earth and spilled its deepest inhabitants onto the surface. Black smoke filled the sky, an indicator that lava was pooling up in the mountains, steadily moving towards the city. The other, more obvious sign were the sirens that cut threw the ashy air every hour.
She stepped over a deep crack, her legs spread as wide as they could, and still her toes barely balanced on the other end. She tipped her weight forward and, swaying with her arms outstretched, steadied herself. She carried on walking, ignoring the siren that split through the silence of the abandoned town. Her town. Her home.
She wasn’t going anywhere. No, she would rather take her daily walk.