Mud

Mud. An eternity of mud.

Mud and … softer mud? Something else. A forgotten thing. What?

Beyond the screaming pressure that blocks and baffles thought, out there where the blind hand gropes, sweet open air and free movement and  … shapes?

Meaningless shapes. Something round? Something cold? But thought is fading. There’s nothing …

… only one last soft sweet impression, warm and fleeting, and as the mind slides down into cold pain and silence it takes with it a savour of love and hope.

“Boy? Here boy! Good boy – whatisit? Whatisit boy?”

“Pull him off.”

“Here’s a good boy.”

“Pull him off. No. No pulse.”

“Nothing? (There’s a good boy).”

“Keep him still a moment … No. Nothing on the phones, either. Tag it.”

“Offff you go boy!”

“Find us a live one this time.”

Miranda has tempted me back with her Mid-Week Flash Challenge. I knew I’d find a tale for her in the end. I didn’t expect it would be quite so bleak.