Search This Blog

Saturday, 20 March 2021

Badlands, by Peter Shilston

  I found myself in a desert of mounds and hollows. In places the soft rock of which it was composed had been warped and twisted into fantastic spires and towers. Dark caverns gaped.  Everywhere was a pale yellowish brown, save where the livid sunset ahead of me stained some the colour of old blood. Nowhere was there was the least sign of life: not a single insect, not a blade of grass or the skeleton of a dead tree. Nevertheless I pressed onwards towards the light; there was nothing else that I could do.

No comments:

Post a Comment