Outward bound

Mist rose in cotton wool clouds from the river and drifting almost imperceptibly inland. The outline of tree and bush faded from clarity and the floodplain passed under the weight enveloping vapour. Herded by the hills on the fringes of the valley my train clattered down the fog banked up. The early morning sun stood just above the cloud, drawing saturated moisture into the cool air.

The train pulled up in the midst of concrete desolation. Scraps of fissured artificial rock lay piled up like ramparts of the ancients between mist-grey monolithic blocks. I walked along the bland black path fringed by daubed nothingness. Someone, paid to do the job, painted over graffiti with just enough dark grey to blend street art into the light grey. I crossed the road and passed by token trees.

The scent of my warehouse greeted me. No-one else can smell it. Just me. I know it’s there. I know it’s aroma. I know the taste it leaves in my mouth. A gull called out mockingly. I looked up to see it wheel away…


About malekmontag

I am a writer and a wage-slave, and proud father of George Giraffe. I live in the UK, but I exist everywhere. My first stories were published this year (2016) in Short Stories and Tall Tales (Atla Publishing). Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15. My Work is also available on Niume.com.
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