He visited the ghost town of Buckhorn, Iowa with a very specific purpose. It was mid-December and the ground should have been frozen, but he was master of this universe and had absolute control over all the physical rules. He waved and a fresh grave appeared before him in the cemetery. He had no idea how long everything had been abandoned, but it seemed a fitting end for one more corpse.
He’d printed it out. 150 words only took up a single sheet of paper. He tore it into pieces, knelt down and dropped them in. Then with another wave, fresh earth covered the dead story. He caused a proper gravestone to be raised. “Here lies Last Flight. b. 16 Dec 2017, d. 16 Dec 2017. High Aspirations. Low Marks.”
“Fine. I’ll try again tomorrow.”
He walked back out of the story into his so-called real life. Neither was particularly satisfying this afternoon.
I can’t submit two stories at Inlinkz.com for the same prompt, but I can still comment on it. Egad, I had no idea such a simple tale would generate so much ire. I won’t delete it since I’m told we can learn more from our failures than our successes, but I can symbolically kill and bury it in a grave with the rest of the forgotten dead.
Oh, word count: 148.
Nothing more to see here. Time to move on.