Last Days

by Adam L.G. Nevill

He was jet-lagged to a concussion, exhausted, and flu-symptom achy. The waking world was surreal.

The terrible hand inside the door stabbed about like a Japanese spider crab in some lightless ocean niche.

I ask you to draw your eye down to our glorious professional leaders in the commercial arena, in this most material of ages. How many of them should be in charge of anything, let alone other people?’