The Drift

by C.J. Tudor

Or was that what we always were? Lumps of meat given life by a flick of the sorcerer’s wand. Perhaps death didn’t take anything away. Perhaps it merely restored us to our natural state.

How could time be so fucking relentless? Can’t stop. Must hurry on. Much to trample, crush and destroy. Leaving Meg behind with nothing but memories. And even those were flawed and false.

broken heart, or how the elderly could just waste away. We don’t realize, any of us, how much our existence depends upon hope and purpose, the promise of a new day. Take that away and we’re just automatons, going through the motions until we wind down and die.