A.J. Treadway

Barren

The chipped gold of the chain slithered like a snake from her neck. It was no longer only rusted gold but spattered in a layer of dried blood, of who’s she was unsure. As her breathing continued through husky coughs, the girl looks it over. In her admiration, she remembers the day she had acquired the inorganic decorative object. She had been much younger then. When the sky still was blue and not covered in the heavy thicket of smog that filled her lungs daily. She had been told many stories of that world and its beauty. This object was a distinct reminder of that.