Jasmine Wilson

The End

My eyelids are heavy with sleep, but to remember painfully jars me awake. Vestiges of a past world scatter about me in a haze both temporally languid and disorienting. The crunching of glass underneath my feet pulls me back into the present moment. I am instantly grateful for the abandoned leather work boots I found. The thick padded tongue of the boot is frayed, and the toe is scuffed and peeling, but the sole, the only part that comes into contact with the rough earth, remains intact. Sleep threatens to sweep over me, but my feet protest and lead me. My mind reluctantly, but eventually trudges behind. The cool Cleveland wind slaps my face with a malodor. Decades ago, I would have winced and run in the opposite direction. But in this time, it could signify a community of people. So I scurry in the direction of the pungent wisps.