Logan Watkins

The Last Optimist

The Man stepped into the ransacked store. Glass shards crunched beneath his worn boots. Like in most places he searched, the windows were all broken. He smelled the air. It was dry. No sickly sweet smell of death, or the distinct stench of animal droppings greeted him. He smiled, reaching into his back pocket and producing a worn leather journal. He drew the pencil safely tucked in its spine.