In voices that box me in I hear the great god Pan. He is wailing. He is stricken. He is bristling with reprisals. He understands the inescapable future. Fields filled in; horizons dwindling; adverts instead of reason, mapping paths to a billionaire’s iHeaven. And no one to blame except everyone. Pan damns me to hell and he points –
At the last mountain to be levelled, where the last mountain goat that once leapt from crag to crag, defying gravity, huddles, lame in a corner, as the last office gets built up around him and tax returns blot out the sun.
This piece of flash fiction was written for Friday Fictioneers: a story in 100 words prompted by a picture that Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts every Wednesday. Here’s the link to the stories and this week’s picture is below, copyright Adam Ickes.