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.

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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.