Shelly Stone’s life had come to an end some time ago there were still some residuals of her corporeal existence scattered around a pocket of isolated ruins, remnants of a civilization that was in the early stages of its terminus during Shelly’s life. In those days Shelly had been an author of modest acclaim. Her relative obscurity never bothered her though. Of course, she craved the praise and notoriety all artists desire, but she took solace in the fact her providence had been the written word. The pages her voice were printed on would long outlast her, and in that way she had contributed something to the collective cultural wealth of society and species at large and it was this knowledge that was her final comforting thought.
The forgotten place Shelly spent the latter half of her life was withered by time and neglect. The abandoned structure that had been her home was a gutted corpse made of brick. The empty window frames faced the world like a hollowed skull with a quiet emptiness…
The forgotten place Shelly spent the latter half of her life was withered by time and neglect. The abandoned structure that had been her home was a gutted corpse made of brick. The empty window frames faced the world like a hollowed skull with a quiet emptiness…