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 that invoked the same chilling reminder of human temperance.
For the first time in many years, there were people taking refuge within its walls. A family of six four children and their parents, hapless nomads dragging themselves across a vast expanse towards a horizon where what lay beyond consisted of only of rumors and dreams. The remnants of the life and world Shelly had come from seemed every bit as absurd and alien to them as they would of to Shelly’s forebearers.
The migrating family had stumbled upon this house by complete accident and it the only structure that might protect them from the flesh numbing wins of autumn. The first thing to be done was build a fire, and the house had plenty of kindling. The house had been ransacked many times throughout the years, but no roving bands ever saw the need to take the books. Luckily for the forlorn travelers, they had plenty of paper to feed the warming fire. Page after page of Shelly’s work was torn from its binding cover and committed to the flames, and as the night went on more and more of her work, the last remnants of her existence, the legacy she left to the world was eaten by the hungry flames. By morning her body of work just like the body that had been her mortal coil was nothing but ash.
If you like my work, please consider making a donation. I one day hope to have enough to hire some artists to work with and adapt some of these pieces into graphic novels. In the meantime, though most of the money will probably go towards pot and coffee.