The Traveler
Flash Fiction Friday
In a far off land, a lone traveler leaves the walled city, the sun blistering down upon the barren land.
At least there is a breeze. The pennants whip and snap in it, mimicking every footfall across the dried and salted earth. Behind him, the city lay silent. The wind sighed and mourned across eaves, rattled derelict shutters, and there wasn’t even the cry of a gull to break up the sound. Just the gasp and exhale of hot wind as it rolled across the deserted landscape.
And the traveler, toiling against every jerk and pull of the standard he carried whenever the wind grabbed the fabric with greedy fingers.
He was the last.
They’d all fallen, save for him.
He’d stayed as long as he could, watching the supplies and rations dwindle. And still, no word from the capitol. At last, he had to concede that it was time to go. He might be a dead man if he made the journey, but he was certainly a dead man if he stayed in the city -- once a mighty stronghold, it was now a tomb. He gathered up what supplies were left, reverently took the crimson standard of his people in his callused hands, and set out.
Behind him, the city grew smaller with each step. Dust scudded ahead of him with each gust of wind, and the remains of dried and thwarted crops rustled, the susurrus of the dead. It seemed to mock him, mock the waving of the red banner above him, mock his every footfall.
The traveler tightened his grip on the pole. He would not return to desolation.
Ahead, at least, there was hope.
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