The Climate of Things

There is a small bead of hope, of doubt that slumbers within all of us,a ghost sang to his graveyard of trees.He wandered aimlessly over the moldy and smoldering stumps. Searching for any surviving green, but found none.That is where he remains alone in his oneiric state.

By Ashley Houston

A story I did for VSS365( Very Short Story) on Twitter a few days ago. The word prompt was oneiric, which pertains to dreaming or dreamlike.

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