Flash Fiction: My Fingers Are Cold

My fingers are cold. So I rub them together and hope for friction. Me breathing on them is the only sound for miles and miles. And the ash spreads across my knuckles.

I pull my jacket tighter to my body, and walk towards the shell of a building. My feet leaving prints in the soot.

I hold out my hands and hope for some warmth from the wreckage. But it’s as cold as everything else in this world.

I tuck my hands underneath my arms and hope for my pits to offer something close to heat. I keep my head down when the wind picks up.

It sounds like someone talking. Saying over and over again the word that graces my lips every few minutes. “Cold” it says. And I can almost see the wreckage of a man whisper it through a shattered jaw bone and fleshless grin. Continue reading

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