A Writer's Wonderland [PDF] - University of Portsmouth

Sam Scurfield
Third year Creative Writing student.
Dust
The air was still and heavy, thick with ash and the coming storm. Light breaths of wind snatched
at rivulets of dust, gently lifting it up in ghostly whirls before once again scattering it across the
floor. The stuff coated everything in a thick layer, slowly burying the scorched, twisted remnants
of the cars and buses that turned this road into a parade of jagged metal and broken glass. In the
distance, a figure picked its way through this graveyard. It was a young man, swathed in
shapeless, colourless rags that clung to him like dead skin. He covered his face, shielding his
eyes and lungs from the poisonous ash. He moved slowly. He ached with exhaustion and
hunger. His mouth was dry and cracked. He knew that in the fraying satchel that he hauled
with him was a dented flask, a sliver of water cradled within it. He also knew that he was saving
it for when he couldn’t walk any more. A last drink. In the distance, the silhouette of his
destination could just about be made out against the dull, lightless sky. A city. The buildings
were skeletons, steel girders standing naked against the cold winds, their brick and glass shells
torn away by an unimaginable force. It was the only landmark for miles of scorched, dead
planes. He hoped there might be food there. Water. Shelter. At the back of his mind though, he
knew that it was hopeless. He knew that he would die there.
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