Hundred Word Wander – Rust

Dark, cold metal rusts around me, rusts with me. The four eyes continue to prod and poke, their white not-fur flapping away.

There was a smell once. A smell of death. Perhaps they purged it.

Perhaps I’ve gotten used to it.

And there’s a crack. A widening, where the sound echoes, where I hear somewhere else. A place of wind, of green, of laughter.

Even as my eyes turn to dust in this prison, I can almost see it, smell this other world, this ‘outside’.

Is it home?

I don’t know.

But when the crack widens further, it will be.

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