The wildflowers wilt over their own feet as I trudge through the dusty, jaded soil. One of my legs
is broken. My mouth is parched. And my stripes burn.
I wonder if the workers before me dealt with this kind of heat. I wonder if the workers after me
will suffer even more. I wonder if there will even be workers after me.
The honey isn’t so sweet here anymore. The dream has melted away. This planet is no longer my
As I use my last shred of will to drive my stinger into the wrinkled ground, I pray that my final
moments will be graced with a cool breeze.
zach murphy is a Hawaii-born writer with a background in cinema. His stories appear in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Mystery Tribune, Ghost City Review, Spelk Fiction, Door = Jar, Levitate, Yellow Medicine Review, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Crêpe & Penn, Ellipsis Zine, Wilderness House Literary Review, Drunk Monkeys, and Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine. He lives with his wonderful wife Kelly in St. Paul, Minnesota.
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