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Weekly Contest #180
The man, who had given himself the name of John, awoke under his tarp. It snapped in the wind. Tent poles held it up over him. He had dreamt of horses on a charred farmland, galloping together, frantic, ash raising from their pounding hooves. They ran from something that John could not see. They screamed in black panic with their lips folded, exposing pink gums and large, flat teeth. Everything he owned sat in a child’s backpack next to him. A coat of grime clung to its graphic of dolphins breaching. He wore a patched jacket, jeans th...
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