Doubloons without number. The crown of some distant land. A necklace that once hung on the neck of a Shah’s daughter. All this and more he had buried in the sand and in the past. The map was a temptation he could ill afford.
He should burn it.
Ruaridh Buchanan is making his first forays into writing down the thoughts and stories that whirl through his head when he should really be concentrating on something more important like earning a living. Doubtless this will result in bankruptcy or at the very least a blog at some stage in the near future.
I thought stasis would be like sleeping: I’d close my eyes on Earth, and open them a hundred light-years away. I thought it would be an escape.
But it was more like a dream, a slow swirl of half-reality. I spent ten years inside my own head, reliving that memory.
This story was based on the prompt “that memory” at TypeTrigger.
They camped out on the side of the mountain, within a stone’s throw of the moon. A campfire warmed their bodies; anticipation warmed their hearts.
Tomorrow was the summit day, the flag-raising day. The pinnacle. The peak.
Beyond that was the descent, so aptly named.
Reminiscence is colder than anticipation.
This story is based on a title suggested by @brucerytel.