2037. The bombs had fell. She was out of food. Starving. For days.
She'd torn apart the ruins looking for more, finding only tinned SPAM.
It's expiry date had faded to nil, though it looked ancient.
"***k it, I'm eating it anyway!"
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Story Dust
RandomUnrelated micro-memories, fragments of unseen wholes, funny shorts, and pieces of poetic insight. The footprints that stories leave behind. * * * * * My Notes * * * * * 'Chapters' are between 200-300 characters each. Some, though not all, are true s...
