Shards

 “Have you ever wondered what it means to take away a person’s memory? It’s like stealing their very life! For what use is life to someone who can’t remember it?”

That was the only thought that surfaced in my mind as I lay by the roadside, a light breeze brushing against my skin. Who said those words? And when? It feels like it was at a funeral. But how could the image of a maroon funeral wreath with ribbons help me now?

No — the wreath isn’t a memory. It’s here, in my present, lying on the tarmac. Nearby, a bicycle wheel spins idly. A pair of legs sticks out from beneath a black hearse, which has toppled onto its side and is still smoking. Petrol leaks from it, trickling towards me in a narrow stream.

At the edge of my vision, people are running about, shouting — no, shrieking. And I have no idea what I’m doing here. I can’t even remember who I am.

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Happy New Year!

The very Happy New Year! May your coffee be strong, your Wi-Fi stable, and your stories full of unexpected plot twists. Another orbit completed — no meteor impacts so far. Let’s keep it that way.