Harold looked out at the featureless plain. A road stretched from where he stood to the far horizon, lit by an ochre son and bordered on each side by arid brown plains. He gave a long sigh and looked to the ancient walnut of a man beside him.
“I’ve got to walk that?” he asked. “It seems awfully long way.”
The man gave what appeared to be a laugh, although Harold worried that he might have an asthma attack instead. “You sure do.” the old man said. “Either walk it or stay put.”
Harold clapped the old man on the back. “Thanks old-timer,” he said. “I don’t know where I’d have been without you.”
“You’d be right here,” said the walnut. “Just as you will be when you’ve finished.” He moved off, his body still juddering with laughter. “You can get here from anywhere,” he said, his voice fading as he walked back to his shack. “You just can’t get anywhere from here.”
© Rachel Green 2007