“White Castle” by Yuri Shwedoff
I dismounted my horse, my worn boots crunched the Earth, a piece of rock wedged into the remaining plastic molding. The air was still with snowflake sized particles of dust. In the distance it howled through the cavernous mountains.
I walked forward, removing my goggles and helmet, before feeding my steed. He wouldn’t leave. Not him. Not unless he was scared… but there was nothing to fear where we were. Just calm uneasiness.
The sight was massive. Endlessly massive with hard white and orange. I climbed over the dusty remains each step imprinting my weathered footprints in the dirt. The ground shifted and I marched on higher. In all the-years? decades? centuries? who knows?-the vessel had not lost its smoothness. My palm stuck to it as I steady myself.
I could see over everything.
Everything the Earth still held. The Earth. The dirt. The crumbling mountains killed by time. I the king of the castle… or what remains of it.