Shoes. I hadn’t seen a pair for years, not proper, shop-bought, complete shoes that had a hope of keeping your feet dry.
I remember the patent red pair that Mum had bought me as a little girl. I had loved those shoes, loved how they reminded me of cherries. I could barely remember the taste of any fruit, not any more. Yet still my mouth watered at the thought.
I shielded my eyes from the fierce sun as the shoes danced back and forth, tantalizingly. I bet the wires from which the shoes dangled hadn’t carried messages for a decade.
My feet ached for those shoes. I had made up my mind to retrieve them when a rogue cloud covered the sun. The land around me lost its bleach and I saw that the hillock on the ground was more sinister. It was the remains of a man, long dead, his arm reaching up in a last attempt to gain his prize.
This was a trap. No doubt there were live wires buried in the telegraph pole, ready to pass on their own message to us rebels. We will kill you all.
Not me, not today, I thought.
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Freya Writes... 