The Moor – Flash Fiction

I have wandered about for hours, wet and bitter cold. The wind cuts through me like a knife. The landscape is desolate, solitary and despite being beautiful and breathtaking, at this moment feels hostile and menacing. My head is bleeding and I can’t remember where I am. There is no shelter. Perhaps I’m the only one left in the world. I try to remember, but my head hurts. Panic grows in me now and I sit down on a rock, distraught, pulling my coat close around my body and I wait, whether for life or death on this unforgiving moor.
Isobel Scott

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