100 Words – CX

The clouds were puking rainbows. The wind made promises it could not keep. The trail boiled muddy tearing at my heels, tearing at my wheels. Younger men and women flew past mocking my torment, spraying me with the residue of their strength, the by-product of their glory. Cold old bones twisted in their sockets trying to escape the torture I’d bequeathed them. Ligaments stretched, lost their grip and shouted for mercy. I could go no further. I veered off the path and fell into a growth of ferns. A soft bed on to which I laid my head and slept.

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Author: Tom
Writer, cyclist, RVer, etc.