She sat on the hill and breathed in. The warm air filled her lungs, the smell of growth prickled in her nostrils. She couldn’t remember the last time she did that. Well, not at the same time as thinking about it, anyway; time to think was a luxury she reserved for late at night when she couldn’t sleep.
Those thoughts crept in the darkness, stealthy as she waited for something to happen – for someone or something to enter the room quietly, to catch her off guard. She was never off guard. That was why she was still here.
Then she spotted something below at the foot of the hill. There were two of them: one raking, the other carrying barrels. She ducked for cover before realising they weren’t moving.
She took a closer look. Monuments? So, now the robots are memorialising themselves? This was new – the end drawing nearer.
Written as part Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. You can read more stories here