static culture

Short Stories & Flash Fiction from a London Based Writer/ Film Maker


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The escalator was at least two hundred miles high. High enough that it pierced the fluffy white clouds like a needle pricks a balloon. High enough that icicles hung underneath at around sixty thousand feet and hail as big as tumbleweed would drop randomly from the sky onto the pristine metal steps. High enough that despite its firm structure the thing swayed in the turbulent winds of the stratosphere. An effect that had caused Dave to grip the golden handrail until his knuckles where white. He had been travelling now for seven days and did not want any mishaps to occur such as him falling off the side. The thought alone made him shake his head. He had come too far to have to start this journey all over again.
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