Coyville, 3.D.2, 200 words

His body moves. His palm rises from the desk by fleshy swelling under his forearm. His head lolls and legs kick the wall under the desk and push the chair out. He crawls, magnetized by a thread of milder air drawing across the scabs, pimples, scales, and pores of carpet. His body is larger against the portal as he pulls himself out. His strained waistband hangs up and fills seat pockets with dust and plaster nuggets. Chocolate mountains fold in crisp pleats of shadow brown on vague brown in the dim star foam. The moon has set, or is gone. Low conifers perch on dust behind the building. Cones click. Large black birds woven into the scrub gleam with agape beaks clicking. A great field of rocks. He follows a narrow beaten chalk path. Recognizable stone forms crop out against the horizon as perspectives align them. The field drops on a long slope before rising again. The chalk path diffuses low in the dale where a transverse finger of rolling sand blocks out the far rocky wall rising and mountains further past. He turns back. His clothes are dry, prickling and salted. He holds the waistband and shuffles. Sand moans.

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