Death Cart

As per usual, this Friday brings us another round of stories from the Friday Fictioneers.

Before I get to my story, I’d like to apologize to those I didn’t comment on last week. I tried to comment on a bunch of stories, but my comments didn’t seem to be going through for awhile. Once my comments started working again I couldn’t remember where my comments had failed. Hopefully I’ll have better luck this week.

As always, thanks to Madison Woods for the prompt and the Friday Fictioneers for reading what I would like to call my drunken ramblings, save the fact that I don’t drink alcohol. Yes, you read that right. I am a twenty something who doesn’t drink alcohol. A rare breed indeed.

The overloaded wagon clattered along the worn, uneven cobblestones. Pulling the cart was difficult work, but somebody had to do it. He’d never seen the city gripped by such despair in his twenty five years. There’d been hard times, sure, but nothing of this magnitude.

The cart behind him was heavy and the stench often overpowered his nostrils. He thought he’d grow accustomed to it in time, but he never did. Soon it wouldn’t matter. Soon he’d get his chance to ride on the cart. He barked out a harsh cough in the cool night air.

“Bring out your dead!”