Slowly crossing the square, he stooped down to pick it up. He held it gently, his hands surrounding its circumference. It was warm to the touch. It contracted and expanded against his hands. The veins pulsed against his fingers with a drop dead certainty that life was its only option. It was blood rushing to nowhere. All the veins and arteries were interconnected. The heart fed itself. Maybe, he mused, that’s why it survived outside of the body this long. But then, how could the heart sustain another life when it was so absorbed in its own? “Damn,” he said aloud, the sound muffled by his mask. Carefully, he slipped the heart into an inner pocket of his trench coat. He set off for home. Except it wasn’t home to him. Home is where the heart is and his was beating so weakly he might as well have been dead. Walking back to his residence, the heart beat in time with his own.




Excerpt from a story I wrote. Debating whether or not to put it on DA. Feedback would be cool.