Twelve

This world is falling into ruin and it will take us with it if we do no keep ahead of the tide. These mortal houses will make uncomfortable coffins. The pull of the tunnel between worlds is a formidable force, it takes all of my limited power to keep the truck grounded. So slow, these material confines, and with each small progression a whisper in my mind from the Twelve. His quiet plea will soon be silenced.

‘What’s that smell?’ says the dachshund, lifting up a back leg, tongue hanging out. ‘How far are we from where we’re going?’

‘Not far.’

‘And where are we going again?’

Her incessant dialogue is distracting, but she may still be useful yet. Time must have chosen her for a reason.

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