Science Fiction Micro-fictions

A severed hand, stiff and charred, fell to the earth with a dry plop.

Jenkins halted abruptly and swivelled in the dust.

His leather boot, cracked and brittle from weeks in this desolate wasteland, kicked the fleshy heap over.

He was sure the fingers twitched a fraction, as though clasping for something after death.

A waft of sulphur and the sight of it made him nauseous. He tucked it in the side pocket of his rucksack regardless, the bone stub catching on the netting.

He went on. His own hand felt prickly; heavy.