Othorn stared closely trying to catch a glimpse of the space between spaces. His nose was inches from a vast expanse of blinding white that now flooded his vision.
He swore the faintest call for help was carried through the air to his ears as tiny structures in the desolate landscape began to take form.
“Othorn!” a voice jolted him from his trance. “You going to finish making that latte or kiss it?”
Grasping the shaker of cocoa powder he dusted the white landscape lightly whispering to himself solemnly, “Sorry friends.”
Danny Machal April 22nd, 2015