This isn't a story, I just wrote a poem I'd like to share.
The sky is empty,
piles of stones stand still like the hairs
on the back of my neck.
just rocks upon rocks, that's all they are.
Riddled with cavities, another crevice fit for
Embered logs that reach for the moon,
A few of us got there,
most of us don't.
They won't, I won't.
Who would ever come back?