100-Word Fiction: ‘Red Thread’

Was there a time before the freedoms that still endure, before the storms that swept the sands, where what we watched unfold bore some resemblance to reality?

Once, I think, after the first of the degradations had been suffered, we still imagined the aimless orbit of missiles around the void of an ethical centre.

Not now. No signs refer to an external model any more. They stand for nothing but themselves and refer only to other signs.

The no-fly zones are full of jetplanes. Red tracer fire stitches the sky like thread in blue jeans. Meaning is out of sight.