Nobody Ever Calls On A Sunday

Microfiction (300 words or less)

How did I get here?
The winds blew me here.
South from the desert they carried me upon their snaking backs, fighting over me, their panting breath hot on my neck, until the jealous earth dragged me down again and I ended up here.
Like a leaf caught in a stagnant eddy, far from the river’s turbulent attention.
Some forgotten corner of the earth. Bare and bleak. Stunted trees bent over wiry grass.
By night the moon is cold and the darkness drips, and myriad small creatures laugh and weep and grumble at me in my bed.
By day the hours are long and empty. Hollow. The minutes trickle by, leaving behind them a pervading sensation, an almost palpable feeling, that something is coming to an end. Like the Sundays that I remember from my youth, the memories of which recede further behind the grey curtain with every passing day. Every day here is like a Sunday.
Distant figures pass by beneath the frozen sun, tiptoeing across the horizon, pushed along by the same winds that dropped me here. Where they usher them along to I don’t know, but they never stop. Southwards, ever southwards, to the bottom of the world where the winds go to die. They never stop, they never call. But then I don't expect them to. Nobody ever calls on a Sunday.