In the background, she talks to her grandmother, and I can hear her over the caterwauling of whatever song it is I’m listening to. She talks and walks and turns on all the lights in the house because that is what she does, always, animated, even very late at night, while lightning flashes, and the ghost of a child huddles with the whisper of a kitten on the stairs, afraid of the thunder.
Clawing
Out of the ground they come, the earth retching them up, sicking them up. It started only a few days ago, in the middle of an otherwise calm morning. When I saw it happen, in my head I heard the phrase “upside down and backwards Sigur Ros song” and it made me laugh so loud that one turned in my direction and started for me.
I’m not sure if graveyards everywhere are having this problem, all I know is my backyard is torn the fuck up, and only a handful of them have come back so far.
I buried the rest a whole lot deeper though, so maybe it’ll take longer.
Baby got an atom bomb…
I remember these things like raindrops on my skin, subtle beats that set up this pitter patter echoed on the inside of my bones. Words and words and your touch. I remember your touch, even if you don’t want me to. I’ll remember it, and say nothing to you, and know that you won’t read this, that you don’t read this, because if you did, you’d know even when I wandered off, I still thought of you. I came back.
I always come back.
Two holes in my chest and one in my left eye, and I still came back.
Don’t you love me, baby?
Return 3
It was the captain who noticed the significance of the feathers first — the children were simply busy playing with them, while some of the followers gathered up the downy ones and stuffed them into sacks. It walked with us, and as its feet grew callused on the stone-grass, its wings shed continuously, as though they renewed themselves every so often.
The captain picked one up, and stared at it for a long time, booted feet plodding along with the rest of us, until suddenly the grey sky was full of shouts and laughter. He held up the slim feather, and his fingers touched the rachis, and there was music, silver light and fire all at once, and it lit up his face from within.
Posted in Fiction, Flash
Tagged apocalypse, flash fiction, pieces, return, series, writing
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