He appeared scrupulously unsuperstitious, but the smell exposed him, acrid, brain-curling. I startled him in the bathroom.
Grandpa dropped the burning envelope into the toilet. “Sssh. Tell nobody. The witch will know.”
After he died, I continued the family tradition, as my grandchild will. Burn all clippings, hair to toenails.
photo by chuttersnap at unsplash
Tonight I write by candlelight. A scheduled outage they said.
No light, no heat, no electronic hum but in the shadows story pours from my pen. Stream of consciousness, words flow like water or wine or my own blood.
Now I know I should have contrived a blackout long ago.
Image by Robin Anderson
Listen.
Quiet like Sunday on the first of Spring. No traffic, no voices, no airplanes. Only birdsong or a dog barking.
Listen.
Humanity withdraws and the world settles into silence. People in houses gaze through closed windows. They can hear sunlight drip off buildings and roar down empty streets.
Listen.
Image by Harrison Fulop
When the girl found me, I carried no traces of humanity. Unremembered, I became smooth as an egg. Seeing me should have killed her. Though blind, she could hear my stories. As she listened, my limbs and features reappeared.
I kissed her eyelids and dissolved, tethered to Earth no more.
Story appeared in 5oWord Stories
photo by Enache Georgiana unsplash
He was scrupulously unsuperstitious, but the smell gave him away, acrid brain curling reek.
I followed him to the bathroom. Startled, Grandpa dropped burning paper into the toilet.
“Ssh. Tell no one. The witch will know.”
After he died, I continued his tradition.
Burn all clippings, hair to toe nails.
Becky Kjelstrom
