small forearm scars lay like a warren of paths in long grass leading to a house built out of branches, leaves and building debris. corrugated iron and car doors, tarpaulins and black plastic form over bedsit for a couple of pricks a knife, stash, fire and a dead red haired protagonist who never understood why it had to be him to have his body and life so meticulously split.
movement, darkness and sand pressing in. the warm, firm hand of the same land that gave, raised and took his body back again. and then he breaks down; the last spirits are seeping out and the pieces of a sleeping heart and mind that go uneaten start leeching down into the groundwater.
a while on our subject’s essence will resurrect, bound as it is for the well of his hometown.
Add your comment
You need to login or signup to add your comment to this work.