It's Still Life

Flash Fiction: Prosery 144 words

Dead

I am dead. I don’t know the how or the why of it. Or even the when of it. Details. Details. These things are unimportant. That information is in the past, it’s for the living to unravel, they want to know how it happened, they need the science of it, the details so they don’t make the same mistake. The living breathe easier if the cause is genetic. Well, unless they are family in which case it sort of loops into a mindless agitation. Gnaws like a dog with a bone, or cuts silence like the far away cry of skylark. But I admit, it does feel like I’ve been interrupted mid sentence. Maybe lost within the white space between words. If I could script my own ending, I’d wake up now. But I am a poet, and this ending seems poetic to me.

for dVerse Prosery and Open Night Inspired by a line from the poem acquainted with the night by Robert Frost. Posted from Gilleleje Denmark

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