Today upon this Drabble Wednesday we come not to mourn, but to unearth those things that should stay buried…
Dead and Buried
The hour grew late, and the church bells chimed their dirge. I watched the funeral procession slowly climb the hill to the graveyard, the closing rays of sunlight dancing with lengthening shadows. The mourners were few: the pallbearers hoisting the shiny mahogany casket, the dry-eyed widow, and a few backstabbing family members. A pitiful parade, but one to be expected given the decreased.
You see, I was a most horrible person in life, cruel, ruthless, vindictive. I took great pleasure in tormenting any hapless creature that crossed my path.
That shall not change. In death, I will truly haunt them.
One black feather.
It floated with the puff of winter air, a capricious thing, and settled tenderly upon the cold ground.
A raven’s feather.
Shed from the wing of a soaring bird, fled from war and towards a far distant shore. In its wake came a fading echo; the keening cries of the dying and the lasting silence of the dead. It preceded the howling tempest…
Soon, the sun peered from behind the clouds; the storm had passed. In its aftermath the land remained, blanketed with snow, the shroud to cover the decaying bones and the crumbling ruins of kingdoms.
Dust, earth, smoke and bone.
Interred deep, below the soil, overgrown.
I still breathe, this timeworn air, here in my box, thin of flesh and coil of hair.
They called me mad, called me witch. Bound me up, left me to twitch. It didn’t work, no, not one tiny bit. For I’m still here, though worse for wear, I’ll admit.
I’ve been patient, I’ve been calm. I believe I’ve shown some aplomb. Yes, through the ages, I’ve lain so silent. Nary one peep, nothing violent.
But my time is coming, I can feel. Soon from my grave, I will steal.
© A. F. Stewart 2016 All Rights Reserved