Today on this fine Drabble Wednesday, I spin tales of things
lost, but still lingering, of echoes past…
Train Station
Anya saw the little girl sitting alone on the bench. The
child seemed out of place, with odd clothes, and a quiet demeanor. The
expression etched on the girl’s face stirred sadness in Anya; the child held
the weight of a hundred souls under her skin. Anya settled on the bench beside
her.
“What’s wrong, little one.”
“You don’t know, do you?”
Anya smiled. “How would I know what’s wrong with you, little
one?”
“No. I mean, you. You don’t know you’re dead. A ghost.” The
child gave a look filled with countless heartache. “You don't know yet, do you?”
~*~
Normal
People shout at me sometimes. They say, “Sylvie, why can’t
you be normal?”
But what’s normal? Bits and bobs, in floating flotsam of
happy things and timeless strings. Pull a string and it all unravels. That’s
me, unravelling.
I’ve always been a strange creature, not quite right, but
it’s really showed lately. Ever since
I died and came back. A little heart attack, from a tiny, tiny defect. It all
worked out, though. I was revived and fixed. Well, as fixed as they could make
me.
You see, even a few minutes in Hell can truly screw with
your head.
~*~
Shade of War
He kept vigil on the hill, as insubstantial as the morning mist,
or a lie whispered on the wind. Beneath his gaze, the modern city sprawled, as had
the town before the metropolis, and the village before the town. He had stood his
ghostly watch for a very long time.
In his ears, the battle sounds still raged, the cries of the
village children still pierced his heart. He still smelled the burning wood,
saw flames lick at the houses. He smelled the blood, watched the red stain the
ground.
He stayed because his guilt refused to let him leave.
© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved
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