Today on this fine Drabble Wednesday, I spin tales of things lost, but still lingering, of echoes past…
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?”
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