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Weekly Contest #343
The velvet lining of the casket was the exact shade of bruised plum. Elara found she much preferred the split ends of her own hair, twisting a single chestnut strand around her finger until the world- and the heavy, rhythmic weeping of people she barely knew- dissolved into a manageable static hum. She watched a stray speck of dust drift through a shaft of sun above the altar, the tiny white fleck moving with a quiet purpose that no one else in the room seemed to possess. It swirled like a lonely astronaut, untethered to the heavy oak pews o...
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