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Weekly Contest #347
I was being taken to my own funeral. I was being rolled and carted around in the darkness of my casket, to my own funeral. And the darkness of that little wooden casket did not just hold the body of my living self, now rotting, but my eternal punishment. The wooden casket that had been rolled into the house of the holy, with my family sitting in the pews, and the pastor waiting to speak of my life cut short, held hell. And when the priest spoke, he spoke of love and loss from a heart that was filled with meadows and blooming flowers. He spok...
Weekly Contest #327
It was just a book, he told himself. Not even a good one at that. Jean had hated every second of it. Yet out of his whole shelf it was the one he reached for the most. While the other books watched and collected dust, rotting and yellowing, Jean only cared for one. It was just a book, he told himself, when he found the torn pieces of paper strewn across the floor. Not even a good one at that.He remembered the terrible stupidity of the book, his memory was not the problem. He remembered hating the way the author spoke, the way she told the st...
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