written for Friday Fictioneers, the last of the New Year. Happy New Year! Thank you so much to Rochelle for providing this wonderful writing experience!
Mothers believe their children don’t comprehend whispered words like “mummified,” “leathery,” and “decomposed.”
I dreamed of Aunt Celia, of churning dark waters rising and rising, of a golden light, of saffron hair floating, of blood red lips curled in a cupid’s bow.
“Come dance, child,” she said. Her fingers elongated skeletally and then she pulled me into a swirling dark abyss. I screamed myself awake.
“A dream,” mother said, trying to sound convincing, her eyes seeking her mother’s above me, although water dripped around me.
They sent me to family in Seattle where they presume I hear no cries.