Drabble, written for
open_on_sunday
Death came in a box. It was a pale stone sarcophagus, old as time, filled with sand.
Sand.
(“She was just curious.”)
Because sand was what she got in her hand – when she reached for life.
(“I think I hate her a bit for that.”)
(“Say her name.”)
Winifred Burkle.
Death came in a box. A sneer on her mouth and her fingers curved with ancient, mysterious greed. She won’t stop asking questions.
Is she, perhaps, curious too?
This death. This dead girl death.
She tilts her head to the side like she could see the world better that way.