The Inversion

by Pat J
originally published at 11:20PM on Wednesday, January 02, 2008

They shot me at dawn for my sins, gave me a pauper’s grave and a bunch of wildflowers plucked from the riverbank. They regretted it, so they told me, wished I was still alive. I listened from my black home beneath the dirt. What else was I to do?

What else, indeed.

When the sky split and the world everted, I thought it was perhaps the Last Trump, the Apocalypse of St. John come to take me home. It was an apocalypse, but not the second coming of the Messiah. No, nothing but missiles of proton-fusing power, wiping the living away, freeing the dead from our bonds, loosing us upon a world transformed.

In my yard a tree grows that weeps blood, and my lawn, which I cut with a black iron scythe, is made of souls. This is a queer new world I have been granted, and I intend to enjoy it.

I only wish my wife had been killed, before the bombs fell, so that she too could enjoy this black-sun utopia, where no one’s pulse races because no one has a pulse. But nothing is perfect, is it, eh?

Would you fancy some tea?

Prequels

Sequels

Comments

  • from Eckhouse:

    Wow… intense imagery. I’d love to see more.

  • from Metaphoric Spurs:

    The first paragraph really grabs you, especially that initial sentence. The rest gets a little confusing because of the switch in tenses between paragraphs - the order of events is not entirely clear - but it is something that begs reading and I look forward to the next installment.

  • from Metaphoric Spurs:

    I have to remember I can’t use an em dash in the comments field!