“The house burned down seven years ago,” he said slowly. His eyes searched my face. “The children, well, they used to keep the rooms locked because the children kept sneaking out and, well, they were trapped.” I got up and walked toward the window. He went on. “It was a terrible scandal. Mr. Burndle was ruined and—”
“The children are all dead?” I heard my own voice say.
“Yes sir.”
“Didn’t anyone make it out?”
“Oh yes sir. Mr. Burndle and the wardens were fine. The on staff nurse. The—”
“What’s there now?” I interrupted.
“Ruins. Dust and ashes. Ghosts.”
“I need to see it,” I said, turning back to the dreary room. The little, bald, bespectacled man sat up straight.
“Well sir,” he began, “that’s a rather—”
“I know the place, Mr. Piers, or did. We’re going.”
“We?” he asked.
“Yes. I still have many questions for you.”
Dust
No death is here, nor light, nor sound. Nothing remains of all that’s scattered on the ground. The fire raged and turned to ash this forgotten land. No wind to scatter it, to let something else grow. Layers of ash on ash never to be disturbed. And yet in this place I see an imprint.…
Ashes and Bones
Though everything was covered in ash, the fire still burned, glowing in the night. The grey flakes settled over all the land as the billowing flames sent their dark smoke, their blasphemous dark smoke, into heaven. She burned in fury, in confusion, terrified as her very soul was caught up in the licking tongues of…
Poem: Dust Resumed
Please Read: Dust Resumed Excerpt: Where once life bloomed now death reigned o’re, No starry sky, no sun, no moon did from bright streams their light outpour, and all of dust, to dust resumed. Related: Dust
Drabble: Dust
Where not was the ash? It was settled over the ground, grey and dusty. The breeze moved it about in dreary swells. Sometimes you saw what was beneath, the charred wood, the black burnt timber which had been the bones of this house, and other bones, small bones, corpses trapped behind locked doors, bones leftover,…
Silent Dust
The dust is still; there are no more stirring winds to give life. The dust sits. The books are unopened. They rest on their shelves, forgotten. No hand turns their pages; no eye peruses. I heard, I thought I heard, a voice amid the dust, but there is only silence now, deep and baren silence.…
Ashes
There was a dream we whispered in the night, whispered so low we could barely hear our voices, yet we knew; we all dreamed it, were haunted by it—ever dreaming as it followed us, invisible in the day. I am the last dreamer, I suppose; the only one to grow up. I have let the…
Tale Told 