Occasional
Lacking a body, they buried his empty chair. In the city of the dead, everyone holds their breath, waiting for nothing to begin. After fifty years of ashes raining down on their head alone, they finally asked why. Their weather did not change. Moths the size of hummingbirds amidst the moonflowers, bloodclots the shape of beetles in the dirt, clouds the color of salt over all, the night of our loss was artfully assembled. Isn’t it odd how unique spiders spin identical webs! There’s one strawberry left in the bowl. The last promise is always kept for next time.
— Mort Duffy
October 22nd 2025
Halloween Day 22
A blog by Bedrieger Junction's Slant of Light writing group