All My Friends Are Dead

Château à Cahaignes in Eure, Upper Normandy, France. Abandoned in 1976Another short little story for Miranda Kate’s Midweek Flash Challenge. Go check out the others.


I dreamt of them all again last night. All of my dead friends. I dreamt that I could see their emotions, shimmering veils of differently coloured lights, rather than their physical aspects. I saw Margriet’s russet fear and Kiera’s bright golden anger. There too were Elsie’s bronze sadness, Abigail’s confusion of citron and scarlet, and Ellen’s incarnadine sobbing despair. The colours made me so sad that I turned myself into a tree, and drew all their colours inside me; sucked them into my roots and way up inside so that they coursed through my entire being. The chromatic feelings mixed and melded, becoming songs that budded from my branches as vivid emerald leaves. No one noticed the new me-tree much until autumn when the leaves fell, and the city was filled with passionate music that caused people to weep with anguish for the dead souls of my friends.

Click here to finish reading the story on Patreon…

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About wombat37

A Yorkshireman in the green hills of Lancashire, UK Not a real wombat, obviously, or typing would become an issue. I do have short legs and a hairy nose, however. Oh, & a distinctive smell.

Posted on April 17, 2017, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

  1. Wow, couldn’t get further from cliche if you tried. What a very unique piece. I love the idea that when the leaves shed they shed the sad songs. Thanks for joining.

    Like

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