By Michele Lee
Read by Ben Phillips
Music by Harmaline
Home? it asks, clothed in black feathers and flesh. A winged messenger come to carry me home.
Yes! I cry silently. I turn towards it, trying to pull my arms from the wooden posts that bind them. The voice caws out in fear, then vanishes in a black blur into the sun.
Another one gone. I’ve lost count, and the math doesn’t matter any more.
They killed me I suppose. That pair of walking pools of hate. What else could have happened? I suppose I’d cry, if I could. If my tear ducts weren’t ash mixed with the glue remains of my eyes.