Justin von Bosau
A Little Life, After Death
Anne Baker found the day that she died to be rather boring, actually. It was in the middle of May: she was out in the garden, watering flowers where they bloomed on plump bushes, and had, by way of the heat and a too-tight corset, dropped of exhaustion and hit her head against the raised stones that made a perimeter around the dirt. She died without knowing any pain, and after a few minutes got back up, brushed herself off, and saw herself lying there dead.
The day had actually been a very nice one until we found the body. The sun had been shining; perfect day for fishing, Edison had commented, and Harker had joked that it was still up for debate--Edison might scare them away with his balding mug peeking over the edge of the boat. Edison had made a sour face, but finally acquiesced, laughing with us as we three headed down to the lakeside.
The House that Burned
Home is the house that burned. The one from the photograph you could swear Mom kept in a box in the attic, along with all the other memories held back,
Matthews was sitting on the dead man's couch when I got there, and he'd even propped himself up with two pillows. It looked rather comfortable, aside from the blood dried into the other half of it.
"You don't have to do this," she said, and I smiled despite myself, because I knew that meant I had to. But I suppose I should explain why I came here before I explain anything else.
Sand got in my face, and I almost threw it away when I brought my hands up to brush my eyes. It was a small thing--little, I mean; insignificant and little and adrift amidst the massive dunes that had piled up against the glass of the city buildings. But I had kept it, and as my hands came up, I clutched them tighter to keep it in my grasp--too tight, and the metal's edges cut against my palm. Wincing, I opened my eyes again against the wind, and opened my hand to look at it again.