FLASH FICTION: The Cemetery Bird

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They won’t bury you.

That’s what they whisper. When they really want to hurt you.

When someone dies, when a kid dies in my town, they don’t bury you, they feed you to the Cemetery Bird. There’s no room for kids in the cemetery. If you’re poor, there’s no room, but if you’re rich, they find a way.

Billy…

My mom carried him. I walked behind my mom. She walked up to the bird. My dad didn’t even go up. The bird opened up its mouth and my mom dropped my brother in. Then it closed its mouth. That was it.

They didn’t bury him. They won’t bury you.

One morning, I felt cold in a different way. My parents got nervous. The doctor talked to my parents. When they looked at me, I felt like I was on fire. Though I was so cold.

Every day, I try to feel okay. I walk around with my cane a bit. I try not to think about it.

Yesterday…

I walked past the cemetery. I looked down at my legs. They were shaking, I was so tired. I grabbed onto the cemetery gate. When I looked up, I shouldn’t have, I looked right at the Cemetery Bird. A big, pale bird like a pelican. It breathed out. It swallowed. I felt just as cold as the cemetery gate. I cried there for a long time. When I got home I was still crying.

I’m just trying to feel okay.

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NEWS: Transition

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I have three poems, two drawings and a cartoon in the Fall issue of Transition. You should send them something, too.