, , , ,

What could be more wretched than a summer’s day, clawing at the pupils through a blanket of dreams? Sunday. Yet, the children have no concept of time and its need to be melted, stretched and snapped into oblivion. Their stomachs rise with the gongs of church bells.

The village is dressed in straw hats and mary janes, while the fruits of an atheist lie rotting by the table. Waiting. These children of mine, swat flies they can’t see, circling themselves into a rabid frenzy. Hunger. At least hunger is a sign they’re not dead.

I scrounge for breakfast and hope that refrigeration has mummified the bread enough to stop the fungus. Stop the fungus. I slap on an extra gob of nutella as an apology but forget to cut the edges off and shape into a square. Cut the edges off and shape into a square.

I tune the boombox to California Dreaming and their whimpers amplify to a torrent of sobs. “Oh, it’s not meant to be sad”, I say, “You see, skies aren’t gray in summer”.