E. Connolly

Father’s Drawer

I spent the afternoon begging god. I was crying for a reversal of fate. My pacing was lit only by the grey window. Leaves fell in a steady rain with the moldering scent of decay already begun. Just as the factory had washed away the fields of the ward, so did the scent of motor oil vitiate the air of my father’s workshop. His grinding wheel was solid amid a sea of tools. I would return here day after day to attempt some sort of necromancy between saints and forgotten gods of the old world. But they were as lost as my father who lay in wake for his last journey home.