Hismorte

 

Since my arrival in town I have been spoken to twice, by a cook at the dining hall, the wear of her pale face stark in the flulight: Whilst she dished me steak and boiled potatoes I thought, white is surely the heaviest color. White bears a whistling absence indicative of war. Where once stood black monoliths lay now middens of faint reflex, wrought only in times of cold, sickness, and death.

 

 

God is a cruel pestle and I am the dust on His mortar.