Three days later, they were unearthed from beneath the debris, their faces- upturned bowls of pale china clay, with cracks snaking their way out from the corners of their parted lips, a dried string of blood stretching form the forehead to the chin, the eyes, two polished glass mirrors stitched to perfection, reflecting the clear blue sky....
the comb lay split in half in her stiff hand...flies buzzed around, piercing her, drawing no blood, withdrawing in dismay...
the foolish fastidiousness that Death demands!
comb your hair! brush your teeth! iron your clothes!
and off you go!
the first tremor made her irritant...it made her hand shake, and the sharp-teethed comb bit into her scalp maliciously...drawing blood in glee.
the next tremor pulled her in....
Ah! The foolish fastidiousness that Death demands!
3 comments:
good depiction of the "fastidiousness"that death demands of us!!death, the all powerful comb that parts our lives..
I know this sounds really, really insensitive, but I have only one word - "eeks!"
@ aankhi- 'eeks' for what???????
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