Yesterday, I remembered this bit of flash fiction I wrote long before I knew what flash fiction was. I only recall that I was living in Texas at the time, and after a bit of yard work, this idea hit me. I’m proud of it, so I found it among my files to give it a post. Enjoy.
The sweet smell of death permeates the air.
They stood proud and resilient, but they were ignorant of their inevitable massacre. As many before them unwillingly discovered, their death wasn’t calm. Crushing dismemberment never is. Serenity only came with the slaughter’s end.
At my feet and strewn about, corpses lay in haphazard piles. Thousands of carcasses rest upon each other, tossed about with no concern nor remorse. Only mild satisfaction remains from the previous events.
I can feel the sticky guts of the fallen smeared on my hands. I gaze down to confirm that their blood is indeed on me, but I regard the sight as nothing more than stains to be washed away.
As I stand and scan the killing fields, I inhale deeply death’s aroma. I will murder again; I have to. It is my nature and my direction. But today’s slayings will sate the need, for now, until I return.
I turn my back to the slain and stroll away until such time that I weed again.
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