The Dead Girls

Christ, what is that?  Something dead, something that shouldn’t be there.

He doesn’t stop.  Can’t stop.  He has to see what it is, what he’s nabbed.

A face swims up to the surface.  A pale face exuding bright light, covered in soars and opened wounds, places where fish have eaten away the flesh.  Blank staring eyes.  Tangles of blond hair waving like an undersea plant.  A smile, teeth, tongue, a grin.

Growing—growing—growing—

He stops reeling as the shape explodes out of the water.  Everything happens in half time.  Blinding light erupts.  Jewels of water spray outward.  The hook is spit back at him, wormless.  The dead girl springs up and rotates, like a pirouetting ballerina in an old-fashioned music box.

When she looks at him, pressure builds in his chest.  He can’t draw a breath.  Her mouth grows wider, wider, until it’s not a mouth anymore but a cavern.  Filled with numberless teeth, with darting, flying, mindless bats, swooping out of her gullet and disappearing into the night.  Or are those flies?  Yes, that makes more sense: a cloud of flies, belched out and now expanding, now vanishing.





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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)