GHOSTS

 The evening's slanted rays weaved their humid haze into tendrils . In those  ghostly wisps were memories that never got made...

Those stray shell casings that had dented time in a corridor , they had robbed the memories along with the lives that never even had a chance  for a grasp at life, nor for the memories to ever  form.

The pain that jostles  one awake in the ungodly hours of the night, just pulsates with the perpetuity of loss.

In the golden godly hours Robes deemed Bump stocks legal; in the corridors of virtue ,the shell casings stayed empty for they were emptied on life...lost lives... Still the Robes glistened in the gaslight, as they always did , may be more glowing with all that halo of power. There is consistency  in that glow of power.

Yet the memories could never form, they never stood a chance , never could they form from an erased life... 'Tragedy' the word lost its meaning when life itself became a caricature, of all the forms in us , of us , of humans , of the whole that could not even be .

However the  Robes , they changed forms, shapes, styles ,hue  and the gaslight added an edge of omniscience to those  robes.

Here in wandered the little ghosts, on the wispy rays of  the sun that sneaked in through a window , through some slanted shutters that failed to close out the light fully...The came in there and sat in the pews where sounds of a negation echoed , negation of their lost lives, negation of their 'being', as were their rights to being were dissected ,rarified and rendered into words. They do wander , wondering if any one will  remember or  ever take note , like so many ghosts who wander the land  on a ray of hope  in the mist, will you even know they exist?

The shell casings spew out more ghosts as bump stocks connect to its destiny, a destiny of destruction...

As shell casings rain on decimating even a small hope for life, all to evanescence into ghosts, ghost we are to be...

short story by Pc-3 ( 06/16/2024)