Death Is Not a Stranger Here

Death Is Not a Stranger Here

She squats and scoops up a handful of water. She holds her hand high and watches her personal waterfall spill back into the stream. The sun's rays have found their way into the space between the branches of the towering trees. The light turns stray droplets into air crystals. A smile curves her lips. A soft sigh slides from her mouth as she watches them shimmer before they fall into the stream and vanish into the current.

 "Nothin' like nature," she says softly.
She unwraps the knife and dips the blade into the stream. The water is red, then pink as it washes away the evidence. She takes the rag the knife was wrapped in and uses it to scrub a few stubborn spots from the blade. The place where it meets the handle is the worst.

"Next time you'll know not to push it in so far," he says.

She looks up into his eyes and shivers just a little.

"There won't be a next time," she says.

He stands very still and stares back at her.

"Lou, there won't."

He snorts and thumps the clay grimed shovel he had been leaning on against the ground for emphasis.

"There's always a next time," he says. "Always."

Katelyn Thomas

Katelyn Thomas is a writer, poet and photographer who works in the children’s department of her local library. She spends her free time hiking, reading and watching her rambunctious hens cavorting in the sunlight. She has most recently been published in Manawaker Studio, One Sentence Poems and Haiku Journal.

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