In the Auvergne mountains, on a small hillside next to an apple orchard, lies a cemetery. The stone wall around it, sun-bleached, bone yellow. The heat rests on gravestones. New ones shining, draped with dirty plastic flowers; old ones sunken. Rest in peace. Names and numbers worn away, leaving shallow furrows in their place. Like earthworm tunnels, brought to the surface.
In the middle is a chapel, hot ivory stones enclosing a cool breath of shade, locked away behind big wooden doors. A glance through the keyhole shows cold grey walls and Mary, stone robe falling quietly around her feet. An ossified shroud.
And in the middle of the graveyard lie strange craters cut into the rock. Partly covered by grass, as though swept under the rug, but once seen, impossible to ignore. Shallow graves. Carved into the lichen-covered rock and shaped as though tailored to fit human bodies. Head and shoulders outlined, tapering towards the feet. They lie tessellated like rice-paddies, feet all facing the same way. Eight hundred years of sunrise. Some are filled with water, rusty leaves and the sky.
And behind it is a squat, round building, with a pointed roof. And in it is darkness. A single window barred with cast iron teeth separates hot and cold. Through the bars, in the dark, here lies a pile of bones. Three hundred skulls and their respective skeletons. The skulls face down, cracked eggs. Dinosaur eggs. Broken, empty shells. So cold, so estranged from the living body, robbed of their morbidity, save in their number. Their enduring fragility.
Rest in peace.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
No comments:
Post a Comment