by Robin Morris
I imagine her eyes burning. Flames caressing the blue lenses that looked at
me with love. Blue turning to black in the heat. I imagine fluids boiling,
then flashing into steam. Eyeballs bursting.
I imagine the fingers that used to caress my back, my face. So softly, so
tenderly. Fingers turning to crisp carbon in the inferno.
She always said she wanted to be cremated. She shuddered at the thought of
being buried, cold and lonely and food for the filthy things that live in
the earth. She made me promise.
I imagine her bones blackening, flesh peeling away, flaming and turning to
ash. I imagine her spine becoming a conduit of fire.
I imagine these things because I can't see into the industrial incinerator.
There is no window that allows me to see her burn.
I imagine that she is still screaming, though I no longer hear it.
I promised her she would be cremated. I never promised that she would be
Robin Morris was born in Chicago and has lived in four states from the east coast to
the west. She lives in California at the moment, where she says her career as a screenwriter is going nowhere. She has the required two cats in a single room apartment.