Apr 29, 2016
Here – the waiting room. An angel is serving milk and honey, but, if you prefer – if it’s your thing – there is a woman dressed in black, stood at the door, offering fruit. At the sight of her, my heart makes like a pomegranate, and cracks: red, messy. The juice, the seeds dripping between my ribs; and, eventually, I feel roots growing in my soles. The woman’s fingers are pale, long and thin, dotted with bits of dried blood – like soil. A pomegranate hangs from her fingers, suspended there, like a big, red bell – I can almost hear the tolling, and laughter from somewhere downstairs.
‘The Reaping’, Zara Munro