'And on the seventh day she rose again' by Jack Morris

Day 1
Seven of them stand beside the glass casket in the forest clearing. They cry: great heaving sobs. 
    ‘She was as beauteous as the dawn.’
    ‘As pure as snow.’
    ‘As fit as a butcher’s dog.’ 
A scuffle, a slap, a chuckle. Boys will be boys.

I lie on a bed of flowers and know I am sorely missed. Who will clean their kitchen? Who will cook their dinner?  
Their tears mingle with the rain that splatters the glass and I am glad.

Day 2
‘She was as soft as a peach,’
‘As sweet as an apple.’
‘As wet as a watermelon.’

A stifled giggle. A phlegm-filled cough. Who will bake their bread? Who will sew their socks?

Day 3
Only one today. Grunts as he tries to shift the crystal lid. He isn’t strong enough. More grunts. I can tell him by his grunting. I can tell all of them by their grunting.
The glass is cold in the forest night. I find I do not mind so much.

Day 4
In the distance, seven friends Hi-Ho their way to work; fade to nothing. Thrushes sing aria after aria, note upon trilling note. They don’t need lunch on the table or dishes washed or carpets swept.

I dream I am a songbird.

Day 5
The sun rises.  A fern uncurls. A spider crawls across the coffin lid. I am shadowed in cobwebs, shrouded in a mist of silver thread.

Day 6
A new man. Dark hair, wide shoulders. He sweeps away the cobwebs, pushes the lid aside. His breath is as sweet as mountain air.

Me, ripe as a cherry. Ruby lips parted. He bends closer, closer.
    ‘If you touch me, I will rip your balls off.’ 
Clomp of man in retreat. Whinny of horse. Silence. 
Bird song, triumphant.

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Jack Morris lives in Brighton, UK. Her work has been published by Kaleidotrope, NFFD, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Free Flash Fiction, Willesden Herald, Roi Fainéant Press, Propelling Pencil and others.

Jack is the Editor of Neither Fish Nor Foul, curator of bold, playful fiction. You can find Jack at @jackmmorris.bsky.social