Beneath an ash filled church, under a ruined city at the end of the world, we cling to loved ones, strangers, mostly ourselves as the bell screams like a busted hinge.
You and me are as always, joined. You like the ancient oak: sturdy, constant – bark a little threadbare, canopy thinning. I’m more the lace-leafed ivy: entwining, dependable – somewhat moth-chewed, stems thickening. We’ve survived so many seasons, together. Stronger, together.
A bright bouquet of weddings, a sombre wreath of funerals. Babies squalling in hand-me-down knitwear, puppies and toddlers barrelling, angry teens and veganism, help-out loans and try-to-make-Christmas, jam sticky grandkids and designer trainers, empty nests and digital photo albums. Sickness and health. Until death.
In the shuddering basement, we pull shadow-blankets over our embrace. Leaf to branch. Perpetual.
The bell falls.
We don’t part.
JP Relph is a writer from Northwest England hindered by cats and a thrifting addiction. Tea helps, milk first. She has three short fiction collections and a co-authored novella in the wild. Her stories have been on the Wigleaf longlist and recommended in Ellen Datlow's Best Horror list.
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