October 28, 2014

“The houses weren’t always empty. There were bedrooms and families. There were television sets. There were computers. But then, father lost his job, then got lost. Mother kept burning dinner every night. The roasted chickens jumped off the tables and strolled away. The children went feral, biting holes into their arms, then licking the wounds clean with mouths rimmed with mold. The houses were vacated quickly, families scrabbling down the walkways, leaving the front doors wide open. A mass exodus flooded the streets. For hours, days, the bodies passed and fell, crawled and struggled. Eventually, everything was emptied. The houses yawned and darkened. The plaster peeled. The aluminum burned down, victim of half-exhausted matches tossed carelessly onto sloping roofs. Time and rain put the fires out. Eventually, there was nothing left to burn.”

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