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Silent Hijacker

by Lucille Bonne

Death has a distinctive smell

Death of a human that is

Not roadkill

Or a little bird the cat has mauled

Then dragged in onto your living room rug.

That’s different.

The stench of death encroaching in on a human body is putrid

There is nothing on earth remotely similar.

Yet, the smell was of no concern to me

I wanted to see it

Feel it

The shape of it




Surely at least death has a form?

I wanted so badly to see it in the air around my father’s body

To grab it with my bare hands

Strangle it I needed something tangible to fight with or at least

Try to reason with I saw nothing.

All I could do was try to put it on paper

Contain it

Box it in

Not allow its presence to hold the room.

Scribbles and scratches

Black doorways and rough ink lines

I don’t think for one minute

That I captured it.

It only helped to dispel my rage at this invisible pervasive force

That whisked my father’s lifeforce from his body

As quickly and effortlessly as a child letting air out of a balloon

That they couldn’t manage to tie a knot in.

About the Author

Lucille Bonne is a visual artist and poet and flash fiction experimenter, hailing from Edinburgh, Scotland, now living in on the Isle of Mull on west coast of Scotland. She has previously exhibited in the Republic of Ireland and was recently published in Other Wordly Women Press.

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