Dust

A short story about death.

A part of him knew when he was awake that he was dying. He knew when he was dead. No longer to breathe nor move his blanching body. Yet somehow, he was aware of the morning, and the screams of the woman finding him limp on his hard, cold bed.

He did not wonder why he was dead, or the cause for his death, he did not even wonder why he could not wonder at all.

As the people gathered around him he felt nothing as they tried to retrieve him from the place where he was now lost. As their hands touched his skin he felt numb and heard nothing from their moving lips.

As they pronounced him gone, they laid him in a coffin to be cried upon by lookers by. He stared up upon the people staring down at him and surprisingly, no memories of these people came forward.

His body was carried in the coffin to the furnace, there he was burned but still felt nothing, not even when he was sifted into a small decorative pot, with the lid leaving him in darkness.

Once the lid was opened, he found himself floating; being spread in an area he was not aware of. He was dust, and as dust, he fell.

One part of him fell into the ground below the onlooker’s feet. Together with the woman’s tears, he grew into a seed, and fertilized the tree which he soon became. He survived the scorching days of summer, the leafless days of autumn and the bitter days of winter. In spring he grew fruit, and felt the children’s soft feet as they climbed him for their well deserved prize. As they ate his fruit, he filled their veins with warmth and content and travelled in them to wherever they were determined to go.

One part of him fell into a river, and he became the water, and was drunk by a passing wolf. He then entered the wolf, he was the wolf. He howled and ran through the forest, leaving only his footprints behind.

Another part of him fell onto a cotton field, and he was sewn into clothing. He was worn everywhere, taken through water and dirt, ripped and sewn back together, only to be given away to another set of hands. He was passed through generation to generation, until finally; he was laid back onto the ground where he would be grown into cotton once more.

A small part of him fell into the waves; he sunk into the deepest depths of the ocean, viewing things at no depths any human had gone before. He rested at last in the sand, where he looked up, and saw the sun struggling to produce light through the dark water, and the moon giving the water a new glow.

The last part of his dust fell with the air. He was taken high into clouds, and flew with the birds, on leaves, on feathers. He was whisked around mountains, over bridges, under shoes. He traveled the world; it was he whom decided where to go, as he was the wind.

At last he rested in the air to view the world from above, watching the lives of the breathing souls he had once joined.

Author's Note

just a different view on death and the afterlife. It was not made to offend, only to image. I do have troubles with past and pre tense, so if you found some problems please notify me.

Reviews

[AloysiaVerben]

A very interesting read! Very descriptive. I love the uniqueness (don't even think that's a word) and the interesting point of view. Love the way you describe his ashes floating away and where they end up. No problems that I can see and overall it's a very good read.