On Death, Snap my Fingers and Stumble and Crash
As I snapped my fingers, the lava blasted off the volcano. Three hundred people stood ash statues. The smoke curled.
One of the statues was me.
Snap; a lifespan has come to an end. The death snap is a pop; it stumbles across the planet and dances through the galaxy as it crashes with the soft sheep and little alien dogs.
The blood? It was the fuzzy feeling around my bones. The face? It’s been some time since it last flushed.
I remember the first time it did, though. It was a younger Arpit. He had stood in front of this girl. She had looked at him and all his words had gone. His fingers had become resting rocks on his laps, his lips desert, and his face crimson.
Meteorites had smashed his face shut; the head on collision had smashed his wits off. It was his first death. The second didn’t really matter.