The Smell of Death

Look out your back window or door — describe what you see, as if you were trying to convey the scene to someone from another country or planet.

 


 

The back door is wide open. It definitely shows its age with years of paint peeling away to reveal grayish-looking wood. The screen door is in place to keep the squadrons of black flies out. It seems like they are everywhere in this oppressive heat.

It gets hard to see in the twilight, but in the distance there appears to be a figure laying in a field. It looks twisted as if it was a doll carelessly tossed on a bed.

I reach for my binoculars next to my lukewarm coffee. Not much more satisfying than a Marlboro and a tepid cup of joe to pass the evening. As I focus my field glasses I can see the occasional dandelion in the brownish field. It hasn’t rained for weeks now.

If I could only get away from these flies! You used to be able to hear crickets chirping in the evening, but the smell of death brought the flies.

I never could figure out how to focus these binoculars, but I’m finally able to see the figure. It’s another corpse. It seems so commonplace these days.

Someone is hunched over the body’s torso. Maybe he’s looting. I’ll bet those buzzing flies are about to drive him mad.

Oh look, he’s turning around. The bottom half of his face appears to be smeared with blackish blood. Terrific. Another zombie.

I guess I’ll lock up and go to bed. I don’t feel like having company tonight.

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