Acts that can’t be reconciled, sins beyond forgiveness. After the sickness came the stillness, a prelude to the rising. Then the familiar voices lowered in whispers, entreaties to be let inside, begging to escape the weather. Pleading turned to demanding, spurred by hunger. The knocking became pounding, fueled by desperation. In the end you let them in, but only to the basement where the gasoline lay pooled. There is nothing left now, nothing but ash. Yet still, they call out.
Once again, not all stories are told in prose….