The Rising Dead

Death had no edge then.  We crumpled exquisitely in well-tended grass and dandelions and lay still as silverware in a closed drawer.  Our stick rifles and willow switch swords strewn about us.

The smelter shift whistle cried over us. Our fathers at work.

Someone’s fuzzy dog licked the fallen general.  A car honked from Main Street.

Lunchtime.

At once, we rose from the dead and ran home for macaroni and cheese.

--Mitchell Hegman