Evenings have turned to their strands. Leaving my hands wet of the manifold orgasms. I kept kicking the pebble and went where it went. Inside you. The clumsy face of our dead children. Careless kids. They'd always keep coming to us. Breaking into sobs as they spoke -

"Dad, Alice just killed me."

"Johnny, you should be more careful. It's a tough time we're living through and we don't have enough money for a brand new coffin."

"But she told nothing'd happen. In the end you never fall."

"What fall are you talking about?", we would ask, concerned that he might have hurt himself. "Where have you been?"

"I jumped with her into the rabbit hole."

Labels: children, death, fiction, flash fiction, life, magic realism, orgasm, rabbit, short story, story, surrealism