Accident

I found my arm snapped at the crook of the elbow like the broken wing of a dead bird. It lay discarded on the asphalt, red and tacky with dirt and blood. My ribcage lay a few feet away; a mangled bird's prison, the empty hull of a shattered ship after mutiny. Two legs like spilt chopsticks in the rain, growing damp and mouldering like clay, moist and hollow as the marrow leaked out, lickety-split. One last arm, fluttering like a heart on the deadened road, bruised and black under the drip dripping weather. But no heart could be found.

The Malvern Star sagged like a wet rose, gloomy in the moody dusk. Its shadow cast long over the road, dark and sly and foreboding. The cars, sheening with sweat, didn't stop. No one cared about the scattered heartstrings of a puppet on the road. No one bothered to kick the warped, dented wheels of the dead red cycle onto the curb.