Promethea

Her body, infinitesimal, wends and winds blind in the dampening soil. Her body, black and lustrous yellow after black and lustrous yellow, arches and creeps down again, shaking the trace of her path into a circle. Her subterranean strife now easing as she closes in the deepening dark.

It is six in the morning. A sharp stick from her skin peeks out; she seeks a lark. She breaks from the tomb and crawls, tall, her ballooned body left behind. She eyes a dangle of light and arrives at the surface, a bloom at the altar.

Again and again and again.

Cheryl Pappas is a writer from Boston. Her fiction has been published in Bitter Oleander, Cleaver Magazine, SmokeLong Quarterly, and more. Her website is cherylpappas.net.

Photo Credit: cuatrok77

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