Megan O’Rourke


Write Club

















The dirt is heavy on your chest and your legs and your lips. It tickles your nostrils as you breathe, and
your eyes burn with each blink.
But you can see the stars; all those pinpricks of light, splitting the night as if there were cracks in the
sky. You see them, and their cold distance, their warm glow-fills you.
He is there, above you. Again.
And the dirt falls from the stars. Like soft persistent rain, it builds like snowdrifts in winter. It tickles
your face and coats your tongue.
You wish you could move.
You stare at the stars.
There is dirt and then something softer. Pink and grey and poised. There is a worm on your cheek.
You see it through your left eye. You watch it wriggle and rotate and disappear from view as it slides
off your skin and onto your hair.
You breathe in and out, but it is hard now, the earth is heavy.
You stare at the stars.
There are so many stars.
The jagged walls around you loom and weep dust and pebbles.
He stands above you. A silhouette. But you look past him.
You stare at the stars.
And the dirt falls from the sky.

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