I Am the Dust by Paul D . Coombs
The boy stepped out of the shadow into the bright sunshine . Bound by the gusting wind and gathering up dead leaves the dust skipped up the pavement to meet him . “ She ’ s dead ,” whispered the dust in the boy ’ s ear .
A woman lay in the road , limbs splayed like a newborn lamb . The crowd rushed to her , obscuring the boy ’ s view and shutting him out . He would never see his mother again .
“ It ’ s just you and me now ,” whispered the fine black dust , caressing and clinging to the boy . The boy scraped and wiped at his neck but it seemed the dust was everywhere – on his hands , in his hair and on his lips , sticking to his sweaty skin like a band-aid to a cut .
More concerned with his mother than the dust , the boy shuffled to the edge of the kerb to observe the commotion on the road . No one noticed him , he felt like a minor character in his own story . People moved slowly , shaking their heads and covering their mouths with their hands , no sense of urgency at all . Perhaps the dust was right .
In the far-off distance the sound of a siren – most likely an ambulance . The scene before him seemed unreal , a virtual world . If he could , he ’ d reach for the power-off button . Reset . Start a new game . Instead , a tide dragged him under , one comprised of real hurt , real pain … and dust . The boy shuddered . Only the dust felt real to him . The sly
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