I lingered too long by the crematorium and got possessed by a spirit. His family had long since left. He told me they put his urn in the car while they ate at KFC. KFC, he wailed. He spat each letter cold down my spine. They ate at KFC. Can you believe it? He clattered around inside me, crying: I’d never, I’d never, I’d never. I told him I was sorry to hear it but that I had to get home. The sun was sinking into the city, the night spreading thick across the sky. I tried to shake him from my head but he clamped on tight. He gripped icy fingers across my brain. He turned my blood to porridge that burnt at my fingertips. What do you want, I demanded. You don’t know how it is, he said. You don’t. Forgotten in an urn. Shoved in a cupboard by greasy fingers, by, by your own—his howls vibrated through my skull and shook me in my shoes. I clenched my teeth against him but it didn’t help. He screamed through my mouth. Just dust in the cupboard, we yelled. Just dust in the cupboard. He had me catch the last bus out of town. Up into the mountains. He grew quiet and withdrawn. I’ve been moved, he kept whispering. Someone has moved me. It was night by the time we got off. The city lights were swallowed by the trees. No moon, no clouds. The stars a brilliant fire but he wasn’t interested in that. We walked down a dark path. He seemed to know where we were going. We reached a great emptiness, a cold metal fence. We stood by the lookout and he said: God I’m down there, I’m down there. I do not know this place, I’m down there. His voice was growing softer; the dust infecting his spirit with memory. I see, he said eventually. They left me in a cupboard but—my grandson. He biked up here himself. Hell of a trip. My urn in a canvas bag knocking against the wheels. He was a good kid. I did not know this place, but he did not know where to put me. It’s fine, he whispered. This is fine. He did not know. We looked out into the darkness. His grip, held so desperately, finally relaxed. He left me on a breath that wisped soft into the night. I stood a moment, feeling tired and empty, then I walked back to the road. I hoped another bus would come, that its light would see me there, a silhouette against the stars.
Leo Alder is a writer living on Ngunnawal land, Canberra. He writes best while falling asleep at his desk, letting thoughts blur into dream slurry that spills across the page. His stories can be found in the anthologies Strangely Enough and Slinkies 2023. He’s on Instagram @leoalderwriter.
Image: weburbanist.com
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Heavy Feather Review 