“Pet Sematary” by Stephen King, if passed on as a story around a cosy fireplace must be done when the fire is ablaze and the night is young, for when the embers have died and the cold wind whistles through the woods, even the slightest rustle can make your heart leap out of your chest.
The afternoon light cuts through the Mayflower tree – clothed in reddish-brown- and gleefully rockets towards two children poking an ant-hill with twigs.
In the year 2040, we will eat money, and in the night, we will hear the clink of coins and ruffle of notes inside of us.
All night long, she whimpered and squirmed on the cold floor,
and twice she slumped against the nothingness on her way to the front door.
The wind rammed the windows, swirls of leaves swept outside,
While the moon’s presence grew scarce,
Leaning against the bed, I burst into a flood of tears.
I learnt the art of drowning at the delicate age of ten,
when I was neck-deep in the toilet bowl, gasping for breath,
my voice reduced to flailing arms.