She stands. The sand falls from her clothes. From this point of view she can survey her work. She is immobile, in disbelief.

“What?” he asks.

Words evade her. Fourteen hours straight working the dig. Her voice is dry as the bones.

He stands beside her.

“My God.”

She has uncovered, pulled out, layer by layer, brush stroke by stroke, painstakingly slow, so as not to damage the fleshless human bones…an arm, a shoulder blade, long, extended, abnormal, numerous bones scattered by sediment and decay, now freshly exposed to air after what? Centuries? Millennium?

“What is it?”

“It’s a wing.”

Disenchanted Residence

Disenchanted Residence

She hovered near the bannister was that a voice she heard it had been so long since she’d heard a voice a man’s voice yes the dust the plaster that had fallen over the years softly swirled as she passed the stairs in search of the voice the voice of a man it echoed up the through marble and fallen time it echoed through her and she felt alive for a moment then the voice died away was gone was but a breath of wind in the ancient air and air filled with her light presence disenchanted false ethereal glazed with novel wind and shaded without life…