Sunday, 6 December 2015


by Dustin Blottenberger

The funeral was held at dusk. Because I burned for her, I went.

"No purer death than by fire," the black priest intoned. The urn, stately, sat on a pedestal before them.

Doran saw me. He spat like a hot pan, "Out on the green, you bastard." Deserved, surely.

Back to back. Ten paces. We turned. His shot struck me in my breast. I staggered, wheezing, took aim slowly. My shot ripped him through the guts. He fell, his face ashen. The poor man nearly had his revenge.

For my sins, I expected flames, but felt only cold, encroaching dark.

Author bio: Dustin Blottenberger is a writer, painter, and printmaker living in the jungles outside of Baltimore, MD. To reach him, please contact your local animal control agency or follow him on Twitter/Tumblr at NeverSayDustin.

Icarus is part of 101 Fiction issue 10.

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