A charcoal veil of ash lays light across our hair and shoulders, dusting bone-white strands and pale flesh, as though with powdered stone. Lvia grins wildly up at the darkened sky, her delicate hands dancing, as she plucks another blinded moth from the air.
“It’s begun,” she says.
Cooling blood splatters my upraised face, as a bird, clutching ropey entrails in red-dipped talons, passes overhead. I kiss a palm and raise it skyward.
“It’s not Mother,” I say, feeling certainty spread like rot in my belly. Her perfection is not present in the fire-swept sky.
We are betrayed.
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: entrails, kiss, perfect)