by Marion Lougheed
I float above the body that used to be mine, imagining I will break free if only I tug hard enough. Our corpses blanket the field, our blood already drying. Our enemy has slain us all.
“Help me!” I call, but I am voiceless. The survivors straggle up the hill. A chill replaces the heat of battle.
An enemy soldier passes close enough for me to touch with my ghostly fingers. He shivers and a spasm shoots through him. He falls. My ethereal grip sinks into his warmth, then I am pushing his essence aside.
This body is mine now.
Marion Lougheed is a writer, editor, and cultural anthropologist whose words have been published in print and online by Gypsum Sound Tales, The League of Canadian Poets, and The Capra Review, among others. She grew up in four countries and currently lives in Canada. Twitter: @MarionLougheed