The Table

She looked up at him, laughing. “You can come unpack this stuff if you’d like.”

“No, no, you’ve got it.”

“Alright, then. Quit your bitchin’.”

He strode back to the car to get the cooler. Sweat was dripping down his forehead as he approached the picnic table.

She was gone. The table was bare, and a desolate wind was blowing through the overgrowth.


Years. They have a sneaky kind of cruelty.

How many had it been? Three? Four?

Where she is, he cannot follow –
Shrouded there in mystery:
Gone away, Demeter’s daughter,
Once, his fair Persephone…

Her hands had placed a picnic lunch upon this table. Ham sandwiches.

Did the table still remember her touch?


The valley was so rich, so green. Maybe another couple would be along soon. Or a family.

“Life is for the living. The dead have played their part.”

Is it? Have they?

Author: Sibelius Russell

Sibelius Russell (a/k/a/ Owen "Beleaguered" Servant) lives a life of whimsical servitude -- whatever that means.

Leave a Reply if you want. It's your life.

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s