He didn’t mean to hit the badger. Hell, he’d never seen a badger before, ‘xcept in books and nature magazines from when he was a kid. It was an alien thing, and death had nothing to do with it. If anything, death made it more relatable. More real.

He pondered it on the roadside. Splayed out like a ballerina, limbs loose in an eternal gymnastics. The rigor mortis would set in eventually. And then the ants. Ants, not cockroaches, he was sure, would be the last things left alive should the universe burn.

Unsure of what to do, he inspected his tires. Bits of badger will remain there forever, I suppose. There in the rubber. Even if I change the tires.

Patting the hood of his car solemnly, he stared up at the sun. Squinting at it, he could see through all mysteries. All there was to life was the badger, his car, and the road. He was sure of it. “And the ants,” he said. He climbed back into his car, started the engine, and closed the door. He’d learnt how ghosts worked; there was nothing else to do.

Published by dreysleeps

I art and eat and draw and sleep and cry and rhyme. I consume too much pizza and—by all rights—should be dead, but I haven't gotten around to it. Procrastination saved my life.

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