THE DISEASE By Elise Tyson

Sickness spread through her long before the signs appeared. Mutating cells travelling upstream like fish, gills sucking out all the nutrients. By the time she collapsed, her blood had turned to tar, and every artery oozed pus. Her heart was the damp, dark corner of a room infested with mould. Breathing became a rattle and soon she was walking dead, a ghost trapped in a decaying vessel. When she was placed in the ground the soil refused her, knowing new life can’t grow from toxins. After her bones turned to dust the wind swept her as far away as it could, wanting to expel her. The stars had no use for her. A life ended as fine grains of sick floating upwards, destined for a black hole. Dead. Gone.