Everyone woke up when the flowers started growing. The fear was they would never stop. Fish and fowl picked up human speech patterns that they etched on every flat surface nearby. It remained a place of sadness.
His skeletons were too numerous to confine to a cupboard. He didn't even bother to hide his trail of bloody devastation. She wouldn't hear a bad word against him. On silent days, the screams could be heard for months all round. She mopped up the blood and smiled to herself. She felt lucky most of the time, he loved her true!
Their intention was never to cause a continental drift, or a terminal breach in the planet's emotional defenses. But words can never be taken back, and deeds can't be undone. The rounding up and culling of Blue Birds was however an act of mercy; their promise of happiness was a cruel delusion. Hope was getting in the way of pragmatism. Hope was a mental illness to be cured.
She stored her maternal line in places where they could whisper advice and scare off intruders. Her paternal side were too busy passing judgement and pinching pennies. Life is hard enough without the dead interfering, and her battles were lost and won alone.