by Cailín Frankland

They took our relics first: pots and tools, playthings and jewellery. This we tolerated, chuckling at their blustering talk of papers, conferences, museum displays. We bore their ambition, indulged their curiosity—even in death, we are a generous people.

Then they stole our bones. They extracted ribs with dental picks, boxed up our vertebrae—we felt brushes graze our clavicles, trowels scratch our shoulder blades. When they took our limbs, we warned them—we shook the earth beneath them, snuffed their precious flashlights. They came for our skulls anyway.

In life, the diggers pitied us. Now we are the same.

Cailín Frankland

Cailín Frankland (she/they) is a British-American writer and public health professional based in Baltimore, Maryland. An avid reader and horror aficionado, their work explores themes related to feminism, queerness, disability, chronic illness, neurodivergence, and intergenerational trauma. They live with their spouse, two old lady cats, and a 70-pound pit bull affectionately known as Baby.