Monday, October 5, 2009

It was a sad story, which is why it must be told, said the old ski instructor.

She fell from the second floor balcon with the open French windows. You could only hear a whisper of a sound, the whistling of the air against her light child-like body, before she hit the ground without the usual thud. Next her sisters came, two together -third's the charm, I guess, although does it count here?- with their pretty, slightly mournfully coloured lace parapluie opened. They land farther away then their sister, did a few graceful rolly-pollies before stopping and turning to look at the lump on the ground. By then I have reached her, and time seems to stop
as I look at the Little Sister lying on the tall grass. Her head is bleeding,
but the dark blood seems oddly pretty, even though I've always thought that romanticising Death doesn't sit well in reality. But she did look rather like she was asleep, just with blood-soaked hair and thistles as her pillow and matress.

"Sounds like a sad story", I said to the Instructor, "What happened?", but then it was his turn to go.

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