Short story: In A Perfect World



The park was windy and desolate, as the dark grass struggled through deciduous muck and the trees rattled skeletally, their colourful autumn ballgowns discarded for a naked death. The water in the inlet mourned, clattering pebbles disconsolately and with an air of undisciplined wildness and abandon, howling with the cold breezes that billowed around our cold stone bench.

She and I sat in the gloom of twilight, barely seeing the shadows of each other, oblivious to detail. Her hair hung in front of her face, casting shadows on the imperfections of her crooked nose and pointed chin. Her hands rested on her knees, and her toes were slightly turned in. In the hand closest to me, she clutched a bright bauble, obstinately colourful to spite the sky and the twilight—a tiny perfect house, two tiny perfect people, a tiny perfect fence, green grass, red base, glittering rain. She gave the gaudy souvenir a shake, and watched intently as the glitter snow fell on the perfect scene.

Her eyes moved behind her hair, and I felt her looking at me. She tapped on the glass with a fingernail, as though trying to capture the attention of the tiny perfect people. She stroked the glass, cradling it in her hand. She held it out in front of her, and then flicked her wrist, sending the tiny perfect world into revolutions. Aeons passed. The bauble smashed onto the path, water and blood spilled, and the glitter shone amongst shards of glass.

It began to rain.

This is the result of a fifteen minute writing exercise. The only constrictions were the time limit and five randomly selected words from the dictionary. Today the words were: imperfect, gloom, souvenir, muck, and undisciplined.

Image courtesy of sj_harrison.