FairWriter

I stand on a precipice. I scrutinize the valley lingering beneath. I see a creek, like a snake, slithering through a gathering of foliage. This valley is a mixture of mud and seeds that are broken. The wind sneaks up behind me, a gentle breeze. Why this worthless and fragile breeze, when I could have violence? I hear the flapping of the skirt of my dress. It sounds like a violin played by an armature. I look at the horizon and there is no sun. The sky is melancholy and the air smells of cinnamon. Rather, it smells like autumn leaves and reminds me of cinnamon. I step closer to the edge to drink in sudden adrenaline. The wind builds, matching my daring move. The wind carries a hum of voices. They are too calm to be distinguished. I wait for them to exchange discretion for boldness. I strain to make sense of: “She should jump.” “She might enjoy the plummet.” “She shouldn’t. It could kill her.” “We will catch her.” I step off the edge to fly with gravity. This is not suicide; it