She sings her tale as lyrically as any opera. From the mountains, where breath is ice and air is thin, she skips an elaborate path, a trilling coloratura over rocks as worn as time. Distracted on her way by willowed inlets and the bel canto of romantic wallows where love is lost and found and lost again. Until the grand finale – that final leap into clouded oblivion – as her aria lifts higher than a falcon before she succumbs, her fate written, falling to a clash of cymbals and the crash of rapturous applause.
Dessicated, rather than dazzled. We are almost Anaesthetised by the unrelenting sun, Zigzagging through the blinds, with the Zeal of a missile, its burn Licking the air and hissing in our heads. Indifferent to our moans and pleads, ‘No doubt,’ it boasts, ’if I left you would soon Grizzle until my enigmatic return.’
There was a variation there, so slight you might have missed it. Tom had a fleck of brown in otherwise blue eyes. His twin’s eyes were pure blue. No fleck you see. It was Tom who was unreliable and, not wanting to sound too harsh, pretty useless. You wouldn’t trust him with your life’s savings that’s for sure. He was totally feckless. Whereas his twin was fleckless.
Silly piece of prose linked to Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt, which this week challenges us to write a piece of prose or poetry using the word ‘variation’ and using exactly 67 words.