Wednesday, 14 December 2011

The Puddle (Short Story)

(Note: Another short story task for uni we had to write about a body of water and associate it with a death. Every couple of minutes we would be stopped and have to continue from a different point of view. I have decided not to continue it.)

The puddle had always been there. That was because a sort of dent in the ground had always been there and whenever it rained it would create that same puddle, quickly and fully, until it filled almost an entire section of the area, so that people who usually cut across to get from the shops to home would have to walk around. Pigeons would regularly land to bathe and drink there.

I sit a short way from the puddle, just looking, feeling no need to call for anyone or to return home. I just sit on the pavement at the point where it gives way to gravel and watch. The street light casts an orange glow over wet ground, becoming a darker shade as it edges closer to the puddle. A reddish, familiar shade, but one that I have not seen here in years, and I definitely have never seen something like this.

The girl has been sitting on the pavement for ten minutes, staring at the body. She hadn't seen the attack but could tell that it must have been bad. Horrible though it was, she did not feel sick, rather she was fascinated by the lifeless form. Slowly, she stood and walked toward it, kneeling as she reached the puddle, the hem of hr long cloak soaking in water and blood, as she reached out a hand to place against the dead man's shoulder. If anyone had walked by she would have said she was checking for a pulse, but in truth she was curious about the feel of a corpse.

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