Tuesday, January 1, 2008

It's Not Murder, I Swear

By Sarah Sharwood

The wind whips her hair across her face, harsh and cold; but she is accustomed to that. Her toes feel the air before them, the emptiness where ground should be: the cliff-face stretching down forever, the ocean stretching on forever, the sky stretching up forever. Little push from behind and she falls – she flies.

No comments: