Droplets peak at the gravel. Clouds discolored in a black and white movie. Blue and red lights reflect against the tears of the weeping clouds. Sirens that wailed were heard from miles away. A tall skyscraper almost pierces the colorless clouds. That particular scent of water radiates from the droplets.
I wonder. . .would things have turned out this way? Would such a tragedy have been remembered had it gone differently? Printed inside history books and shown to students across the globe. Nine-eleven. World War three. A day remembered as such. A tragedy. The clouds weep for the poor souls. I could say the curtains are coming to a close, but this is only the beginning. The beginning of something that you never saw. The tragedy. The dark part of this story. If you’re a weird sucker for endings,. . .you’re in luck. A fairy tale of a game of musical chairs. One that turns the tide of time for all eternity.
Indistinct ticks echo in the room shadowed in midnight blue. A golden pocket watch peeked from the shadows, reflecting off the moon peering through the limpid window. It’s finally time. To tell the story of a untold fairy tale.