I stepped into a brown metaphor. A drill past my future. Steep as the stairs to the mountain top. The fall was uneasy too. Never as comfortable as it would be in our childhoods. We fell voluntarily in those days. Crashing down the mountains. Creating melody.

But in growing up speed had been infused in our lives in unequal proportions. Slowness fell in her half. In the end, I'd have to wait for hours until the evening at the foot of the mountain with a bucket and a crown. It was invariably someone else that Jill would come tumbling after.

Labels: fall, fiction, flash fiction, love, mountain, parable, short story, speed, story, surreal