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All the muscles in her thighs protest as she ascends the last few steps and then, stops, panting hard. Before her, a doorway flooded with lemon-colored sunshine beckons. After fifty-six deep breaths to calm her over-taxed heart she steps through the door and walks to the railing. One hundred plus stories below her lie endless miles of urban sprawl softened by the silvery deceptiveness of air currents. She reaches into her purse and pulls out two objects: a worn 1942 wheat penny and a black Mont Blanc Mozart fountain pen. As she holds the penny in her right hand and the pen in her left, she carefully weighs the options, as well as the consequences of murder and myth-busting, and then, extends an arm over the railing and opens her hand to let go of the…
copyright 2008
Marie
Lecrivain |
