bmansky
The playground was filled with the sound of laughter, scraps of conversations floating across the asphalt and through my consciousness. "Push!" said a small child. But no one came. "Push, push, push!"
Turning to face me, I saw a look in his eyes that was unsettling. His suit, his freshly pressed shirt, his impeccably secured tie couldn't hide it. This wasn't some petty businessman. This was a demon. Or maybe, just maybe--the Devil himself.
He paced the deserted streets, a tear slipping down his cheek, carving a clean, wet streak across the dust and grime that had accumulated. "Gone," he thought to himself. "All gone." The tear hung off his chin, then reluctantly let go. The sound of the splash as it hit the dirt road resounded through the silent space.
The three women sat together, the only sound the clicking of their needles. Click. Click. The brilliant yarn formed shimmering sheaths of cloth, until it was time. Then, each brought out a pair of scissors. Without a word, they began to cut. Snip. Snip. The end of life, somewhere.