Nemmi
"Who knows where Jacob is?" he looked down disapprovingly at the small crowd of school children.
No one spoke a word.
It was not that they didn't know, it was that they knew all too well.
"Well? Anyone? Speak up, speak up!" he reiterated in his cowboy bass.
Not one person spoke.
But one little girl shyly pointed out the window.
And every head watched as poor little Jacob tumbled from the roof, down down, onto the unforgiving asphalt.
Scattered around her in sad little heaps were those tiny, innocent-looking devils. They mocked me as they dripped over the side of the table, an inconsistent drum beat. She looked at me through eyes like windows, but no one was home. The small little pills, scattered around the floor, almost formed a word, but no one could read it.
Because the seasons change, so do our memories. Our thoughts, lives and entities change more than we'd like to admit, so each season represents the cleansing of our lives and the rebirth of something new. Each season is unique in its own way; summer is reminiscent of puppy blues and white dresses, while winter, though also fond is white, does so in a crisp, yet unforgivable manner, a model on a runway staring condescendingly down the catwalk at her assembled audience of cameras, clipboards and nodding heads. However, seasons do not always conform to social norms, for example, this year the weather seems hell bent on doing whatever it wants. It has not snowed consistently yet and we're nearing the final countdown to Christmas.