Gretta K

The sharp horizon separates land from water. Without it, everything would be the sea. Foam at the tip of a wave bubbles up like a volcanic eruption engulfing everyone who tries to get in its way.

Sitting in the same classroom for the fourth time this week. What could be more boring? Today is a fascinating lecture on who knows what.

One step,

The creak of the door as I step outside.

Another step,

The crunch of the gravel under my sole,

The whistle of a bird talking to his friend.

Another step,

The pattern of a duck’s tracks,

Kaylee. My best friend in the whole world. I can't think of a time when I didn't see her by my side. To everyone else, she's imaginary, to me she's as real as it gets. Everything about her is better than I could imagine.

The wind whistles. It’s the flute.

The birds sing. It sounds like a choir.

The branches rustle. It’s the tambourine.

The pitter patter of the squirrels. They are the drums.

The rooster calls. It’s the trumpet.