i know it's not the right thing but kinda i want to
i walk briskly home after classics class. we've been having what i think is called a strawberry spring here in ottawa. i might have made up that term, but i think not. i believe that there's a stephen king short story with that title.
"yeah." it muses, pausing. i can hear the internal wheels cranking. "the narrator tells the story, about his college and how people start dying during a sudden week of warm weather. mosty girls. mostly decapitations."
the wind hits me, pushing me simultaneously to the left and then back to the right. i grasp my skirt to keep from indecently flashing all those people around me. it suddenly feels damper, more sinister. like the end as opposed to the beginning.
"the narrator was the one who was killing them." it comes out of nowhere, and makes me jump.