Pathos puddles in young dimples when she raises the gun, a teardrop reflected in Grandfather’s blurry eye. She ***** the hammer, aligns the bullet on the stroke of sepia midnight.
Misery, reflected in her tears when he looks up, ears ringing before she squeezes the trigger; wags his tail to Grandfather’s rhythmic chime, licks his tumour-filled belly one more time.
Like a bandit cloaked in purple and ochre camouflage, a stale breeze slips through the window and thieves; the last glimmer of hope kidnapped and forced into mushroom cloud getaway cars.
Beyond empty stables, prairie grass whispers last rites, dry and silver solemn sympathy-words that fill the room, watercolours of life reflected in death, as it is, in bloom.