shuttlecocks

Shuttlecocks. That was all poor Nancy could say at the end. They batted her around till she was cracked.

Shuttlecocks. They all run and run for her while she flies helplessly through the air. Arms extended- reaching, stretching, striving to touch her. But as soon as you've got to her, just when she's in your grasp, you knock her away again. Just one more slap in the face. Another broken promise. A freshly revealed lie. And she's flying again, confused as to her direction.

Shuttlecocks. How many more bruises can she take? This is the final stroke. Her thin shell breaks to reveal her empty interior. She falls to the grass, it catches her lightly, but stabs into her wound. It's okay, though; you've got a fresh birdie waiting in the wings. And there's always the one you batted up onto the roof last week. One more good breeze and she'll be back in the game.

Shuttlecocks. How long until I'm broken? I won't give a backstory. I wouldn't let you take the credit. I would just be broken. Broken, insane and free. Drawing murals on sheets of butcher paper. Everyone would call me a genius. They would pity me for not knowing how much my art was selling for. I would be so happy.