"Bright are the stars that shine, dark is the ski-ii-y..."
The lovely, melodic voice seemed to hang in the air as the motorcycle sped down the country road.
The watercolour brush of the heavens had painted the sky a deep, bright cerulean with no snowy clouds streaking it. The rich, lush green of the grasses and trees contrasted starkly with the open blueness, but did not mar it. A gentle breeze caressed the singer's ears and warmly kissed his face as the sun sent playful sunbeams dancing across his clear brown eyes edged with a softer green than the brilliant verdant of the English countryside. As he stepped on the gas, the wind picked up a little and ran its kind fingers through his dark brown hair. The corners of his mouth rose in a dreamy smile and pure content radiated from his handsome face.
It only took a few seconds for all of this to change.
The motorcycle skidded suddenly. He could feel himself slipping. Vainly, he tried to keep himself up, balanced, but he hit the ground anyway. His body smacked the pavement and he rolled for a few moments as the motorcycle swerved, on its side, to a stop on a grassy patch on the side of the road and dragged him along with it. The smile was gone before it even blossomed and was replaced by a look of pure terror. His eyes were closed, his face an ashen gray. Something dark stained his clothes and streaked his beautiful face. It was warm, vermilion, crimson, red-every shade of red-and it dripped slowly from an unconscious young man; slowly draining the life out of this youth named Paul McCartney.
Copyright 1999: Lissa Michelle Supler/Strawberry Sunshine
This is original copyrighted material and may not be reproduced in any form without the permission of the author. Permission may be obtained by e-mail.
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