Startled
Mary May went about her day, as any other, tending the chickens, slopping the hogs, stirring a pot a pork n beans, while whistling a tune pushed through the Tyson cleft. But on that windless Tuesday in March, the third day of the week would end differently than all her other Tuesday's. The coded knock on the door triggered her rigid, “Mac is back.”
Ah—choo!
The petals gently swayed in the air, before landing by a statue. If one looked carefully at the figure, and didn’t blink, you’d notice that its nose would twitch. He had always been allergic to jacaranda petals, even now as a stone figure he was quite surprised that they still affected his sinuses.
#Ah—choo!
Collapsed in the middle of the carraige, screaming in pain, drawing the alarmed attention of even the most apathetic Piccadilly line commuters, that's how she started her week. Even whilst she was drowning in pain one thought managed to surface in mer mind: this must be how I die.
That was when a pair of wings tore through the skin of her back.
