The Madness of King Gary
The familiar crunch, crunch, crunch of snowy footfalls was punctuated by a sharper crack. Something broken lay beneath surface of last night's sheet of white, and my curiosity was piqued. I paused but a moment to consider before plunging my gloved hands into the fresh carpet beneath my feet. Thrusting away, brushing away, my fingers initially encountered little resistance. I finally touched something more substantial. Prying away a little shape, slightly larger than my offending foot, it came free from the packed snow. As gently as a monster is able, I brushed away the obscuring accumulation until the form was revealed. It was a child's doll. What manner of little lass would leave a presumably beloved friend upon the ground in such a state? I tried not to speculate. I failed miserably. It was obviously once a fine representation, a miniature lady, though now she played a queen in her tattered, weather-beaten dress. Her hair still curled in places upon a head tilted askew, lolling precariously on a broken, gaping neck. I had become the unintentional guillotineer; a French revolutionary in this winter of my discontent. Alas, my poor foot made for a poor blade. A second's shame swept through me at the lack of a swift execution. The silliness of the thought soon followed, yet I resolved to attend to the wounds I had inflicted. Clutching the doll to me as tenderly as a man might do in conscience, I continued on my way.
TO BE CONTINUED
TO BE CONTINUED