Perfection

The rain had ended and he had gone out the edge of the field. The blood on the rock fascinated him. He liked how it nestled into the crevices of the stone in such perfection.

The dried blood on the outer edges of the pool capturing images of the horrid expressions of the beast now slain.

He, the victor of the duel, the princess now to claim to be his blushing bride. He wondered why girls blush.

In reality it wasn’t blood at all but simply the remnants of the rusting iron content of the stone. He was a fanciful boy.

© Zora Zebic 2016

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