Elle pleut

[qdesjardin]

The wet drops strike Quon's cheeks. Amidst the schoolyard, devoid of others and blooming with a yearning energy, she glances at the puddles on the ground rippling like ribbons with every raindrop. She can feel the same rippling on her skin, an electric tingle. Almost as if somewhere within her, something verges on bursting out towards the grey clouds.

She walks towards the field of crisp green, footsteps on the grass - trodded by the pointed soles of soccer teams.

At the end where the fence borders and hedges waver with the breeze, a shed. A lovely shed by the white goalposts. A shed, its wooden frame withered by the elements, and its surface like an old woman's skin having encountered many tales in a lifetime, yet with no voice to share with anyone.

Its door remains closed, the lock is rusted beyond use. Quon almost cuts herself unhinging the lock from the braceholder, then she strains her arms opening the shed.

There are rooks and balls on the shelves, and a spotlight highlighting a little red box at the top.

Quon tiptoes, her fingers finding the box's edges, tingling - the box feels almost alive, like cupping a slithering frog in your hands. It is adorned with golden tinsel in an elegant manner. Inside it is a key, glistening like a solidified river, tempting to drink if it can be poured into a glass.

Yet she doesn't drink it. She unbuckles her belt and pulls up her dress - up above her breasts, revealing the keyhole over her heart. Pointing the key, she slides its blade into her void and she gasps; her inner self climaxes from the fulfillment and holy light dazzles out her body, out the shed into the planes of rain and air.