Our Lady

for this narrative, X is female. And no, she’s not human.
The day knows how to be nothing else than vain and narcissistic and to totally consume herself wholly in this occupation…

It’s a random Saturday. Shadows are sharp and half the length of their proprietors- living or not-bearing testimony to the bright midday. But today, the day is unnaturally consistent and you can notice excited children playing about in this severe brightness under the unperturbed gazes of their mothers because the heat is surprisingly not consistent with the white sun.

The day had started fresh. A big orange ball feebly rose behind thin grey clouds that divide it into two almost equal parts. And the bright azure sky flows endless without effort behind it. It is almost as if it rained the previous day but it didn't. At all events, it’s one of those days when people purr out words of endearments in excited voices;

“oh! isn’t the day just beautiful”

“the day is just splendid”

“wish it could stay this way all year round”

But just now in this cool brightness an episode is in motion, the culmination might be tragic or not. The day has quite fore knowledge of this but the calm and ego naturally attached to her level of vainness makes humans unworthy of any foreshadowing(today might be last for humans and the day will rise with usual beautiful indifference still) and so this particular episode happened-along with other episodes that are not related to this story but might have needed some boding too- as they happened;

Those children on the street have now included football in their fun so a little girl kicked it. The ball is one of those types of ball with no balls; it follows neither the will of kicker nor it’s own will but surrenders entirely to the whims of the wind, it’s that light and so just flew recklessly, to the amazement and terror of the children over a low fence to hit a young man in the curve at the back of the head. The young man was buried in a heated conversation with another man when he felt the painless thud. He simply picked the ball and tossed it back over the fence to the anxious children to quickly continue his conversation. But he couldn't. He never did.

His lone audience made an observation “ see, you just became a victim of circumstances you had absolutely nothing to do with” without allowing his confused friend a reply, he continued “ in place of the light ball, it could have been a loot hurled at us, say police are at the heels of robbers encumbered by the weight of the loot or a stray bullet”.

And indeed it was a stray bullet not a balless ball as earlier indicated. What does it matter the object of illustration used anyway? Our friend, without any active involvement in a process, became the end point of the same process.

He died, maybe, but we cant confirm this and his survival or not is rather unnecessary because literati know too well than to detail a secondary character.

Presently looking into the horizon, the gold of the setting sun is now one and buried within boulders of dark clouds to become a glowing ember and from this core, weak golden orange rays of sunlight fan out, like chicken feet, over the vast twilight sky flecked in places by stagnant white and grey clouds. This is how the day is robed now; a sight to behold, a thing of beauty, slaying, unbothered and her huge flowing silk of canvass in the least ruffled by the event we just witnessed!

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