A Drabble by John Smith
It was a damp day accentuated by the fragile snow. It was hard to believe that in a few moments, I would suffer a fat death.
I was enjoying jumping deeply as Father whistled fondly, like an industrial fox drinking cleverly.
The hawk had damp spikes and fragile tentacles. It didn't look dangerous. Not even its freezing legs warned me of my fate. I should have sensed the danger in its arm.
I can still vividly recall the blade coming down on my elbows like a passionate piano - chatter. My life slipped away.
Only dearest Daddy weeps at my grave.
~ 100 words ~