The Edge of the Bridge

The bridge is long, cold and drafty. It is dead in the midst of the night and alive at the break of day. It calls to me in a breeze like voice, taunting me "You won't stay , you won't jump. Why won't you jump,  jumping is good. YOU MUST JUMP!" I want ever so badly to obey the voice, the one that fills my head all day with wonderful, wonderful thoughts of the bridge. The bridge has a red wooden roof in the shape of a half octagon. The planks beneath my feet squeak and the voice begins again. I can see the willow tree on the bank ahead, but the bridge doesn't extend that far it stops a mere three feet short. If I jump I fall to my death. Below is a deep, bubbling brook with purple and gray rocks. It's a hard decision to make, one that won't be decided for me. I spread my arms apart like a dove does in a magicians hands, but this won't be magic of any sort. Quite desolate if I might say, possibly saddening to the happy ones. I took a step forward and bowed my head in slight disgrace. I took one deep breath and let all of the word collapse around me as I became a puppet forced to jump in to the liquid death of the brook. Life must end one way or another and that was the perfect way. I now lay under the willow tree I worked so hard to get to. And it's all ONCE UPON A NIGHTMARE!