Torn...

The slash of red, of green, of yellow, and the pale blue sky, shuddering, paling at the sight, the feeling of it. The shrill laughter, the astonished, wondered cries, the awe, the glee, the excitement, floating in the air, creating a web, beautiful. The children, small little legs, carrying big, important heads on them. They held the strings, a roller in the chubby hands, staring up at infinity. The string was endless, leading to an unknown end, a known end. An end of brilliance, of angles, creativity, and a dazzling harlequin. It moved in the air, jerky, yet fluid. A gust of wind, a pulling of the strings. The movements of a ballerina. The sharp movements of a martial artist. There it was, in all its glory, and all its importance. They joy, the brilliance. Then they came. The letter of victory, stark and white. A formation, flapping its wings, moving ahead. The slashes of red, of green, of yellow, and the sharp white formation, laughing at having torn it to pieces. The shrill laughter, the astonished, wondered cries, the awe, the glee, and the white, creating the letter, the formation. The children, their small little legs, now supporting big thunder on it, with the roars, the anger, the dismay and the misery. Their small little legs, now supporting big fat tears. Their chubby little hands, the roller dropped. The colours…falling. Slowly swooping down, not to catch the prey, but after having been caught. Up there, the pale blue sky, shuddering, paling at the sight, the feeling of it.