It was quite impressive just how depressing my life has gotten lately. It felt like the small box that passed for my studio flat was trapping me every morning when I woke up, the dull grey light of an english spring softly filling the room.
I stood sulking on my roof, a half smoked cigarette drooping from my mouth. Everyday I smoked here, always trying to work up the courage to finally throw myself off, never getting within an arms reach of the precipice.
That day was different though, I had finally managed to shuffle my bare feet till my toes hung over the edge. The wing threatened to pull me off the edge, but I managed to resist it. It was successful in flinging the remains of my cigarette through the sky.
I watched it spin away, the embers breaking apart and dancing on the breeze. In that second I wanted to chase it. I really felt like drifting off the roof after it. I began to take that step. My foot hovered over nothingness...and then it started to rain.
Every drop kissed my skin, every shining tear smacked the ground, the sound of thousands of tiny footsteps. The rain marched through the city, washing away it's grime and gloom. The plague of people was cleansed from the streets as they rushed to avoid the horror that was water falling from the sky, and as the rain caressed my naked torso I fell backwards onto the hard gravel of the roof, and started laughing.
I'm not really sure what I was trying to do with this story, I just found it on my old blog when I was migrating my creative writing content. It is obviously quite short, being only 5 paragraphs long and really not having a direction or meaning, I think I was just experimenting with the concept of micro-stories.
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