black chevrolet

This has been haunting my imagination for the last two days. I have to admit it is one of the most evocative short bits I've ever seen written by any of my friends:

"It was a still night in winter near the limits of a small town in northern Italy, during the later part of the Second World War. A scrawny adolescent girl was sitting in the snow by herself, leaning casually against a battered brick wall. A sleepy, thoughtful look hung about her half-closed, dark-rimmed eyes. Bundled close about her small body, held in place by obviously chilled fingers was a worn-out wool overcoat, all rumpled and smudged with age. She wore a tired but faintly contented smile and looked rather comfortable despite the harsh night air.

"'S cold," I commented, lighting a Camel. I wondered if she spoke English. She looked vaguely Slavic. She didn't answer right away and I took my first drag.

"Do you have a place to get warm?" I asked. I bent toward her, to hear her reply.

There were holes in her coat. Little tears or rips here and there, filled with rich red-brown syrup, frozen to ice in the bitter night.

Slipping from my fingers, my cigarette went out in the snow beside me as I gently touched her face. She was dead.

Toque (crashboxing.blogspot.com)

Original post may be found here