Michael gazed dreamily outside his dining room window, his mind a blank hole peppered with chicken and booze. The garden stretched for what seemed like miles and miles, broken up by a fir archway. As another brain cell stopped and sparked, Michaels gaze focused on a mass of white. Squinting, he looked to the side slightly, spotting the beautiful blossom tree. “Ah” he thought “The blossom from next door as blown onto the top of the holly bush, how very picturesque”. He slowly lifted his weary legs and floated to the back door, grabbing his Polaroid off the table by the door. As he strolled through the crisp and wet September grass, he once again focused his gaze on the holly, ready to admire this sight of blossom icing its top. As Michael got closer, however, the tranquil sight began to change. Is blossom furry? He wondered, speeding up slightly as he got nearer. Finally his hung-over eyes cleared and he examined the holly. Upon the top of the bush lay dozens of soft white feathers and in the centre a dead dove. Michael became aware of something attached to his belt; he looked down and saw the pellet gun and looked up and saw the pellet. In the dove’s side.
“Hmm” Michael pondered, “I must have drunk more than I thought”.
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