I plucked the white sphere off the sidewalk and almost dropped it again. An eye stared up from my hand. It wasn’t real, just glass, cool and dry. The crowd bustled, oblivious, around me. Then a girl was in front of me. Waist high in a pretty white dress. Her eyes were downcast, long lashes resting on rosy cheeks. Her hand gripped my wrist. “Is this yours?” I asked.
She tilted her head up, feathery lashes rising over empty sockets. “No,” she said, her other clawed hand on my cheek. “It’s yours.”
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The Written World 