Forkanna and everybody else got knives and killed themselves because of the tragedy that was so sad. They cried and then they went "bop" with the guns. Boom. Blood splattered and landed on the ceilings.
The sun in the west settled into the clouds as the day came to a close. The horses ran across the field, galloping gayly in their splendor.
A child with a red balloon let it go into the air. It lingered for a few brief moments, beautifully, suspended near the clouds; and then, like all things innocent, it exploded. Pop.
Because everything that rises, must converge.
Forkanna's memory lived on. In the spirits of Elsa, as Elsa weeped holding the glass fork over her grave. She never got to say she loved her.
"I'll never forget you, Forkanna."
PS: Meet me on the Elsanna tinychat this friday at 7 P.M American eastern time for an author Q&A about this beautiful journey! (Requested in my inbox to do this).