Write something which has to do with: the shoe.
It is very, very windy outside right now. I'm finding it very distracting.
Grey snowflakes flutter to the ground as I stand, hands thrust deep into coat pockets, and study the scene before me. The crowd of onlookers has dispersed, though a few lookie-loos needed some extra encouragement from the boys to do so.
I've never understood those types. There must be something wrong with them, some wire left loose in their brains by the great designer in the sky. Why would anyone want to be here unless they absolutely had to be?
I sure as hell don't want to be standing here, but it's my job. So... I guess I should quit, huh?
The fires have been extinguished, leaving the charred skeletons of the two cars in plain sight. I liked it better when there was still a bit of smoke in the air. Left some of the details to the imagination. Since I've never had a very good one, that's definitely a better option than reality in this case.
Ambulances have ferried the survivors to the hospital. I don't think they'll be staying long, unless someone decides to deliver them and their families a miracle. Can't see that happening. If that somebody wanted them alive so badly they would have kept them away from this intersection today.
I look up for the tenth or eleventh time since I got here. Grim fascination I guess. I can't seem to stop myself from imagining the flight, how it must have tumbled and twisted and turned as it soared through the air before landing in that tree branch. Bringing my gaze back to street level I watch the boys moving around the street and sidewalks, marking evidence and taking pictures.
I wonder which poor bastard will get sent up there to fetch that shoe.