The four month-named girls run hand in hand, through the withering wildflower field, and laugh deep, dark, booming laughs.
April, May, July, and August.
The four month-named girls do not remember what happened the night before, or what led them to this withering wildflower field, yet a sense of existentialism lingers over each of them, and what more is there to do with that feeling besides laugh a cynical laugh?
The run begins to slow, cramps begin to form, and energy drops. The four girls roll into the dry grass. Fallen flower petals coat their hair. A silence overtakes them, while each catches her breath.
Lying down in a perfect circle, each one begins to remember a part of the missing story that led them to this eerie field of existentialism, and in a matter of moments, light bulbs flick on in April, May, July and August’s minds.
April recalls the sugary, three-tiered, maraschino cherry and heavily frosted cake they ordered at the diner.
May remembers the clear, empty roads she drove the four of them through at the beginning of their road trip, in the orange light of the sunset.
July recollects the car running low on gas, the debating amongst the young girls, and finally deciding on pulling into a quiet campsite, where they’d spent the night.
August remembers a blurry morning, tainted with the smell of gasoline, and sweat from running, and her memory ends here, in the withering wildflower field.
Fragments of a story piece themselves together from the girls’ memories. No one speaks. No one addresses the fact that they have no idea where they are, or where their (recently discovered) spontaneous road trip has taken them.
All they can do is sit and stare into the sky as the sun fades yet again, and the night breeze brushes over them.
After what seems like hours, April clears her throat, turning her head to the right and reading a sign that says: “Hudsonville, the perfect small town”.
The girls sit up at April’s sudden movement. They look at her curiously.
“We are a long way from Los Angeles, I’ll tell you that,” she announces.
As the four girls, who had been silent for ages, abruptly begin to talk, August begins to drift as the other three share their memories. Their whispers go in one ear and out the other for her, like they always have.
She turns away from them and looks up at a bird flying down from the sky. She tracks it until suddenly it stops, perched on what appears to be a tombstone. August stands, and the other girls look at her with peculiar eyes and drained expressions.
August stands and walks over to the bird. As she gets closer, four tombstones come into view.
April, with her curly blue hair and wide eyes of curiosity, follows first. Then May, who wears a long patchwork dress she made herself, fiddles with her flea market rings as she trails along. Finally July, feeling almost as confused as the notes in the journal she always carries with her, follows.
Each girl makes her way to the tombstones that have suddenly appeared.
And each girl realizes the same terrifying, bone-rattling truth at the same time.
It is their names on the tombstones.
They are dead.
April, May, July, and August.
The four month-named girls do not remember what happened the night before, or what led them to this withering wildflower field, yet a sense of existentialism lingers over each of them, and what more is there to do with that feeling besides laugh a cynical laugh?
The run begins to slow, cramps begin to form, and energy drops. The four girls roll into the dry grass. Fallen flower petals coat their hair. A silence overtakes them, while each catches her breath.
Lying down in a perfect circle, each one begins to remember a part of the missing story that led them to this eerie field of existentialism, and in a matter of moments, light bulbs flick on in April, May, July and August’s minds.
April recalls the sugary, three-tiered, maraschino cherry and heavily frosted cake they ordered at the diner.
May remembers the clear, empty roads she drove the four of them through at the beginning of their road trip, in the orange light of the sunset.
July recollects the car running low on gas, the debating amongst the young girls, and finally deciding on pulling into a quiet campsite, where they’d spent the night.
August remembers a blurry morning, tainted with the smell of gasoline, and sweat from running, and her memory ends here, in the withering wildflower field.
Fragments of a story piece themselves together from the girls’ memories. No one speaks. No one addresses the fact that they have no idea where they are, or where their (recently discovered) spontaneous road trip has taken them.
All they can do is sit and stare into the sky as the sun fades yet again, and the night breeze brushes over them.
After what seems like hours, April clears her throat, turning her head to the right and reading a sign that says: “Hudsonville, the perfect small town”.
The girls sit up at April’s sudden movement. They look at her curiously.
“We are a long way from Los Angeles, I’ll tell you that,” she announces.
As the four girls, who had been silent for ages, abruptly begin to talk, August begins to drift as the other three share their memories. Their whispers go in one ear and out the other for her, like they always have.
She turns away from them and looks up at a bird flying down from the sky. She tracks it until suddenly it stops, perched on what appears to be a tombstone. August stands, and the other girls look at her with peculiar eyes and drained expressions.
August stands and walks over to the bird. As she gets closer, four tombstones come into view.
April, with her curly blue hair and wide eyes of curiosity, follows first. Then May, who wears a long patchwork dress she made herself, fiddles with her flea market rings as she trails along. Finally July, feeling almost as confused as the notes in the journal she always carries with her, follows.
Each girl makes her way to the tombstones that have suddenly appeared.
And each girl realizes the same terrifying, bone-rattling truth at the same time.
It is their names on the tombstones.
They are dead.