The Ballad of The Little Prince: short fiction

The Ballad of The Little Prince

His body hung their, dangling from the rafters; dead weight, quite literally. Hours later, when his mother would find him, his skin would be ashen and cold; but now it still had some colour in it. As if he was still alive, as if this little prince still had shooting stars to ride; but he wasn’t. This little prince, this prince named Nicky Powell was dead and gone. He was gone in a flash, gone how he came, in bluster and then a calm. His life had been short but powerful, like a late August hailstorm that no one forgets. Tall tales will be told; hyperbole will be left in its wake. People will talk of hail the size of melons and be certain theirs memories are true. But for one woman, his mother, these stories will be nothing more than what they are; justifications and misrememberences of her baby boy, gone too soon, gone for good.