Jack and Jill
Knowing it would be an acerbic pill to swallow, Jill looked out from the aerie, her halberd in hand in preparation for the stentorian opera that would announce the arrival of the golden eagle. They were sacred birds that brought rain, but only an eaglet could end the drought. Jack lay dead at the bottom of the ravine, his head split in two from his fall. A pail of the sacred water they came to fetch that day, and Jill intended to complete the task. With three of four eggs broken, and their water spilled, she knew exactly what she had to do. She swung down on the last egg hard enough to send a crack racing across the surface. The alarm sounded, Jill spun the halberd over her head as the mother eagle swooped in. Feathers flew, blood spewed, and down the eagle fell, a pail of water secured.
And I am an overachiever.
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