Monday, 18 May 2009
08:35:40 PM (GMT)
Eyooo. A kick start on my literature, no? I don't want negative comments, Kthx. C:
-The dead walked the streets today, sickly pale skin and no heartbeat. The ground
is covered with snow, and the graveyards are thriving.
I stop to watch the lingering souls, and feel guilty to be alive. I look down to my
feet. They're all gone, emotionally that's all I know. The cars are there, but no one
Everyone stares at the bodies stagger down the frozen street-top, and some women cry.
I myself realize that I am in tears. They don't look dead at all. Just their eyes.
White. Empty, soul less. Full of agony and anger. I stumble over myself for a moment,
and turn away. I can't stand looking at them. They're horrid.
They're people. Living people. The cliche's, The betters.
I dust the snowflakes from my hair and push open the door to the coffee shop. The
warm air reaches to embrace my shaken body, and I emphase myself into a seat. The
shop is full of them too.
You younger readers may not understand so clearly. The girl portrayed here as an
outcast, as many of us are familiar with. She feels that the world around her has
died, and she doesn't want to see it anymore. In a way she wants to be dead, but
doesn't want to die, So she tries to tell herself she isn't bad, everyone else is