Writer of Art
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Snow
This is Winter. A barren landscape of death and hibernation. Nights of cold and days of frost. But when it snows,
flurries of perfect ice crystals ballet-dance from heaven to earth, like a message of love from God. I do not know of a
single person who can't look at the falling message and smile, at least. Winter is truly a wonderland. No, scratch that,
Winter is a land of wonder. For when it snows, you feel that it has to be magic. Some way, some how it is magical.
Whether it be magic dust from far-away stars, peace frozen in ice, or just water from the clouds, it has to be magic.
Well, it is...in a way. Snow was made by God, the most High God, who made this universe and this special planet and
that magical little thing called snow. He made the rain and the sleet and the sun and the moon and the night and the
clouds and-
Well, you get the point.
God made all these things just so we could be happy. And I, for one, am very happy.
Of course, it's just snow.
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My Room
Take a walk to my room. You can hear the beat as people walk by. It resonates throughout the house. Three beds for
three girls: one in the top-left for the silent older sister, one in the bottom-right for the social, handicapped
cousin, and one underneath the cousin's for the hidden-secret younger sister. In the bottom-left corner, you see a door
to a pink bathroom that they all share. Clutter is in drawers, by a computer, everywhere. It is spread throughout the
room, but not overpowering, sort of silent and neat. Strange for clutter, it seems. Though not all clutter is loud and
eye-catching. Some clutter is completely silent and almost invisible. You could go for years without seeing it, without
cleaning it up. It seems as if the clutter is perfect for the room. A place for everything and everything in its place.
Neatness seems wrong.
The closet engulfs almost the whole right side of the small room. A large, white dressers sits perfectly in the
middle. A small, clear plastic dresser sits on top. Clothing is stuffed into every possible crevice. The older sister's
is on the left, hanging low over the giant pile of 3 people's shoes. The younger sister is on the far right, with an
open space to signal the beginning of the cousin's clothes. She has the most. They lean to the left, pushing the
dresser with all their might. The older sister's push to the right. It seems as if the cousin's are winning. You root
for the older sister's, but they do not move. They are left to lean as you walk away.
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The Snow Runner
Perfect white crystals of snow are falling. The gray cloud of a sky blocks most of the sun, casting a blue haze upon
the world. Snowflakes ballet-dance to the ground. The air is crisp with cold, but I don't care.
The rhythmic beat of my shoes as they slap the stone-cold ground blends seamlessly with the beat of my heart. Nothing
exists but me and the concrete. Time has stopped. I'll just run forever. I'll never have to go to school or go home.
I'll never need, never stop, never want. My memories will disappear. They'll fade into nothingness. And I'll just keep
on running.
No one and nothing can stop me. I am Andrea Grace Nicole. And I will never stop. Because if I stop, my memories will
come back and I'll remember everything. The funeral. The crash. Everything.
So I'll never stop.
Never.
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