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Abandoned-Writing Prompt 1 Isabella's footsteps echo through the abandoned streets, desolate buildings leaning in above her. The cold night air pushes its way into her lungs, freezing her from the inside. Bone aching weariness gnaws at her, but still she pushes on. Somewhere in this abandoned city, someone has to be alive. She clings to that hope fiercely, because without it succumbing to the darkness flickering at the edge of her consciousness would be all too easy. It has been nearly a week since they left, everyone she knew, everyone she loves, everyone she hates. The memories of their flight still flicker before her eyes, obstructing her view of the present.
She stood on the street corner, sidling as close as she dared to a vendor to steal an apple. As her fingers closed around the red sphere the man turned to her, immediately growing red in the face and opening his mouth to say something. After a moment's thought, however, he stopped. "Take all you want, they'll bec
This Was Not Part Of The PlanHis feet slip quietly over the wood floor, hugging close to the wall to avoid any creaky floorboards. The room is dark, lit only by the city lights outside. Far below, twenty stories to be exact, cars rush past, always on a hurry to somewhere, even at this late hour. He surveys the room once more, checking for some sign of another person, an alarm, anything to give away his presence. No good. With the room clear he slips quietly over to the dresser, pulling drawers open quickly, supporting the underside so that it won't make a noise as he pulls it out. A quick rifling through reveals that this drawer contains nothing but socks and underwear. Very nice, frilly underwear. He's only human, so he can't help but stop to appreciate the high-class quality. No, focus. He needs to get in and out as quickly as possible.
The next drawer reveals nothing but folded jeans, and so it continues. Only clothing in this area. He continues on, pawing through the closet and bookshelves before reachin
Forging a New Fortune Her footsteps wound among the assorted collection of carts and horses, trying not to see what was going on around her. The little caravan stunk of poverty and pride, its people traveling entertainers, scraping whatever living they could get. Despite the desperate conditions the atmosphere was thriving, pulsing with life of a darker and more exciting sort than she encountered in her day to day life. Music blared, a combination of drums and a string instrument of some sort floated past her ears, accompanied by singing and harsh laughter. The young woman retreated further inside her thick velvet cloak, the hood shadowing a determined pale face framed in thick dark hair. She makes her way to a small cart on the edge of the gypsy's encampment, banging on the door with a closed fist.
"Lady Gynehva?" She calls out, her voice quiet. She clears her throat and tries again, "Lady Gynehva!" She calls, louder this time.
"Yes?" A tiny slat at the
Elementary, My Dear Sister."Come on Jenny!" Two young girls make their way down the street, Alice trailing reluctantly behind Jenny. The suburban street lays quiet and peaceful, it's the time of day when most people are either at work or napping, unless you happen to be a bored child on the last week of summer vacation. In the case of these two bored children, the thing to do on a quiet afternoon is find an adventure. Jenny, the younger of the two sisters, has borrowed a trench coat and magnifying glass from her father for the occasion. Her curly brown hair is held in place by a rubber band, her nose pressed within an inch of the magnifying glass, inspecting the sidewalk as she shuffles along.
Alice, the reluctant sidekick, follows along behind Jenny, her blond hair done in a slightly more stylish bob, a pad and pen clenched in one hand, a cell phone in the back pocket of her mini shorts. The last thing a thirteen year old girl wants to do is spend the day babysitting her kid sister, but somehow that's what Alic
Wilted He crouches down at the edge of the clearing, tracking his pray with a cold, calculating gaze. He can't afford to think of her as human, can't afford to think of her as just another victim, and can't afford to think of her as another life stolen. If he's going to make it through this next kill, then he can't focus on the emotion or the guilt. He can only focus on the deed. No, he has to focus on what he's saving.
It has been several long months since Anastasia fell ill, long months toiling in service of the master. They've spent the time borrowed from the Master searching for answers he's sure will never come. Thinking about the illness freezes him where he stands, emotion rolls over him flipping him over on his back in an effort to prevent tears from cascading down his face. He can still remember the day it happens like it was yesterday.
Liam was on his way home from work, heavy boots crunching on the pebble walk leading up to the door of the little co
A drink leads to a kiss... Tim enters the bar, relaxing as he feels the atmosphere wash over him. The music pounds loudly in his ears, too loud even to hear himself think. The lights flash neon; pink, yellow and orange, in time with the song. Bodies throng the dance floor, nameless faces, twisting in on each other. The air smells of smoke and sweat, alcohol and perfume. It's hard to take himself seriously, hard to worry about life outside this little world. He leans over the counter, grinning at the man on the other side of the bar, "One please." The bar tender doesn't look up, just slides him his drink. Tim grabs the beer, popping the beer and taking a swig, surveying the crowd with satisfaction. These are his people, the lost souls looking for a home, the alcoholics looking for a fix, the innocent people just looking for fun. He takes another drink and feels a brief flutter of guilt in his stomach. It occurs to him that his girlfriend left him only the day before, perhaps a small
Teenage TaoismGiving birth is the closest I’d ever felt to dying.
Before that, my near death experiences had consisted only of my silent announcement of pregnancy—silent, being that my social media accounts were all deleted almost simultaneously and I never returned to school in the fall, saying without really saying that I had caught the malicious disease of “teenage pregnancy”. I’m sure the whisper spread in the hallways like the Bubonic Plague. That September, sitting at home on what would have been the first day of my senior year, I imagined friends I’d never talk to again saying “she was only seventeen, and so full of life!” at my absence in the cafeteria tables, as if they were attending my funeral instead of talking about me behind my back.
"Full of life," I had snorted then, folding a never ending stream of what had once been my own baby clothes. "Literally."
I walked around like a zombie for the months of my pregnancy, deciding t
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