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Krys
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Dec 16, 2011 10:18PM
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Beyond the alley, there was the light of the City, of the pretty little houses with the pretty little people and their dreamy eyes. It was like something out of a dream, or at least, that’s what it seemed like sometimes. He fell to its charm far, far too often; he was wooed by the simplicity, by the endless promise of it. It was a City where men went to lose their souls, which was more then everything, wasn’t it? Cliché as it was, this was the city of the damned.
It was silent in a way a city should not be. It was unnatural, strange. He wanted to cry out against it, but he did not. He leaned against the wall, and tapped a cigarette out of a package. He went to light it, but paused. There was a scrape of boot against the rough concrete.
He glanced up, annoyed—this was his stolen moment, in which it was easy to think, and easy to form the thoughts he needed to form. He had to think. He needed to be planning… already; the peace of the city seemed unsettled, as though it could break at any moment.
His annoyance was overshadowed by surprise. “You aren’t allowed to come here.”
The angel smiled, stepping out of the shadows. It was like a scene from one of those stereotypical detective shows he had watched before, one where they always caught the criminal. He began to feel unease.
“Ah, but Adam, I’m the man you’re meeting here.”
He felt himself stiffen, involuntarily. He had been expecting someone else, someone older. The fact that Adam’s name had just came from the stranger’s mouth disconcerted him, made him nervous. He lit the cigarette with a shaking hand, feeling apprehension curl inside him, snakelike, writhing.
“I… expected someone older. You shouldn’t be out after curfew,” his voice was sarcastic, lashing. It was Adam’s only defense, the only way to hide his trepidation.
“I don’t have a curfew.”
Adam examined the stranger for the first time; looked at his face, at the clean cut of it, at his dark hair. There was something in his eyes that seemed inhuman, but perhaps that could because of the wings stretching out at his shoulders. Perhaps Adam wasn’t as unnerved by the “angels” as some people were, but this one in particular… this one he did not like, and he could not understand why he was meeting him here, of all places, in the back alleyway of where he worked.
“Then what is it you want to give me?” Adam said, rushing, feeling his voice crack. The boy’s face—for he was certainly only a boy, no older then eighteen. His shoulders that were broad enough, but were due to broaden more and a frame that seemed only to be whipcord muscle. He seemed bored, leaning against the alleyway wall, looking curiously at Adam with eyes that seemed black, black, black…
“A message,” the stranger said in a calm, steady voice.
Adam stepped closer to him, reached out a hand, “Well then, here, give it to me. I’ve got to go soon.”
The boy smile, but there was no humor in the expression, there was no comfort to be found there. It was the grin of a wolf. “I’m afraid you don’t understand. I’m not giving you a message. You are the message.”
It was then, at that moment, that Adam realized he was the lamb.
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I should post my, like, five different beginnings for Unraveling. And see what people think.
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I love the feeling this gives off. The images, the setting, the essence of the story. Aaah, it's lovely. The ending is a bit confusing though, although I'm sure it starts to make sense if you keep reading.
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On film: the glorious sound of thunder rumbling and the lightning slicing into the pure grey sky as the trees are thrown back and forth in the wind.
Missing: the water, just draining from the clouds.
I’m not sure what I do to make it work, but all of a sudden I’m capturing the rain. That’s when I notice her. Unlike me, she isn’t trying desperately to stay dry. She’s just standing in the middle of the street, her arms stretched out and her face tilted up toward the sky. I focus my camera on her and zoom in on her face.
On film: the way the raindrops are splashing on her perfect skin and the water caught in her long, dark eyelashes and her curly black hair, soaked, dripping down her bright green tank top which is sticking to her body.
Missing: my red face and fumbling hands as I zoom out quickly and the way I almost mentally undress her
I feel like a total creep, but I can’t seem to point my camera away and then she starts to twirl and I’m entranced. The angle I’m currently filming her at doesn’t satisfy me so I absentmindedly step out into the rain to get a better shot. “Who is this girl?” I say to myself, obviously not quietly enough because she looks right at me and says, “Merrilee Dashaw. Nice to meet you too.”
I bolt and try to escape into the safety of the school building, but the front doors are locked. “Crap.”
She laughs, and I can’t believe myself, but I turn and gape at her some more. “The side doors are never locked.” I hear her, but for some stupid reason I don’t move. “Or you can stand there and stare at me. Unless you feel like dancing in the rain too. Either way is fine with me.” If I this was a movie, I’d go over to her and frolick around in the rain as well and then we’d decide to cut school completely and take a bus to Philadelphia and run around finding hip stores to infiltrate and by lunch time we’d be holding hands and then on the bus ride home we’d kiss. Instead, I settle for the first option. Watching her.
My camera starts beeping, warning me of a low battery, so I quickly turn it off. When I look back up, Merrilee Dashaw is gone.
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I’m not the same girl as I was.
I used to believe in friends. Now I..."
I think I just drooled a little bit on my school's computer.
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OH I HAVE ONE. Because I always start novels, but never finish.A teenaged girl of moderate height and blonde hair jammed her thumb against the doorbell again, pressing her ear to the door and listening to its ring resounding, a motion she had already performed several times. There wasn’t a sound after that, just silence in her friend’s empty house. Or so it appeared. She knew it wasn’t empty, though, because there was no place else her friend could be.
She must be hiding, the girl thought, the guilt on her conscience mirrored in her blue eyes. She and her friend hadn’t been quite right for a very long time, but she needed her. Her friend has been tricked into going to a party last night, and she found her curled in a ball outside after running into her friend’s ex-boyfriend leaving the party with another girl. He hadn’t been her friend’s ex-boyfriend for very long. The girl realized her friend needed her hair.
She yelled her name as quietly as she could for it to still constitute as a yell, hoping her friend might come to the door just to give her a chance. She was a nice girl, she couldn’t ignore the blonde. She would forgive her because she had a kind heart.
The girl saw nothing through the window, and there was not a sound to be heard. Frustrated, she tried for the door knob, knowing good and well that her friend was far too safety conscious to leave the door unlocked. She was the most rational, careful person the girl knew.
The door opened.
The girl stepped through the doorway, sure to lock the door behind her. Something about the house was all wrong. The house was too dark, and it had nothing do with the fact that the sunlight failed to pass through the onslaught of clouds and into the house. There was an eerie aura clinging to the walls; they exuded something haunting. The girl’s steps echoed as she stepped across the tiled floors of the house, repeating her friend’s name. Her calls were met with an overwhelming roar of silence.
Through the front hallway, she came upon the kitchen, the kitchen in which she shared many a memory with her friend. A piece of paper sat on the table in the center of the room, folded in two perfect halves. The girl knew it must have been her friend’s. She strolled over to it, knowing it wasn’t hers to read. She unfolded the page, taking in the familiarity of her friend’s nearly curling script.
Life is a like a game. You take your chances and go for the win. But there is always a loser in games. The loser is the one that just isn’t as lucky, the one that doesn’t have the skill, the one that just isn’t good enough. And when it becomes clear to the loser that he or she is losing, then they will try to get out of the game as soon as possible.
In this game the loser is me.
In the game of life, the loser is the one who travels alone, the one who feels nothing, the one who yearns to be loved. The loser is the one who falls into an endless trap of dreams being broken over and over again, their hopes diminishing little by little as each time they scrape what they can of themselves off the floor only to be slapped back down again.
I finally realized the cycle just isn’t going to end. I am always going to be the loser. I will never come out on top. But I am quite tired of being the loser.
I am just going to end it now.
The game of life is over for me.
Goodbye.
The girl swore under her breath, digging in her pocket for her cell phone. Her fingers shook as they flew across two digits, three presses. Her breath grew ragged as she ran in a panicked fashion to her friend’s bedroom taking the steps two at a time. The girl burst through the open door and the first thing she saw was not the flowered curtains, the lavender bedspread, and artwork that had been taped over the wallpaper since her last visit, but her friend’s body laid across her bed.
The girl ran to her friend’s side and took in her colorless skin, the cuts on her arms which hadn’t been uncovered for months, her tangled hair, and hauntingly perfect position. A bottle of sleeping pills was gripped like a vise in her friend’s hand, the white pills spilled across the bedspread the only thing out of place in the entire room. At the tight grip, the girl sucked in a breath—maybe there was still a fighting chance.
“Nine-one-one, state your emergency.”
“It’s my friend. Her name is Rain Weaver.”
Emily [Just singin' in the rain] wrote: "All my story starters suck. XP"So do mine. Not posting.
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A teenaged girl of moderate height and blonde hair jammed her thumb against the doorbell again, pressing her ear to the door and l..."
Oh my frick, Autumn, I need to read this story again.
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They were beautiful. A dangerous kind of beauty.
When he closed his eyes, Ivan could see them. He could remember walking up into the hills with his father, so they could see over the wall, into the battlefield far away. He had been young, maybe five or six years old. He could still see the destroyed world stretched out in front of him. He could see the gigantic shapes rising from the ruins, the afternoon sunlight glinting on metal.
They were strange, and terrifying, and fascinating creatures. Human hands created and controlled them, yet they moved with a life of their own. There was grace in their steps, almost like choreography. There was nothing mechanical, nothing robotic, and nothing clumsy about them. From far away, they looked like real, living beasts, roaming the ruins.
The light seemed to pour over them like water, rippling over bronze scales, illuminating them in a way that made them look unreal. It was like they were made out of sky, out of the gold of the sun and the silver of the moon.
Ivan remembered watching them, without moving. He saw the two hulking shapes crawling towards each other, leaving gigantic dents in the ground where they walked. Even now, years later, he couldn't imagine the level of work that went into creating them. It made him dizzy to think about the hours spent, every sheet of metal pounded into perfection, every gear set to turn correctly, every bolt firmly in place.
He remembered shivering in the autumn air, his breath clouding the air in front of him. His ears were ringing, but the sound was faint compared to the screech of metal against metal, the crunch of debris under the creatures' weight.
He'd said something then, something any boy at that young age would have said. He wanted to get closer. He wanted to control one of those giants someday.
Ivan's clearest memory of his father was the look on his face then, the darkness that crept into his eyes, as he continued to watch the grim scene in the distance. He could still hear his father's words. “Someday, Ivan. And it will be a sad day when you do.”
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It's intriguing. I like the atmosphere of it and it's well-written. I'm curious to see who this mysterious uncle is and what he's teaching to his students...
You might be able to do away with the internal thoughts at the beginning since it's kind of an info dump––and I think from the rest of it, the reader could figure it out without the train of thought in the first couple of paragraphs. Otherwise, nice job!
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Well, it is interesting. But I wasn't as interested until, you know, the actual "action" part started. If that makes sense. :]
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They were beautiful. A dangerous kind of beauty.
Wh..."
Homg, I remember this one! I adore it >D
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I’m not the same girl as I..."
Woo! Drool appreciation!
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They were beauti..."
Thankies.
((Am I allowed to put intros from short stories here? Those are where my best ones are.))
Θήρα (Thera) LIKE A BOSS wrote: "From her vantage point in the fog, she could see nothing. Well, she could see her hand and a few outlines in the fog, but that was it. Sitting on a hard metal bench four feet from the road, Aline ..."You're a great writer. You weave the words together so nicely.
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BUT I'm also sure you're a great writer. xD
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SO, HERE IT IS:
Emily.
I can't talk about you. I can't even say your name out loud. But sometimes, out of nowhere, I feel it like an itch on the tip of my tongue. I want to blurt it out, to set it free. I want to call out to you.
Emily?
But of course, you won't answer. You won't be there.
I can barely even think of you, of your name. Just your name alone is a reminder. It reminds me that I left you behind. It reminds me of who we used to be––Emily and Mia. Best friends, inseparable and indestructible. And it reminds me of how everything fell apart.
I'm going to tell you a story, Emily. You already know a different version of it, the version everyone tells each other. In that version, you're Emily the beautiful, Emily the saint. And I'm a side note, a detail they all breeze over––the best friend who moved away two years ago. They don't know the real story––the seed of a friendship planted on my front lawn ten years ago, watered with tears, grown on music and killed with lies. And I plan on keeping it that way. I'm not telling this story to anyone else.
I don't even know if I'm telling this story to you. Since I can't tell it to your face, I guess I'll have to settle for telling you in my head. And I'll have to hope that you'll hear it someday. Maybe I'll say it out loud, once I find you. But if not, the least I can do is sort it out in my own mind.
I wish I could tell you exactly what this story is about, like an English teacher might hold up a book and pinpoint its major themes. I could say this is a story of friendship just as easily as I could say it's about betrayal. I could say it's about love and hate, but it isn't that black and white.
This is a story about trains. I guess that's the best way to describe it. It's about how we keep going and going, but we always end up back where we started. It's about sitting on the train tracks, and wondering whether to get up or stay there until the inevitable happens. It's about two girls who, by some chance, collided with each other and never survived from the shock. It's a story about you and me.
I’m not doing this to get your pity, or your forgiveness, or an apology. Right now, it’s a matter of sorting it all out, thinking of a way to make you understand. It’s not going to change anything either of us did.
But you know, it’s been two years––two years since my mom decided it was time to pack up everything we owned and move into the city. In that time, I haven’t once seen your face or heard your voice. Then, a month ago, I got the phone call. And from that day, I’ve known I would have to come back home. Like a train running on its tracks, I would have to return to where I first began. I just had to decide when I was ready. And after thinking about it for these past few weeks, I’ve decided it’s time.
You probably thought I’d never do it, never show my face back home ever again. I didn’t think so, either. But you know me. It’s always been my firm belief that life has a way of going in circles. You always end up right back where you started. So, I’m coming, Emily. I’m coming home.
I hope you’re happy.
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Yeah. I don't think it's too confusing or anything. :3
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I think its actually really good, Brigid. It's captivating, and in my head I started asking a lot of questions about what happened. Its also very realistic writing, if that makes sense? And I followed the thoughts well. They're mysterious, but they captured my interest for sure, and I would definitely want to keep reading.
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Every time you post something from Unraveling I always think that you're talking for me until I realize it's your story. XP
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Ahh yes. I do. I will send it to you shortly. :)
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“You need a ride?”
I slowed enough to pull the 1975 Chevy Impala up beside her. She stiffened a bit, but once she looked at me she smiled a smile that could break hearts. It was slow and smoldering. My nervousness was chased away by disgust. I already didn’t like her. She was too perfect, with a backdrop of cracked concrete and chain link fences. She made the neighborhood look like shit. She looked unreal. I didn’t trust anyone that pretty, that beautiful.
“Yeah,” she said, and smiled again. As she turned I saw the metallic Insignia on her cheek.
She’s the right girl, I thought nervously, biting the inside of my lip. She pulled open the door and slid inside, with all the grace of a cat. There was something about her that seemed feline, I decided. Maybe it was the sharpness of her perfect cheekbones, the angle of her nose. I winced, but she didn’t seem to notice.
I pulled off the curb and they drove down the street in silence for a bit.
“You gotta lighter?” she asked.
“Yeah, it’s in my jacket pocket—“
I broke off as she shoved her hand inside the pocket closet to her, retrieved the lighter, and lit a thin cigarette.
“Um… I could have gotten that.”
“Didn’t need to—I did just fine.”
“Smoking is bad for you,” I said, because I was already unnerved, angry, annoyed. I guess I was better at hiding my emotions then I thought, because when I glanced at her she had a thin smile on her lips. Maybe she was mocking me.
“Oh, wow, I haven’t heard that one before,” the girl purred. “The way I see it is, living is bad for you.”
“Oh… nice… So, um, where are you heading?”
She laughed, and the sound made me grimace. “In other words, why the hell are you in this side of town?”
“That wasn’t what I was going to say.”
“No, but that’s what you were thinking.”
I bit my tongue to keep from answering, and shrugged instead. I already knew why she was in this side of town, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. I knew exactly who she was.
“What’s your name?” she asked. “I don’t want to be riding with some rapist.”
I laughed, a bit sharply. “… and you can tell if I’m a rapist from my name?”
“I can tell you’re not a rapist from the way you look.”
He shook his head.
“It’s the blue hair. A rapist wouldn’t have blue hair. Too easy to identify…” He felt her eyes on him, staring. He didn’t like it.
I turned the Impala down the next street. Buildings rose up all around them, shabby buildings, with graffiti all over the walls. It was beautiful. More beautiful than her. Or maybe just more real… “Where are we going?” she asked, and I could smell the sweetness of her cigarette, the choking weight of the smoke. It made me want to taste it, inhale it, maybe steal it right out of her mouth—
I broke off my thoughts, because that way lay madness. I already knew what kind of girl she was, but, hell. She was pretty in an unnatural way, pretty in a way that made so many people want her. Or so I’d heard. I just wanted her cigarette.
“I have to see a friend,” I told her.
“Wait, what? You’re giving me a ride…”
I let myself smile for the first time, because I was almost there, because soon enough there would be people all around the car. They would take her out, take care of her. I wasn’t important anymore. Just an accessory. I had gotten her to where I needed her to be. “You never told me where.”
I reached out, stole her cigarette from between her lips with my fingers. I tasted the smoke and smiled.
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Sent it! :) Hopefully it worked...
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Sent it! :) Hopefully it worked..."
Thanks! It worked.
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“You need a ride?”
I slowed enough to pull the 1975 Chevy Impala up ..."
Oh, I really like this.
The tone is different then other things I've read by you. It's good.
(Excuse my poor sentence structure. Tired.)
September 1st
The first time I saw you was before school had started. It was one the bus. One of the old 99 beeline buses that they don't run a lot of the time anymore in Vancouver. Usually on these long bus rides home I don't look up from my notebook, but when I saw the glimpse of plaid shorts I drew my eyes away from the page. I must have gasped or something because you looked at me and I saw your blue eyes with full detail. I saw your slightly curled blond hair and how it was turning a bit more of an auburn colour. Most of all I saw potential.
I'd never felt on the in's with anybody. At my old school I was made fun of and people just seemed to turn away from me in general. I was determined to make a new start in Vancouver. To make myself noticed. When you got up from your seat – top left corner by a window that you appeared to find fascination in drawing little pictures in the dust - I contemplated saying something. I wasn't sure what but my courage seemed to have strengthened as I mulled it over in my head. Just as I was about to say 'Hi' the bus lurched and you – who didn't hold on to the pole which I thought very unsafe and I advise that you do so next time you take the bus – fell into my lap and 2 other strangers beside me. I didn't mind too much which surprised even me and as you got back up quickly dusted yourself off you ran out through the automatic double doors that in the commotion I hadn't seen slide gently open. You were a gentleman though and called thank you to me - for catching you I guess which I didn't really do – half way across the street ahead. That day you made me smile and as I watched you enter a Pizza Place across the street you became my mystery boy. And I prayed and prayed each night following our frazzled introduction that I would see you again. My wish came true.
Your Admirer
*Please I would love for your advice! Thank you so much for reading it!
The first time I saw you was before school had started. It was one the bus. One of the old 99 beeline buses that they don't run a lot of the time anymore in Vancouver. Usually on these long bus rides home I don't look up from my notebook, but when I saw the glimpse of plaid shorts I drew my eyes away from the page. I must have gasped or something because you looked at me and I saw your blue eyes with full detail. I saw your slightly curled blond hair and how it was turning a bit more of an auburn colour. Most of all I saw potential.
I'd never felt on the in's with anybody. At my old school I was made fun of and people just seemed to turn away from me in general. I was determined to make a new start in Vancouver. To make myself noticed. When you got up from your seat – top left corner by a window that you appeared to find fascination in drawing little pictures in the dust - I contemplated saying something. I wasn't sure what but my courage seemed to have strengthened as I mulled it over in my head. Just as I was about to say 'Hi' the bus lurched and you – who didn't hold on to the pole which I thought very unsafe and I advise that you do so next time you take the bus – fell into my lap and 2 other strangers beside me. I didn't mind too much which surprised even me and as you got back up quickly dusted yourself off you ran out through the automatic double doors that in the commotion I hadn't seen slide gently open. You were a gentleman though and called thank you to me - for catching you I guess which I didn't really do – half way across the street ahead. That day you made me smile and as I watched you enter a Pizza Place across the street you became my mystery boy. And I prayed and prayed each night following our frazzled introduction that I would see you again. My wish came true.
Your Admirer
*Please I would love for your advice! Thank you so much for reading it!
This is the first scene of Annex.
There are no spots or scratches on the ceiling for me to count. Everything is smooth, colorless. I want to stab a hole in the walls to give me something to look at. I want to take a hammer to the floor, sending trickles of tiny cracks through the concrete. I need something to change.
You might think it's impossible to know every nook and cranny of a place—I'm willing to bet that no one else knows every single book on their shelves, memorizes each stain on the wall, or takes note of the spaces behind and beneath the furniture. But I don't think that's true. I've been here too long. I could swear that this place is branded perfectly into my mind's eye.
Of course, I have less to see than most people.
A small stream of moonlight spills through the skinny window on the wall. Otherwise, all is dark, turning the room into a mass of pale silhouettes and shadows.
My mind tells me that monsters lurk in these corners. My imagination thrives in the darkness, twisting it into haunting shapes of phantoms and inhuman creatures. How can I sleep?
It takes more courage than it should for me to set my feet on the freezing floor and stand. I move swiftly to the bathroom door, turning on the light and sighing with relief. “Twenty-two years old and you're still scared of the dark,” I mutter. “Isn't that a little pathetic, Kae?”
I pick up the hand-held mirror on the counter to face my reflection. Will I ever be able to sleep through the night in this place? I ask the glass. I long for my own bed in my old apartment, to fall asleep with the lights and sounds of the street in the background and the comfort of knowing where I am—no more of this complete silence and uncertainty.
Snap out of it. I turn on the sink, letting the mirror clatter to the floor while I splash water on my face, splattering some of my long hair in the process. The cool liquid soothes my skin. Instead of drying myself, I let the water sink into my pores for a moment, then watch as a few droplets dribble onto my clothes while others make a plop! when they hit the concrete. They look like raindrops, or tears.
I lean against the counter, exhaling slowly. My body feels like lead and my mind still spins with anxiety. At this rate, I won't sleep for at least another hour.
I stoop to pick up the mirror—now cracked along the top right corner—again and look sullenly into my own blue eyes. The staring contest only lasts for a few seconds before I set the damaged instrument aside. Why does my appearance matter right now, of all times?
That question pulls a trigger, opening the door for others to enter my head. Will it be over soon? How much longer can I last in this cramped space before I break? What am I doing here? I slump against the wall, sliding to the floor. I am crushed by what I don't know.
If I weren't so overwhelmed, I might laugh at myself for being so unstable. But I don't think it's funny anymore.
There are no spots or scratches on the ceiling for me to count. Everything is smooth, colorless. I want to stab a hole in the walls to give me something to look at. I want to take a hammer to the floor, sending trickles of tiny cracks through the concrete. I need something to change.
You might think it's impossible to know every nook and cranny of a place—I'm willing to bet that no one else knows every single book on their shelves, memorizes each stain on the wall, or takes note of the spaces behind and beneath the furniture. But I don't think that's true. I've been here too long. I could swear that this place is branded perfectly into my mind's eye.
Of course, I have less to see than most people.
A small stream of moonlight spills through the skinny window on the wall. Otherwise, all is dark, turning the room into a mass of pale silhouettes and shadows.
My mind tells me that monsters lurk in these corners. My imagination thrives in the darkness, twisting it into haunting shapes of phantoms and inhuman creatures. How can I sleep?
It takes more courage than it should for me to set my feet on the freezing floor and stand. I move swiftly to the bathroom door, turning on the light and sighing with relief. “Twenty-two years old and you're still scared of the dark,” I mutter. “Isn't that a little pathetic, Kae?”
I pick up the hand-held mirror on the counter to face my reflection. Will I ever be able to sleep through the night in this place? I ask the glass. I long for my own bed in my old apartment, to fall asleep with the lights and sounds of the street in the background and the comfort of knowing where I am—no more of this complete silence and uncertainty.
Snap out of it. I turn on the sink, letting the mirror clatter to the floor while I splash water on my face, splattering some of my long hair in the process. The cool liquid soothes my skin. Instead of drying myself, I let the water sink into my pores for a moment, then watch as a few droplets dribble onto my clothes while others make a plop! when they hit the concrete. They look like raindrops, or tears.
I lean against the counter, exhaling slowly. My body feels like lead and my mind still spins with anxiety. At this rate, I won't sleep for at least another hour.
I stoop to pick up the mirror—now cracked along the top right corner—again and look sullenly into my own blue eyes. The staring contest only lasts for a few seconds before I set the damaged instrument aside. Why does my appearance matter right now, of all times?
That question pulls a trigger, opening the door for others to enter my head. Will it be over soon? How much longer can I last in this cramped space before I break? What am I doing here? I slump against the wall, sliding to the floor. I am crushed by what I don't know.
If I weren't so overwhelmed, I might laugh at myself for being so unstable. But I don't think it's funny anymore.
A few, short months ago, she couldn't even dream herself there. Actually, that was the only way she ever could see herself there. Still, it amazed her how creative the Fates were.Two months ago, she was dying to get out of small town, Edgewater, Alabama. Now, she had the best full time job anyone in her situation could ask for, and someone playing the role of the father.
"How did this happen?" she thought. Just then, the bell rang, signaling a customer. Quickly scrambling through all the paperwork on the desk, she greeted them with the standard, "Hello. I'm Olivia, and how may I help you?"
"Olivia!" screamed a familiar voice. "I knew you hadn't been kidnapped, I just knew it!" When Olivia looked up, her face gave away all of her feelings; shock, love, worry, excitement and panic.
"Ali, Simon!" She raced over, arms spread wide to embrace them, but something stopped her. It wasn't just her condition. In Ali's arms, laid a newborn baby, wrapped in freshly washed linens. "Guys," Now she was really starting to panic. "What happened?"
Beginnings aren't my strong point, so I could use all the help I could get! :)
Or I might use this one.The goddess cradled her baby girl tenderly in her arms as the rest of the gods and their children stood on the sidelines, anticipating the miraculous event bound to take place. As she approached the cradle, the joyous mother caught the eye of the prophesier and grinned, as if to say, “I told you so.” The grim god shook his head, knowingly.
At the time, the goddess was too excited to care for her younger brother’s doubts, but very soon, she would come to regret not listening to his wisdom.
