Letters spilled over the floor. Dozens of them, written on the same yellowed paper as the one I held in my hand. I scooped them back into the box and took it with me when I left.
Few people know me, but I know many people. That's a skill that comes from living in the shadows and gaining knowledge through observation. It sounds bad, I know, but I didn't have a lot of options.
This isn't right. None of it. I can't say why, but it's all so wrong.
You know me, I know you do. We grew up together, you and I. Neighbors on a street full of kids with big hearts, sad stories, and impossible dreams. Do you remember the other kids? They left, one by one, until only you and I remained. I always knew they'd find their own stories.
This is a story that I've been working on since about seventh grade. It's a kind of thriller, I guess, but more than that, it's based on relationship, truth, and perception. This is the introduction to four pieces that I will be publishing over the next few weeks.
I've got another prompt. It's pretty simple, and I hope you'll take the time to write your own version, as that's the point of it.
Poem about a runaway that plays off the Red Riding Hood story.
Today, out of the spirit of actually publishing something, I'm giving you a glimpse into the life that inspired the Remembrance story. A lot about the story was different when we first thought of it, but it was still the beginning.
Today was hard. I almost fell through the door after a long shift at work and instead stumbled to my armchair in the corner of the small living area. My roommate was home--a rare event. I heard her music blasting in the bathroom as she took a shower. I dozed off waiting for her to get out of the bathroom.
The day, sunny this morning, has turned cold and dreary, like any good holiday in the city. No snow here, though. I doubt half the residents even know the word. There's been such little communication from outside cities for so long that knowledge of other climates has passed beyond common knowledge. I know what it is because Tessian, Nemus's father, took it into his head to give all of us orphans what he considered a proper education. From him, I know that snow used to be expected on this holiday, though even the holiday's name has been lost to time. People still celebrate, though.
This is a poem from the perspective of a baby's crib.
WARNING: Profanity/Vulgar Language