|
|
|
|
These are just bits of stories I have written. I don't know. I just wanted them to be somewhere else other than my Microsoftworks history. So, uhm, here they are!
Hello. You may not know me, but I am an Author. Hell, you probably will never meet me in your life time. If you did you probably are six feet closer to earth’s damned liquid core right now. This is my tale, recorded in the best detail I can recall. While I’m not a Nobel prize winner, I do like to get points across and I do believe I have done this here rather well.
My name is Alkiear Alstruitz. I am 22 years old, and I am a psychopathic murderer. As I write to you now I am in the institute of Albrooks in Germany. I love long walks on the beach, dead and decaying things, pain, screaming, cuts and scabs, cutting my self, suicidal thoughts, blood, brains, and ice cream. I hate preps, makeup, false idols, angels, the living, the beggars, the people who piss me off, and most of all, myself. In a couple of months I am going to be “put to sleep” like a rabies- infected mutt. So now, I’m no longer an author, but just a mere pup about to be put out if its misery.
But, before I make my descent into what may be the very picture of hell, I convey my story, to you, so that not another mistake is made under my name.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sound of ocean waves greeted a young boy who lay on the beach. Barely awake and extremely thirsty, the young boy lifted his face from the sand. He coughed a bit of sand and seawater as he hoisted himself to his knees. There was a breeze that teased the young boy’s blonde hair, and the sun shone unmercifully on that particular stretch of beach. All around, for as far as he could see, was an endless stretch of trees. The ocean extended to the horizon, out of view and thought.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The golden antique alarm clock screeched and complained, breaking the peaceful calm that had previously blanketed the nice Monday morning. It shook the nightstand. But it failed to do its intended purpose-wake up the boy who slumbered in the bed near it. Instead, the boy rolled away from the clock, yawning loudly as he turned to the wall. He would just pretend that he had never heard the blasted contraption and return to glorious, rejuvenating sleep. Yes. He would pretend also that today was not a school day, and he would pretend that the clock didn’t read 7:15 A.M. Yes, he would sleep.
Wait. It was….7:15? And school….
The boy sat up in shock. He whirled his head just in time to see the clock take a belly flop onto the floor. Throwing the covers roughly off of him, he retrieved the clock.
7:22 A.M?!
He wailed, flew to his closet, and tore down a random outfit. He winced as he realized it was the shirt he had worn yesterday (he had had the liberty to hang it back up instead of letting it rot on his closet floor…). It wasn’t that he hated his jersey that had Dog Street adorned on it; it was just he wouldn’t smell that great and his friends- Hayner and Roxas- would make fun of him in front of his not-so-secret-crush, Olette who had also doubled as his best friend. He wanted to ask her out, but never had the courage to. Today probably wouldn’t be too different, for he knew he would end up choking on his words.
The boy frowned and sighed hopelessly and shed his Pajamas and dressed into the “smelly” shirt and a pair of crisp, not-so-bad-smelling black jeans. Baggy black jeans. Not his style, but it was the last clean one. (he had a really bad habit of hanging up used clothes…) As he walked out of his room into the apartment’s ‘living room’, he made a mental note to do the laundry after school.
Damn…
He groaned as he recalled giving all his munny to the “landlord”. He had fallen short that month after a mishap with the smoothie machine at Twilight Town’s popular Dairy Queens. For some odd reason Sea-salt ice cream did not make a good ingredient in making a smoothie: especially if it was still attached to a stick.
He was two-munny short of smelling decent….
So not only was laundry going to wait for who-knows-how-long, but now he was having shameful flashbacks. Oh. And there was also the fact he was about to miss the morning bus.
 MaschaSama · Sun Oct 15, 2006 @ 11:20pm · 1 Comments |
|
|
|
|
|
