alo530
I walked back to the shelter to find it in uproar. People were starving, dying, and sick. No one cared to help though. The rich were concerned about losing their money. They didn't have the time to be concerned about us poor people.
The crisp winter air whipped through my long blonde locks as freezing rain sliced against my frostbitten cheeks. The icy snow had seeped through my boots, and my toes had gone numb hours ago. I longed to be back at camp by the fire with Ryan and Meg, but I knew I had to continue on. If I returned with food, it could save all of our lives.
I tried to conceal the paper best I could, hoping Josh wouldn't catch a glimpse of it.
"Whatcha got there?" Josh suddenly piped up, his laughing eyes becoming locked on the crumbled piece of paper in my hand.
"Nothing," I quickly replied, stuffing the acceptation letter to Princeton into my bag. I wasn't ready to tell Josh I had gotten in. I wasn't ready to finalize the fact that I wouldn't be seeing him everyday anymore.
The oil seeped from under neath the old whining car, creating a black and rainbow pool of the stuff soaking in the hot July sun.
"Call a tow truck," John said, his suborned face becoming even more flushed at the sight of his decrepit car.
My fingers felt the smooth-bumpy surface of the dozen eggs in my broken woven basket. It was all I could afford that day, as Mother's sewing did not bring in much income this past week. I plodded along the side of the snow-dusted dirt road carefully, shivering as the snow continued to fall from the ominous grey clouds, being cautious not to deprive my mother and I of any less food than we already had.
I tied the checkered apron around my waist as the sweet aroma of banana bread tickled my nose. Andrew sat by the fire, grunting and cheering occasionally at the nail-biter football game on the television. The fire crackled and roared in the fireplace, filling the room with a mixture of ecstatic cries, scrumptious banana bread, and charred oak.
Every rose has it thorn, they say. Such a beautiful, delicate beauty of nature, with such piercing, hurtful thorns. People are like roses in a way. They draw you in with their outside beauty, and prick you with their hidden thorns.
The cop lifted the trunk of the car suspiciously, scrutinizing every detail of the decrepit backseat. The smell of bleach seeped from the rough carpet and clothes were strewn on the car's floor. When the cop spotted rope and duct tape under the tattered old seat, he knew he'd found a infallible suspect for the murder case.
The sparkling champagne dripped down the side of the glass, creating a small flowing river of the glimmering golden liquid. I delicately controlled the flood with the corner of my intricately folded napkin and waited patiently for my entree to arrive.