jkslyr
She laid her head back in the grass. The wind rustled the strands of her hair, letting them fly freely over her face. She sighed, a long, deep, drawn-out breath that seemed to contain all the world in it. She closed her eyes, letting the sun shine through her eyelids. Some day, it felt good to just let all her problems go.
I took the pen, wet the tip in my mouth. I knew I would only get one chance at this. Some things, you can't rewrite. The past, for example, is set in stone once it occurs. There's no going back. Every decison, every mistake, is yours forever once it's been made.
The tank hatch flipped open. There was a moan of pain from within. Then, silence.
He peeked inside. A woman, clutching her arm, a blossom of red spilling from her breast, her face as ashen in death as it must have been beautiful in life.
He reached down, kicked her arm aside. He plucked the pistol from her belt.
Give me liberty or give me death. Ironic that you should say that. These days, liberty seems more like a privilege than a right. What liberty we once had has been swallowed up by dirty politics and under-the-table agreements. Are we free? Or are we as chained as we've always been?
A loud shout from a pair of lungs. A tool for sustaining fire. Pressure to maintain a burning flame, in both the hearth and in battle.
He placed his hands within the worn leather straps. "Now, you pull, and it makes one tone," he said, demonstrating, "and when you push back, it makes another." The bellows flexed as he began to play. "This is a song my father taught me, and his father before him. We have had different instruments, different methods of playing, but the song remains the same. One day you will play it," he said, as he began.
He pulled the rug over her body. The blood seeped through the carpet as he tried to roll her over. The floor was slick, and his hands were soaked crimson. This wasn't going to work. He should have never taken that dare.
They called him a savage. He had come down from the mountain's edge, garbed in the furs of the animals he had taken with his hands and teeth, bones through his hair. He was an animal to them. He looked back, saw their waste, the furs and bones of his fellow creatures tossed aside like so much scrap, and wondered who the savages truly were.
The ring shone brightly in the dimming sunset. It wasn't gold - at least, not -gold- gold. They called it white gold. He didn't really know why. It didn't matter what it was called anyways - he opened his hand and tipped his palm, letting it fall into the sand. With the tip of his boot, he made sure it was covered and buried before he left.
There are rules that govern everything. Rules that teach the universe how to behave. Rules that maintain social interactions. What happens when the rules are broken? Or worse, what happens when the rules are bent?
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