Kerry66
I don't particularly want to write about a bellboy. Sure you could take so many angles on this prompt, but what's the point? Mystery, horror, love, adventure. Writing can only do so much for the soul. Mine is worn down. Revitalizing it too difficult for the current state I'm in. Sorry guys maybe this isn't for me anymore.
To be fancy in my description, he was an antithesis to
myself. When I spent my time curled up with a book under the oak
tree in my backyard, he was hopping parties and taking so many
drugs he went under the pseudonym cocktail. Whereas I was dark
haired and brown eyed, he was Aryan. Usually those kinda guys made
my blood boil. You just knew that charming smile hid a vicious pair
of fangs ready to suck out whatever innocence you had left. Yet
somehow he caught my attention.
A home is somewhere that you feel comfortable. It envelops you in a sense of familiarity and you feel as though you can shed all the necessary layers that society demands of us. It's where many become their truest self. Though my home is always empty. A family of flight is mine. An occasional hello or watching a t.v. show together is the best I get. Alone time can only be appreciated when you live amongst others. Am I right?
I hate this punishment. It's stripped me down to the bone, dried my eyes, and left my soul tattered and flailing in the wind. Even though such torture is aggravating, it is true that I deserve this. What you do in the shadows must come out eventually.
The evidence was fabricated. In fact, I'm not even sure there was evidence in this case. The jury was unfairly biased and my judge non-existent. Only whispers and the shifting of facts helping it ripple throughout the school.
"I know what you did," one of my best friends said, as she looked at me with disappointed eyes. I braced for the lecture, and constructed my rebuttal. She had no idea what she was in for.
He was etched in bronze. A frozen figure painting a picture of the most honorable hero to ever walk the sweet grasses of Montana. "I still wanna know who killed him," my best friend whispered to me as the tour guide ushered us through the rest of the museum. "Me too," I replied, a plan already forming in my mind.
People often tell me that they are destined for something. Greatness, loneliness, riches. It seems like everyone weaves their own tapestry right? But isn't that opposing the idea of destined? It's like saying that your and optimist that views the glass as half empty. Think about it.
Calamity is and interesting word. It's connotation being something along the lines of 'mass destruction, terrible misfortune, the end of the world. etc'. Also giving the knowledgeable a sense of dread,despair, and even excitement. All in one tiny word.
Listening is a skill that is hard to come by. As we all sweat underneath the heat of our own personal spotlight, it is difficult to see past it's blinding light. Squinting out into the world we have trouble comprehending that anything outside of our scope can be relative or important to existence.
The pain on his face cut deep. Every down-trodden look, every half-hearted smile, every almost invisible tear breaking the wall protecting my heart. I've never felt regret, especially not in the case of relationships, but this was different. He was getting to me.
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writing since 2012 · 51 entries · 51 days shown up
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the words Kerry reaches for
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