ariesummerdawn
The creature stirs at the edge of the bushes, listless, ready to bolt. Her restlessness causes the hair on the back of her neck to stand on end, until finally, her pent up energy releases itself in one huge surge. She bolts across the railroad tracks, hears a high-pitched screeching noise, turns her head and encounters a bright light searing her vision, and then...darkness.
I lost my temper the exact moment he spoke my name. It was done it that one particular tone of voice of his. The one that sneaks under the skin with its biting criticism, nipping at the nerves and boiling the blood without my permission. In an instant, my brain wasn't responsible for my actions and it just snapped. "Rose." he breathed and I was gone.
The professor at the front of the classed droned on and on until he was just a slightly annoying buzz in his students' ears. His demonstration was like every other one this year, no new material, no new speech techniques. I sat in the front of the class, hand in cheek, losing interest fast, more fascinated in the blue ink spot in his pressed button-down than in the words that were spewing from his absurdly large mouth.
The creak of the old wood echoes out into the dark night. I tuck my cold bare feet underneath me, my loose skirt flowing off the porch swing I dangle precariously on. My thoughts drift as I focus on the obscure shapes in front of my eyes, they move ever so closer. Closer.
My mom always wanted to be a professional ice-skater when she grew up. Now she's a professional-nothing. Sitting on her motherly bum and smoking cigarettes. My bum is not motherly, nor does it smell like nicotine. I'll set my sights a little lower than my adolescent mother's and pursue to become a professional-whatever. A professional-anything-but-her.
A little town sat nestled in a valley of green trees and blue lakes. A boy by the name of Jacob Hornsby spent his unimportant little life living in a house in this village. He never thought much of this town, not until the flower princess came to live there.
Mama runs her fingers through my thin waves, weaving the three distinct parts into one entity. Her long dark hair falls across the bare skin of her left shoulder. I envied that hair. My father used to braid Mama's hair too, using his thick meaty hands to hold the strands back from her face. That was the only affection he could show her.