sashagreenwood
He watched his daughter, her Easter dress ragged, as she wept on the grass. No doubt a patch of green grass stains were beginning to appear on the fabric where her knees were pressing on the lawn. He was bewildered, and at a loss. What can you do when a child comes across their first look at death. Scooter had been with the family forever, it was all she had ever known. Now he was laying on the grass, old age and heat had taken him. Unfortunately she was the first to get to him, and now all he could do is try to console her as he explained why things die.
He slopped the eyeliner messily on his lids. It looked frightful, but when he looked in the mirror he imagined himself as a sexy vampire. He went out, ragged and faded jeans, a dark shirt, and the dark eyeliner making dark circles around his eyes. The ladies weren't as impressed, and found him to be rather creepy.
The fire cackled at them, growing larger every minute. One of the boys yelled out, "Grab a bucket and get some water!" But the fire had become enraged, especially on this particularly windy evening. It grew and spread to their tent. Something inside must have been flammable because it erupted with a big bang. Not the peaceful camping experience they had expected.
The salesman erupted in laughter like a chorus of annoying crows. They had pronounced her name wrong, and were beginning to make fun of it again. But it wasn't anything she hadn't heard before. Seems like no one could at least produce an original mockery of her last name anymore.
Her parents were frightened creatures. They were wary of any little thing. They insisted on tinting their car windows for fear that strangers would peer inside. Often times they told her not to open the door, and it was always deadbolted when they were home. She could not count the number of times she had been stuck outside, because the door was always deadbolted.
Eve was at a strange intersection in her life. Before her lay two paths, but being decisive she couldn't decide which one to take. It seemed no matter which road she chose, it would have only a dead end. Her predicament was an uneasy one, but, as with all intersections, one must not stand around forever.
She looked across the patio, having quite a puzzled look on her face. Her flowers had wilted over night, although there had been no winter freeze, and the April rains were on time. They should have been blooming and wonderful, colorful pinks and reds, blues and violets. Yet there they were, shriveled, dry, wilted.
She sat unsettled across from the older man. His figure hunched slightly, his face covered in hair. All she could make out was his beady dark eyes as they stared at her, hungrily. His hands trembled incessantly. He's tasted too much blood, she thought to herself. And it was true, for as the man stared back at her, he was secretly longing for that sweet taste, like like liquid and iron, on the tip of his tongue.
They cluster together, pulled in by the currents. A mile long and deep slurp of plastics and materials, long since thrown away by naive strangers. Behold! Atop the murky mountain of trash lies a styrofoam cup. Solid, clean, as if it came straight out of the factory.