runaway: an original short story

Brrrp brrrp brrrp brrrp brrrp brrrp.  The electronic noise of the alarm clock pervaded the silent night air with unwanted noise.  A pale hand, so pale it nearly shimmered in the moonlight, reached out and smacked the thing.  When that didnt work it dug aroun on the top and found the snooze button.  With a groan and a moan, the body connected to the pale hand shifted under the blanket.  It was a girl.  She was sixteen years old.  Her name is Clarina, and she hated it.  She is running away. 

Remembering her mission, Clarina threw off her blanket and nearly jumped out of bed, but managed to control herself.  Slowly and quietly,she thought.  And slowly and quietly she dressed in a t-shirt, and jeans.  Clarina gathered her things, her pre-packed backpack, and a small suitcase.  She pulled on a sweatshirt and her tennis shoes. 

Slowly and quietly, she walked to the front door.  She went up, touched the doorknob and stopped.  She thought.  She thought of her mother.  She'll be so sad, heartbroken.  So what, said another side,serves her right after all she did.  The things that are out there, i could be killed.  No,she decided,ive waited to long for this.  She brushed the doorknob once more, then gipped, turned and she shoved it forward.

The fresh night air felt cool and crisp against her face.  She looked down.  Down at the ground that was a step away.  A single step and she would never see this place again.  A single step.  And that was all.  She stuck her foot out and held her breath.  There was no going back now.  No going back.  She brought it down onto the paved side walk.  She laughed and smiled.  She took another step and another, until she was running.  She stopped in the middle of the street.  She threw her arms up, dropping the black suitcase, and laughed.  She reached for the sky and twirled in a circle.  She laughed and giggled.  One thought whirled and twirled in her head, freedom freedom freedom.  Her black hair, contrast against her shimmering skin, spread around her.

 As she remembered that she still had a ways to go, she picked up her suit case and began walking to the bus stop.  She would take the bus to the bus terminal.  Take another one to the airport in L.A., and from there she would take a plane to New York City, where she will start her life once again.

Thought Loops: a Lesson

Thought loops, interesting things.  They are everywhere, everything, every thought.  Thought loops.  You dont know what they are?  I shall tell you.  Thought loops, are simply that.  Its your thoughts.  You think and think and think.  No matter what you think you come back to the same thing, over and over.  Every now and then you brake out of one.  But seldom do you stay out of a thought loop.  As soon as one is broken, a new one is made.  The center of your loop can be money, or food.  It could be the earth, or the elderly.  It could be anything.  And its not something that occurs every five years.  Its something that occurs on a daily basis, on a minutly basis, whether you realize it or not.  As I type my thought loop  turns and runs.  Thought loops, they are everywhere, everything, every thought.

The tear in the wind: an original short story

She stood, pressing her hands to her knees so that her gown did not fly up.  The wind whipped her black hair and roared in her ears.  Barely a sihllouette of a tree, nothing but the midnight blackness all around.  The small clearing was overgrown after many years of neglect.  The bottom of the shimmering midnight blue dress was ripped and torn and punctured.  The brambles and branches had torn and tugged as she ran away.  Away from the people.  Away from the dance.  Away from those pitying, smile-plastered faces.  

The rougue howls found there way out of her mouth, only to be carried off by the wind.  Not my fault, Not my fault, the words bounced around and around inside her.  As the wind blew, it started to hail, the bits of ice pricking her arms and face like small needles.  Not my fault, not my fault.  The words swirled around her like the wind as it swirled and roared, carrying the droplets of ice with it.  With another lost howl she dropped to her knees.

Not my fault, not my fault.  Little demons and devils, arguing, laughing.  "I didnt kill himmm!" she howled to the wind.  And squeezed her eyes shut even tighter.  There was only just enough room for a single, delicate tear to squeeze through.  It slid down her cheek, and the wind plucked it right off her face, and carried it away.

Man of the Sand: an original short story

The yawning expanse of blue sky seemed to stretch for forever, broken only by the haeted yellow dot that is the sun.  Shimmers of heat wavered in the air, distorting the yellow dunes of desert sand.  One leathery blistered foot after another, the man trudged on.  His ragged, white hair  had been left untouched for nearly a month.  Through what was left of his torn shirt, you could count his ribs easily.  His face was a leathery brown, and in his water hand, he carried a water boottl, that was about half full. 

His troubles began when a snadstorm had swpt through the camp, killing his two friends, and nearly killing him.  It was merciless and left behind few supplies.  With the jeep covered in sand, he had to walk.  Even with careful rations, the food was gone quickly.  And here he was now with nothing but a bottle of water, and the sand. 

His blood shot eyes spoke of little sleep and not enough food and water.  Slowly he rased his skeletal arms and used three fingers to carefully unscrew the cap on the bottle.  Shakily he brought ti to his mouth, and allowed his tounge none more than the sweetness of a few drops.  As he moved to close to bottle, the winds jerked him and a bit of water splashed on the ground.  He stopped to stare, mindless, and tired as he was.  Soon the dark yellow spot was gone, replaced by the course yellow of the dunes.  he stared some minutes more, then put the cap back on.

He walked a bit more, and became to weak to even hold the bottle of water.  It slipped from his twig like fingers and landed with a soft thump in the sand beside him.  Just as he did with the splash of water, he stopped and stared.  He bent down to pick it up, his spine cracking like popcorn.  His knees could no longer hold the wai and and buckled, sending him face first into the sand.  He turned his head and reached for the bottle.  When his fingers brushed it, he stopped.  He did not see nor feel it, the nerves useless, and the eyes staring glassily into the sand.

Some years later, a man on a mission entered the desert.  He was a digger for bones.  He stopped at a place where a jagged white edge peeping from the sand was reported.  He got out his brushess and shovels and things, and dug.  He reatched a peice of white, out of the yellow after some days, and quickly pulled it out.  He found himself staring at the sun-bleached skull of a man.  Upon further reasearch he found a skeleton, and a plastic water bottle, now empty.  The skull was from a few years ago, and was given the name Dr. Robert J. Roberts.  The name of a man who had disappeared from his campsite after a sandstorm in which his fellow travellers were killed. 

First Post

This is the first post, and it probably wont be the best.  I'm a wannabe author, so I thought, hey, why not see what every one else thinks.  The posts on this site, will be about me, or stories that I have made.  And there's always the occasional retelling of some other story.  To start I'm the oldest of six children, so life can be interesting.  I write short stories and I am working on a longer story at the moment.  I also draw fashion sketches and rather enjoy it.  This post isn't very long but longer ones are to come.  Thanks for listening to at least one of my ramblings.  Trust me, they aren't all going to be like this.