A Short Story : A Story?

The night was dark, and deathly silent, the only sound was coming from my sleeping grandmother. The air was stale the in living room; where I made my sick-bed. My grandmother’s breathing was rhythmic; soft and shallow. The faint scent of the farm clinging to her, she smelt of horses, sheep and earth. The odor hanging from her as if she came from the deepest parts of the ancient earth, her voice was gritty and sleep filled.

Lilly looked at the time on her watch and huffs out. "It took you forever." Lilly bitterly rolls her eyes, Keke shrugged and got out the outfit.

Skylar woke, startled, to the sound of the alarm clock. The one in this New York hotel was much louder than the one on her nightstand at home. She guessed it was because of the loud street noise. “Rise and shine, sleepyhead! Guess where we’re going today,” said Skylar’s mom. “Where?” Skylar responded in a half-asleep tone. “Since your afraid-of-heights father is back at home while we’re on vacation, I thought we should visit the twin towers,” her mother replied. “Really? Let’s go!” Skylar said, jumping out of bed, grabbing some clothes, and darting into the bathroom to get dressed.

Tension was rising with every step Marsha took. Once she heard Mrs. Zawacky say that someone snuck in her room, Marsha made the choice of panicking. She first packed up all the food she was going to eat, thinking that she had time after, and ran as fast as she could away from the lunchroom.

It was getting brighter outside of my bedroom window. The grass was greener than ever and the sky was a bright blue. My room was neat and tidy, the bed was a beautiful cyan. I walked up to my bed and lied down. Suddenly everything went into a swirl of darkness and I saw my father's body lying motionless on the ground, a gun beside him. I screamed.

“Hannah drove her to the doctor,” Shaw told him. “She needed something to help her relax.”

The sixteen-year-old girl, wise beyond her years, was returning home after a quick hunt. She strived for her cunning gray eyes not to wander at the houses, where the baseboards were broken or where the elders sat wrapped in a faded worn down blanket, made of a fabric thinner than string. Yet she couldn’t help notice how the streets she walked every day lacked the sound of naive children playing and laughing, unaware that they may be dead the next day. But she was a clever girl and knew the reason for the absence. Everyone was preparing; preparing for an event that every parent and child dreaded, the day they reach the age of twelve.

Nat pulled a stool forward and sat down, leaning forward put the cigarette up to the top of the flame, the flame lapped at the cigarette for a while until the end glowed red like the embers of the fire. Nat withdrew the cigarette from the flame, put it up to his mouth, hesitating then sighed and gently put the cigarette in between his lips. It hung downwards, as he drew in a deep breathe, allowing the smoke to fill his mouth, he gently blew out and watched the blue-grey smoke filled the air around him. “Tomorrow, during the next tide, I’ll have to go out and see if there are any survivors,” Nat sighed, “If we can find anyone maybe they’ll know of a safe place.”

The power of the motorcycle rumbled between Ava's thighs as she wrapped her arms around the waist of the man driving the beast. They were heading down what seemed like a deserted road, a thick woods coming up on both sides of them as they neared what looked like a worn path to the right. "Pull over here!" she called out with a pat to the mans side. He of course did as Ava asked and quickly pulled the motorcycle near the worn out path. "You sure this is where you want to be love?" the man asked as he balanced the bike and pulled off his helmet.

A bulky, vigorous elderly man, who had voyaged an incredible journey was prepared to combat the rest of his life with bliss. He appeared to be callow with small thin patches of hair connected to the sides of his glassy, bald head. He had only a single viable kidney sustaining his life, the other having been appropriated from him at the age of forty, but, nevertheless, he still managed to stimulate a lively charismatic presence around himself. Though his occupation remained only as an accountant, he still managed to regard the positive aspects of life. He would watch the adversities only as a spectator, and would attentively escape them with the people whom he loved. The land around him contained an hyperactive aura that compelled him to thrive from the energy surrounding him. I never understood how he could take pleasure in fervently listening to the repugnant chatter and bickering of the townsfolk that could be heard from my bedroom window. I never understood how the bittersweet melodies of the pecan colored nightingale that perched upon his chalky windowsill at dawn served as a source of amusement to him. I had always indulged in deep admiration for my grandfather, for he was a strong man that had guided me through the most difficult points in my life. Yet I did not have the ability to guide him through his.

or recruited a Tom Cruise. It wasn’t important who started the fights. Both the obstacles and the triumphs enhanced the journey and swayed the reckoning of the mirrors.

Wind whistled through the partially opened driver-side window of Beth’s Volkswagen Jetta as Peter steered the car north along Interstate-91. The Eddie Vedder channel played through the Blue Tooth on Beth’s Pandora station. The Pearl Jam front man crooned a few verses from Daughter as Beth and Peter sang along, reminiscing about the 1990’s, their carefree college years when the world was exciting and new. Peter felt a rush of excitement when Beth offered to let him drive her car. In his mind, it was a sign that their relationship was deepening; it must mean something that she trusted him to drive her car. He had offered to take his Civic, but Beth needed the Thule rack on the roof of her Jetta to transport her racing bicycle.

The putrid purple of old bruises gleamed helplessly against the limpid replacements— it was all my fault.

Brianne rushed through the bright red  halls to meet up with her best friend Kristen. Kristen was the outgoing type of girl, the one who you could depend on in tough situations. In particular, last month  my parents got a divorce and she always stuck by my side. In other words she always made sure to cheer me up and make me laugh even if I felt like giving up. All of the sudden I felt a tug on my arm.

Most people who’d undergone pain would say that going home after an incident would be the worst part, having to deal with the aftermath of their emotional outbursts and what was happening. Vivian, however, felt nothing as she walked. The cold wind was biting through her, and she could sense that rain was coming nearby, mainly due to the odd twinge in the air that she’d learned to avoid having a delicate instrument with her at all times. Yet now she walked through the streets alone, each step pressing on the cold stones underneath her and making her that much more worried as to what she was going to do.