Flying Ferret Alternate Ending

Every heart stopped beating,Every breath was held,Every Eye was fixed upon that man.without the slightest hesitation,He went to the door on the right and opened it.As he opened the door his hands were shaking,his feet wobbling and shaking,he was sweating and breathing hard almost out of breath.His head was aching so many thoughts racing in his mind unable to think,the crowd looking at him eager to know what's gonna come out that door.Then the boy opened the door as fast as he could then he jumped out of the way and started to run.He continued to run and looked behind him only to find out a black and orange,ferocious,blood thirsty tiger was behind him.He ran and ran and ran back in forth running in circles hoping to outrun the tiger but the tiger was too quick. Soon in enough the tiger caught up and mauled the young boy with his sharp pointy teeth.

From the beginning, she introduced the town’s serene quality saying “all life lived in harmony with its surroundings” in the town. She added on to this with describing the lively nature during the seasons such as the oak, maple, and birch that “set up ablaze” in the autumn or “countless birds” feeding on berries in the winter. The description of those

“There once was a time when it did not rain for a great many months. The Prairie turned brown from the Sun, and the Great River that nurtured the land began to dry up. The Plants struggled against the dry Earth to breathe and grow, while the Animals became weak and could not hunt. All the while the People waited, looking towards the sky and wondering what they had done to bring such misfortune upon themselves. While the People waited, Fear grew. This Fear grew so quickly that in a very short time it began to spread across the entire Prairie, choking out everything and everyone in its path until at last it covered all but one very small place in the Prairie where only the Children and the Old Ones would sit and play together.

Chapter one, titled A Fable for Tomorrow talks about a town in the heart of America where all life seemed to live in harmony with its surroundings. The small town lay in the midst of a checkerboard of flourishing farms, with fields of grain and hillsides of orchards where, in spring, white clouds of bloom drifted above the green fields, and the she also talked about what happened

Becca weaved around the drunken crowd standing idly in the middle of the sidewalk and caught up with her family. The nightlife soundtrack of laughter and sirens had been slightly lowered with the rain this evening and the street lights were dimmer than usual. Becca enjoyed the new atmosphere and shared her giddiness by marching through every puddle that dared come in her path. Life was good, but she missed her home, and this city was a constant reminder of how much unlike it was to where she grew up. Stars and open sky and trees were home; there were no stars in this place. In midst of her splashing, a rumbling interrupted and stopped her; its source being the pit of her tiny belly. Her parents turned to her and laughed.

The sound of the war blared over the radio in the small New England farmhouse, mixing and blending with the bubbling voice of a six year old playing pretend with her favorite toys. The kitchen in which she sat was bright, colored off-yellow with green trimmings around the cabinet. The smell of dried lavender and black bitter coffee tainted the air, along with the pungent odor of cow manor from the farm outside. Sun streamed in through the glass window above the sink, setting ablaze the particles of dust that danced in the air, moving as though ghosts would. The six year old sat on a tall wooden chair. Her legs dangled, swinging with the energy only one her age could have. In her hand a figurine of a doctor and a soldier, and to someone sitting across from her it would have appeared as though the figures were involved in an dance of some sort, bobbing and swaying in time with a silent symphony. The announcer on the radio spoke in a stern voice, strong and rusty like iron.

One autumn morning, Thomas jumped out of bed, pulled open the curtains, and then gazed down at the quiet cobblestone streets below. Leaves the colors of a brilliant sunset, playfully glided and danced along the street’s edge. He smiled. Soon the vending trucks would be pulling up outside, and the town folks hurrying about as they prepared the streets for the Festival of Ghouls.

He then traveled to Atlanta, Georgia. The Georgian dusk differed from the bright lights of New York City. This dusk was dark, but not in a chilling sense. The city was calm and relaxing. The darkness covered the streets like the blanket children pull over their eyes right as the morning glow begins to appear. The roadways were surrounded by acres of forestation; however, the forests were not quiet. These forests carried the sound of creatures large and small. The constant melodies of crickets sing through the night, while the bustling vibrations of dear and squirrels ring aloud.

There we were, on the doorstep, ringing the bell. It was a cloudless summers evening, with the shadows deepening on a path that ambled down between bitternut hickory trees, and then cut sidewise across a field of tiny green grape vines. Dandelions danced in unison on the broad expanse of lawn. Yellow roses and silver hydrangeas sprawled out in a gusty garden surrounded by a yew hedge. The clocks had just struck six.

Autumn had arrived. Days got shorter, nights got colder; scattered yellow, brown, orange, and red leaves cut the town into pieces. Attire went from shorts and tank tops to pants and sweaters, and it was as if the town had entered a period of shared silence. It was peaceful for some, but an annoyance to others.

As the sun set into the waiting night, Birmingham, known for its steel and history decades past, fell into its usual routine. The city faded into dark, much like when a song reaches its end, and became lifeless except for the few couples and families huddling together along the sidewalk. The only light shining came from the stores and restaurants still open at the time, casting ominous shadows onto the street seeming ready to grab anyone passing by. The chill in the air was much like every year in November, raising the hair on the back of the neck and making the tip of a nose ruddy. The chill was accompanied by a breeze that whistled between alleyways and disturbed the few trees present within the city itself. Despite the near-winter weather,

The noon darkness and damp-smelling air threatened to render me helpless beneath whatever pitiful shelter I sought. I cast my eyes to the charcoal sky, my attention grasped by a golden crack in the cloud layer where the sun streamed through. The storm was promised, the wind already unleashed, but there would be sunshine by morning, time to rebuild and repair the once innocent and advancing Denmark; I must give order to this world again. Following her into the darkness of the forest I watch as she rests against a weeping willow. Holding her head in her hands and playing with each flower that

As bright as the days could be, the nights were darker. As happy and carefree as he was in the day, Yeager was terrified in the night. It was on the one-hundredth night in the Griswold Plantation home that Yeager sat up in his bed once more. The hairs on the back of his neck stood straight, and the goose bumps on his skin were not from lack of blankets. The creaking of floorboards resounded through the hollow house. Annie was away for the weekend leaving Yeager home alone. With no one else home, he could only wonder what could make such noises in his household. A scraping noise alerted him to the window, nevertheless, to see nothing there. The insistent noises continued for what seemed an eternity before the frightened man climbed out of bed and began to tread toward the door. As his hand neared the doorknob, a knocking came from his

A few rain clouds lay silent in the eastern sky; however a beautiful southern sunset greeted two dozen friends that gathered at Sadie's for an evening cookout on that celebratory evening. Immediately upon arriving Sadie sashayed her guest to the back yard, where her husband, James had spent weeks stringing thousands of miniature lights and decorating the yard with Sadie’s favorite colors pink, green and a hint of baby blue sprinkled about. The guest sat upon lawn furniture, handcrafted by James, and strategically place under the ancient Weeping Willow that stood with pride in the center of their back yard. Under this fairytale motif they sipped iced tea and shucked succulent Chesapeake Bay oysters as the corn roasted on one grill and meat on

Fall arrives in the city with crisp winds that brush leaves from the ground into the air in a slow churning whirlwind causing them to dance about, descending to the moist ground. A yellow cab is patiently circling the neighborhood in search of fares, which has been a twenty-year practice of Max – a stout, older man with a protruding belly that strains the buttons of his faded, much-wrinkled shirt. He slowly drinks a cup of lukewarm coffee and looks up at the dark, overcast sky, “Looks like rain today” he says. Knowing the streets of the city better than anyone, Max prefers to work on the east side around the old Elmhurst Cemetery. People don’t venture close to the cemetery claiming that they often see a young woman walking through it. Convinced she is a ghost looking for revenge, but this story never bother Max nor has he ever seen this ghostly young woman.