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Gunshots-Personal Narrative

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Rain pounds ferociously onto my dark, tousled hair. It is night- the darkness encompassing an air of frigidity There are no more small children playing outside Unaware of their destitution. No more beggars strumming the guitar cheerfully. To sullen families determined not to look into their eyes. No starlight to link together into stones and shoes and skateboards. Not tonight. But there are still gray walls covered with blotchy graffiti. Teenagers yelling vehemently through the darkness. Clasps of thunder that chills my bones. Gunshots. It is these nights when the true colors of the neighborhood show. I close my eyes and it all disappears Into a vivid shades of green and blue. Gentle waves of crystal blue water tickle my feet The
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