Kat 's Life - Original Writing

“You must be hungry from not eating yesterday, please-” I cut her off with a sneer, heading out the front door and pulling it shut behind me. I saw her fixed in the middle of the living room through the front window, dejectedly holding the plate. Her eyes seemed more puffy and sunken than usual, which I took to assume she’d been crying more. Paying no mind to my pathetic excuse of a mother, I made my daily commute to the concert hall.

“God, I miss you so much Kris,” Analeigh Remington whispered softly, standing in front of her twin sister’s headstone. Tears were quickly falling and mascara was running down her pale face as a sob escaped her lips. She didn’t attempt to hide the tears and she definitely didn’t care how she looked. Nothing really mattered. Her sister was dead! She looked up at the sky and shook her head before sitting down on the bright green grass. “I... I just want you back,” Ana cried. The fifteen year old brought her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs and rocking back and forth as gut wrenching sobs escaped. Today was the one day every year that she would break down without fail. Usually. Usually she was able to make it home before

The following morning the crisp air and golden sun flowed brilliantly into her room through the open window. The posts of the window where scratched up wood with an old part of a blond colored sheet covering it. Her sleepy eyes blinked slowly as the day began. After a whole evening and morning with the thought of school, a tornado of yes, no, maybe, and back again spiraling around. This went on about the dreary feeling morning. Her usual smile upside down and the sides drooping far down. When she finally got up and out of the rickety, springy feeling frame of the puffy stuffing, cloud like bed. Hesitantly climbing down the ladder

Tears dripped down from my eyes to my cheeks like a waterfall. I couldn’t stop it. I had made a promise. I clung on tighter, maybe that meant she wouldn’t leave. “It was going to happen anyway Tara, don’t beat yourself up about this.” She said in a hushed voice. It didn’t matter what she told me, I had promised to make her not move, to somehow convince her family that leaving was the worst idea. I hadn’t done it. I had failed. I looked down at the floral sheets as I hugged her, I never wanted her to go. I wanted to take in everything for that moment and keep it, locked away somewhere safe. This was the last time I’d see this room, with her endless books in her bookshelves, her intricate coloring books overflowing. “We can still keep in touch”

She talks of changing the colours of furniture in her room, “I dusted the chairs, dreaming of gay-colored material to brighten them

I feel as if it has been days but I know it has only been a few minutes. At moments like this I like to daydream. I've been doing a lot of that lately. My mom says daydreaming is just a way to distract you from reality or “the real world.” My thoughts were rudely interrupted by the yelling of what appeared to be a masculine voice. I didn't know what they were screaming but I knew that it couldn't be something good. Moments later I felt a rough jerk causing me to fly forward. I couldn't keep track of what was going on because everything was happening so fast. I felt a sharp pain in my head. My vision began to get dark. Darker and darker.. Soon it was all black and my body was numb.

“You’re wrong Jessica swore that she would never forgive me.” He continued his story and began sobbing. I will never forgive myself, but oh God, I wish I had stayed home. Helen had been sick for almost three years and was not getting any better. I was tired, irritable and mixed with sleepless nights. I was a mess. We started talking about the wonderful care I was giving her. She

Lapping at coffee stains, he stood. Nimble and haughty, he was the flighty prince of this wooden land. The light from the window crowns his head, dust dancing in the rays about his horns and painting him ethereal white along his tawny pelt. But the light was fleeting, the sun yet resting its head on the cresting trees far beyond his reach. He looked to the north, to the tower silhouetted against the dying sun, his Mother’s domain. It was not lit. And perhaps, on any other day, he would have ignored this and gone about his business. He would have leapt over the felled pencil and run towards the paper fields, ready to rest his head on an eraser as his Mother began her midnight rein. Today was different, however. The dust had settled upon not only his shoulders, but around his heart, and the weight worried him.

Izzi didn't give her mother time to think. She grabbed the white of the moon and made it her mother's skin. Next she took the red of a rose and made it her lips. She took the black of the night sky and made it her mother's hair and the deep blue of the sky that ringed near the edge of the earth as the sun set. Izzi smiled as her mother looked at her chosen colors. "Maybe you were right all along Izzi,:" she said. "What we needed was just a little bit of color." "I have to go

She sits staring at her father’s, now empty, closet. Everything of his was either sold or is boxed up in the attic. Emily still remembers his very organized closet. She can still imagine his buttoned-up shirts freshly ironed and hung up with clean, metal hangers. His dress pants still color coated with darks on the left, getting lighter with every step to the right. Emily can still feel the soft, cotton material his clothes were made of. The closet still smelling exactly like her father’s strong, yet comforting, cologne. She missed seeing him, and hearing his fingers clicking against the keyboard of his laptop. Her father was a very talented writer. Two of his novels have been published. Emily sat in her thoughts, she thought about how her father would never write, read, or publish a book again. His body sat in a grave, pushing that thought away, Emily stood up, walked out of the closet, and never went

Louis woke to the stench of alcohol burning the hairs in his nostrils. The dull ache in his head reminded him that this was the first day that he had been sober in days. The blaring red numbers on the alarm clock read 2 a.m. Louis hadn’t slept in nights. A heavy groan left Louis’s thin pink lips that were as dry as the desert. Louis sat on the edge of the filthy mattress covered in cigarettes and beer cans. The sneakers sat next to the bedside table, hoping that today was the day that he would finally where them. He laced up each shoe, and made his way to the balcony. The gentle breeze tugged at his fragile pale skin that would be cracked if the black ink that covered his skin wasn’t like a band aid. His mind raced back to the mornings

A wind weaves it's way through the tall redwood trees of northern california, making it's way, rapid speed, flourishing through an open window. The sun pours into the room, lacing it's rays on every object in it, reflecting warm shades of yellow from the white hospital bed. It's August fourth, 2002, and a new life has been brought into these small suburbs. It depends on her if her life were to be black or white, if her life were to be colorful. Indescribable by simple contrast. As an artist, her culture was very dynamic. She’d soon begin to be influenced by anything, and everything, which would make it harder for her to find her culture. The principles her culture will always follow.

The room smelt of sick and death. It clung to all in the room like a living demon, mocking the grievers. Heavy dark curtains were drawn shut blocking out the summer’s day behind them and only a few scattered candles were lit. The room felt smaller than it was in the dark and the large furniture only added to the tightness. The air was stuffy for all the occupiers though no one made a comment. On the couch nearest the door sat three young girls. Dressed in fine clothes and perfect posture they remained silent, eyes focused on the bed. The only noise in the room was the clanging of bottles in the corners where the old healer was putting away his possessions. He glanced once more behind him at the bed before leaving the room, heart heavy with failure.

I sat across. Observant of the way her weary eyes reflected the crisp sunlight, vaguely peaking through the gaps of the steady blinds. The air lingered of analogous grief; dominating the only sign of delight barely seeping through her sanitary extent. The air was sweltering hot, like the dancing of flames and the crackle sound as wood burns. I felt suffocated by the obnoxious dancing flames like the sillage of a shifty crime - succinctly covering all the salient points of the case. A case in which illustrated a woman at rest ahead of me. I watched her pale complexion to the weakness of her eyes, that glared deep into the horizon. I smile deep into the windows to her soul, getting lost by the seconds added to it perceiving every fine line

Her fingers traced the binders that lined the wall, skimming the countless hours they had taken to compile; they stopped promptly upon one labeled, “reminders.” She drew it from the wall and took it to her desk. The wood was heavily worn, its user having spent obsessive nights and days perfecting each piece of work that met its face. Her eyes stared at the page, three boys pictures were smiling back at her with contempt. The smell of cigarettes came from these photos and the details listed below them, vivid descriptions of their lives and personalities. The tallest of the three was sandy haired and grinned, showing off yellow-stained teeth that should have belonged to a middle-aged drunk. His arms hung low to his waist and his legs added