Starling: A Fictional Narrative

Twightlight was falling as sneaked through the shabby building as narrow passage way, no one could see me , that was the way I like it no one could ever see. It was the one thing I had which I could control, constantly all day I was surrounded by “rifle” names drug talk. sometimes I longed for a safe cocoon somewhere where there was no worries. But here it was constant and I excepted that, since whenever I could remember I was on my own, in the dusty red, streets violence fighting violence and not just the outlaws the government too. Rubbish was piled high in some areas a dumping ground of the upper rich. However, this was no slum. The favelas, were small corrupt pockets built up in remote jungles, no one could get out.

A beam of early morning sunlight played on his face. He turned and scooted to another part of the bed in order to avoid waking. Within a few minutes the beam of sunlight had caught up with him again and was shining again directly on his eyelids. He lay there, his head in a fog, rubbed his eyes and stared at the white plastered walls trying to determine where he was and even who he was. The brightness of the room overwhelmed him with a fierce intensity. It was a few minutes before his eyes became accustomed to the light. He entertained his semi-waking mind by tracing patterns of the earthy colors on the tapestry that hung on the wall facing him. He rubbed his hands slowly on the bedsheet, felt a smoothness and said to himself, "This

The sensation of a moist tongue swirling around the indentation of his navel woke Booker from a restful sleep and groaning softly, he opened his eyes to the sight of Tom's brown hair bobbing in front of him. A lazy smile played over his lips, and he lovingly ran his fingers through the soft peaks of his lover’s mussed-up tresses. “Mmm, you should wake me up like this every morning.”

His phone pinged on the bedside table, indicating that he had a text, but he ignored it and flopped onto his immaculate white bed. The sounds of his parents arguing still traveled upstairs and the ringing of the slamming door haunted his ears. However, bad as the distraction was, there was nothing in the world that could have stopped him from falling asleep as soon as he hit the

I woke up on the very edge of my bed my blankets tossed on the floor and my head buried into a pillow. I groaned as I pushed myself off the bed picking up the blankets and laying them on the mattress. I stretched my arms and yawned as I walked over to my bathroom and twisting the knobs trying to find a perfect temperature.

He stood up from his desk, his long, white coat casually coming around his gaunt form. His light tanned hand stretched over to the fold open and flipped it closed. Tilting his head, he glanced toward the window and spotted at the silvery light slipping through the crack between the thick curtains. He didn't realize how late it was.

Star does so, slowly drawing from the old deck of cards. The hag takes the first pile and places it directly between them, "now let's see the roads you have walked." She flips the top card of the pile, revealing the ace of cups. "You came from fortune, of great station or of wealth," she smiles, "I can see it in your dress as well. What brings a noble to the outer ring to speak with me? No matter, all roads lead to their ends."

The night was long and restless , I gave Karen the sofa , I took the uncomfortable wooden chair . When I would doze off a nurse would come in to check on my dad , waking me up instantly . The morning was here , dad had awoke speechless just looking all around . I held his hand , feeling it shake from being scared .

I was walking down 7Th Avenue and the clocks had just struck 11. It was foggy, which I really didn’t mind, as I wasn’t supposed to be out. When you’re a crime-boss like me in a city as large and as complicated as New York you rarely go out. Yet, tonight, I had to be. I had to collect some money from someone in particular—a job none of the other guys could do. This was a lot of money.

He gathered enough dried and broken branches to burn throughout the night. Warm and tired, sleep should have been agreeable, but instead proved troublesome. With all he had been through, he was not surprised by his restlessness. He was surprised when a dream of his mother turned into a

Mr. Brunner watched his parents drive off into the night, with Shadow at his side. Mr. Brunner smiled and turned back. Shadow bounded for his bed, and immediately started to sleep. Mr. Brunner flopped onto the couch. It had been a long

He looks out across the bustling city street, shouldering the bag containing his meager possessions for what seems like the hundredth time; an action that had long ago become habit, comforting in its familiarity. His expression is one of determination, but his stance is one of utter defeat and loss. It is clear to all who see him that something is wrong, and yet nobody draws closer, instead simply walking past without sparing him a second glance. Ultimately, he is just another wanderer on the streets, and nothing about his appearance is spectacular or eye catching in any way. He is completely anonymous; blending in with the people hurrying on their way to their destinations, faces turned towards the ground, or perhaps to their companion in misery.

We then all went quietly in Sheila’s room. Natasha goes into the bathroom and came back shortly in a Long Shirt. We didn’t turned on the light because of the moon light and a nearby street lamp lit the room through the window that gave us enough light. In the meantime, Sheila has also made herself comfortable on a narrow folding bed, which was erected in the middle of the room. After Natasha had rolled in Sheila’s bed. I took off my clothes and slipped into bed with Sheila.

Stationary in the pulse of darkness, it’s as though he’s evolved out of nothing, fully formed, unencumbered. Despite it being some hours before dawn, he is not tired, nor is his conscience troubled. In fact, he’s alert and empty-headed and inexplicably elated. With no decision made, no motivation at all, he had moved toward the nearest of three bedroom windows and experienced such ease and freedom in his tread, that he suspects at once he’s dreaming. Dreams do not interest him; that this state should be real holds an infinitely richer possibility. And so he must be entirely himself, he’s certain of it, and he knows sleep to be behind him: to know the difference between it and waking, to know the boundaries, is the essence

The fresh grass tickled his sticky body as he crushed the living daylights out of them. Beneath the sun’s gaze, he laid still while absorbing the beauty of the outside world. It was perfect.