Miss. Write
I'll Protect You
I heard the crunch of the browned and crusty snow beneath my feet. It was impure, disgusting, and hardened like this damned world. All the people are the nasty little pieces of salt and dirt that clump together, tainting the virgin snow. Every person is poisoned by every other person. Their imperfections, their ugliness. It's revolting. I didn't think anyone was pure to the insanities this world has created. The grey clouds mocked me, keeping the beauty of the blue sky and the sun hidden from me, as I trudged through the slush, watching the chaos of the hideous people skating on the pond, I could smell the exhaust drifting through the one part of the city that was supposed to be celibate from the touch of man's destruction and pollution. People looked away as they passed me, they wished not to see my judgments of them. A small boy ran down the path knocking his arm into my side. My stack of books fell into the slush. I felt my blood boil and a vile taste formed in my mouth as I crouched down to retrieve my goods. That was when you came up behind me and reached your precious hands into the cold mush on the ground, retrieving my lost treasures. Your long dainty fingers wrapped around the broken spines of my favorite novels, your silky skin, the delectable color of milk freshly squeezed from the udder, intertwined with the cream of the old book pages. I turned my head to look at you. Your long flowing mane blocked your face from me, a curtain of golden sunbeams to hide the masterpiece I was awaiting. You turned your face to me wiping away your hair, a youthful glow of happiness and innocence overwhelmed me. Your eyes were two opalescent sapphires to which not even the Hope Diamond could compare. You smiled, crinkling your lightly freckled Grecian nose. Sweet girl, those are not just freckles though, they are angel kisses, or kisses from one angel to another. "Here." Your voice was a melody playing upon my heart strings. Your hand reached towards me holding the books and I nearly fell back into the nasty snow.
Miss. WritePublished about a month ago in Horror
The Unoriginals
“Number eight. That is my identity. It was Susan... my father... or at least the man I knew as my father, called me Susie, but on paper I am number eight out of twelve. I am not an original nor am I the original of the unoriginals. I am a replica. Doctor Elaina Brooks, 72 Warwick Avenue, Moab, Utah, the woman I am on my way to see.” I handed him a photo. “She is not a copy. She is who I am, or rather I am her. There is no difference between us, aside from age I suppose. I hadn't thought about that before but she is twenty seven years older than me... than all of us.” We passed a large sign covered in blue skies, and dusty orange land, the Delicate Arch sitting gracefully behind white lettering. Welcome To Utah: Life Elevated.
Miss. WritePublished about a month ago in Futurism
