A short story I'm escritura for escritura Club at High School:
He couldn't take it anymore. The anger was welling up inside him, filling his veins and pulsing to his brain a dark poison impossible to cure. He lost all hope.
Everyone picked on him; for the clothes he wore, the people he hung out with, his hair style. So what if he wore black skinny jeans and snake bite piercings? So what if he had jet black hair that covered one of his eyes? How about the música he listened to; what was all wrong with that?
The one person he thought had loved him had turned against him. She dicho that he wasn't good enough. She didn't like his style o the sound of his voice. She didn't want anything to do with him, anymore.
Several times he thought the sharp blade of a cuchillo would take all of his problems away. But, as he pierced the sensitive skin on his wrists, he only felt más pain and sickness. There was only one thing he could do, now....
Standing over the vast expanses he thought he had called home, he spat at the air. You never cared for me! tu only treated me with wrong! Why am I even here?
He walked closer to the edge, closing his eyes. The violent winds whipped across his face, probably forcing him to step back. But, will power and state of mind made him hold his ground. He will not last another segundo in this dark world.
He raised his arms out, letting all his weight be supported por the balls of his feet. He felt wobbly at first, until he pushed out adelante, hacia adelante a little more.
Faster than anything he had ever imagine, he felt something coarse throughout his body; a powerful force that sent his hair flying away from his face and his baggy chaqueta and skinny jeans quiver. He didn't dare to open his eyes, for he knew what he was plummeting in:
Air....
Now, it's your job to figure out what the título is... :D hoped tu liked my depressing story.
He couldn't take it anymore. The anger was welling up inside him, filling his veins and pulsing to his brain a dark poison impossible to cure. He lost all hope.
Everyone picked on him; for the clothes he wore, the people he hung out with, his hair style. So what if he wore black skinny jeans and snake bite piercings? So what if he had jet black hair that covered one of his eyes? How about the música he listened to; what was all wrong with that?
The one person he thought had loved him had turned against him. She dicho that he wasn't good enough. She didn't like his style o the sound of his voice. She didn't want anything to do with him, anymore.
Several times he thought the sharp blade of a cuchillo would take all of his problems away. But, as he pierced the sensitive skin on his wrists, he only felt más pain and sickness. There was only one thing he could do, now....
Standing over the vast expanses he thought he had called home, he spat at the air. You never cared for me! tu only treated me with wrong! Why am I even here?
He walked closer to the edge, closing his eyes. The violent winds whipped across his face, probably forcing him to step back. But, will power and state of mind made him hold his ground. He will not last another segundo in this dark world.
He raised his arms out, letting all his weight be supported por the balls of his feet. He felt wobbly at first, until he pushed out adelante, hacia adelante a little more.
Faster than anything he had ever imagine, he felt something coarse throughout his body; a powerful force that sent his hair flying away from his face and his baggy chaqueta and skinny jeans quiver. He didn't dare to open his eyes, for he knew what he was plummeting in:
Air....
Now, it's your job to figure out what the título is... :D hoped tu liked my depressing story.
January 15, 1815
Journal,
Its cold. My comida is almost gone, I can’t feel my hands. I lost my hat; my ears are frozen. My sisters are dying. Sasha has pneumonia, and Nastea’s lost her capa and shoes. My hair is falling out. I look at the broken down train behind us. Tree’s sleep soundlessly on parte superior, arriba of it. I sit at a árbol trunk, with tu on my lap, and a scrawny pencil in my hand. Nastea sits beside Sasha, feeding her berries and herbs. I hope things get better, Journal. I hope things get better.
Bye Journal,
Nadia
Journal,
Its cold. My comida is almost gone, I can’t feel my hands. I lost my hat; my ears are frozen. My sisters are dying. Sasha has pneumonia, and Nastea’s lost her capa and shoes. My hair is falling out. I look at the broken down train behind us. Tree’s sleep soundlessly on parte superior, arriba of it. I sit at a árbol trunk, with tu on my lap, and a scrawny pencil in my hand. Nastea sits beside Sasha, feeding her berries and herbs. I hope things get better, Journal. I hope things get better.
Bye Journal,
Nadia
she unloads his gun
She and he waits for this
he releases his love
In blue and green orbs
she gives him más and more
A million miles away
A million years girl
In a black woven chest
he digs his nails deep
She trusts in him for what he does
live in a house in the suburbs
He kisses the pain with blood and light
sleeping it off in the morning
A million miles away
A million years girl
In her world of his
she unloads his gun
In a world of his
she covers the sun
A million miles away
A million years
A million years girl