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|Reigning (profile) wrote, |
on 10-17-2003 at 4:15pm
|Music: The Transplants
Subject: I wrote this sometime in 8th grade too
|"I just can't think of anything!" Samson said, throwing his pencil down in frustration.
Samson was a small town journalist from the "Greenford Greeting," a newspaper in Greenford California.
He sat at his desk with his head in his hands.
"It's okay, hun," his wife Susan said. "Don't worry about it."
"Don't worry about it! I have to have a short story written by Thursday and I have no ideas! I'm going for a walk, I need to clear my head." With that, he got up, grabbed his coat and hugged his wife.
"Be careful, dear," Susan said.
"I will," and he slipped into the cool night air. His breath appeared in front of him then floated on with every exhale.
After walking several minutes aimlessly through town, he heard a peculiar sound. He tried to follow it and was led to an alleyway. He started to make his way down it, stepping on glass and other things he didn't know. Then he heard a man's voice.
"Shh! Be quiet, dammit!" Samson heard the man say in a sharp, hushed voice. Then he heard a woman's voice.
"No, please," it pleaded, "please stop."
Samon quietly walked further on. He came to a corner and could see a man and woman beside a dumpster. The man had the woman pushed against the wall, with a knife to her neck. It was much too dark to identify either of them. Then, the man whispered something in the woman's ear and stabbed the knife deep into her stomach. It went in with such ease, her stomach seemed almost as if it were butter. The woman crumbled to the ground.
Suddenly, the man turned and looked straight into Samson's eyes. A chill ran down Samson's spine. The man's eyes flashed maliciously, then he turned again and fled. The darkness encased his body and Samson could no longer see him. He looked back at the woman in a heap on the ground. he slowly wlaked forward. When he got closer he could see she was still slightly consious. Blood stained her entire front and waws still flowing to the ground, creating a black-red puddle. The knife was no where in sight. He kneeled down next to the woman. She seemed to try to focus on him, but failed and gave up. She closed her eyes and whispered in a hoarse voice, "Skinner... it was him..." And then she died.