Prompts 152-154
Since I was gone this weekend for a guard competition I have a shitload to catch up with in all_unwritten. Never fear, Trika, they're all under lj-cuts.
There were children once. He could remember them, drawing with chalk, running in giggling circles in the garden. It was summer, and in the stifling humidity in which their parents languished, they were like fireflies, dancing and laughing.
They would run under sprinklers, mouths and chins stained bright colors from popsicles and candies. Young, still eager, they showed off their letters, writing in clumsy letters their names on the sidewalk.
There aren't any children anymore, and their names on the sidewalk were washed away with age and rain.
It was a grand house once, tall and ornate, with elegant Grecian pillars and large windows. The vast carved doors opened onto a marble staircase, led up to three stories of beautiful rooms, with poster beds, decorated like a French palace.
But it was empty now, fallen into disarray, because its people were pushed and pulled against their will, marionettes on a puppet, until time passing noticed them and brought them to their end.
And some little girl had loved it once, but big girls don't play with dolls.
http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v635/lady_aduial/?action=view¤t=shoes.jpg
They were gross. They were disgusting. She wanted to puke.
But she didn't. That would've been a little effeminate. It's not as if, you know, she was a girl or anything. She was one of the guys. Her shoes were just the same. But not really. They were a lot less disgusting.
"What's up?" one of them said. She had decided to renounce naming her guy friends. They were interchangeable now, an endless stream of "neck!" or "that's gay" or general curse words.
She paused. Did she really want to go down this road?
As it turned out, no. "Nothing."
Or, then again, maybe. "Your shoes are like a walking cesspool, boy," she said to one.
"Yeah, I know," he said, grinning like a maniac.
"You disgust me, all of you. You're filthy pigs."
"Yeah."
"So what are we watching?" she asked, flopping down on the couch next to them.
There were children once. He could remember them, drawing with chalk, running in giggling circles in the garden. It was summer, and in the stifling humidity in which their parents languished, they were like fireflies, dancing and laughing.
They would run under sprinklers, mouths and chins stained bright colors from popsicles and candies. Young, still eager, they showed off their letters, writing in clumsy letters their names on the sidewalk.
There aren't any children anymore, and their names on the sidewalk were washed away with age and rain.
It was a grand house once, tall and ornate, with elegant Grecian pillars and large windows. The vast carved doors opened onto a marble staircase, led up to three stories of beautiful rooms, with poster beds, decorated like a French palace.
But it was empty now, fallen into disarray, because its people were pushed and pulled against their will, marionettes on a puppet, until time passing noticed them and brought them to their end.
And some little girl had loved it once, but big girls don't play with dolls.
http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v635/lady_aduial/?action=view¤t=shoes.jpg
They were gross. They were disgusting. She wanted to puke.
But she didn't. That would've been a little effeminate. It's not as if, you know, she was a girl or anything. She was one of the guys. Her shoes were just the same. But not really. They were a lot less disgusting.
"What's up?" one of them said. She had decided to renounce naming her guy friends. They were interchangeable now, an endless stream of "neck!" or "that's gay" or general curse words.
She paused. Did she really want to go down this road?
As it turned out, no. "Nothing."
Or, then again, maybe. "Your shoes are like a walking cesspool, boy," she said to one.
"Yeah, I know," he said, grinning like a maniac.
"You disgust me, all of you. You're filthy pigs."
"Yeah."
"So what are we watching?" she asked, flopping down on the couch next to them.