short story emo shit
Pegasus Dream
The slushy snow cone sky seems to be bearing down on me as I walk home. I kick a few of the fall’s last papery leaves that have been sleeping in the gutter. Glamorous silver and red cars whip past me. The leaves float a few feet in the air like ghosts. I commiserate with these poor brown creatures, for I too am dead, only my death is internal. Alone in a quick paced world we are.
My backpack makes me feel like a small horse is resting on my backside and I am pleased to see my home looming ahead. Large oak trees line our block, every house is virtually the same, with the exception of different color doors and a few yards scattered with tacky pink flamingos and lawn gnomes. Suburban paradise.
My house is at the very end of the street. Very picturesque. Very welcoming. But very secretive. All along the block, gauzy shades cover the windows of these secretive houses, letting no mess spill out onto their perfectly manicured lawns. The fake smiles of their inhabitants give out no information to help us come to some conclusion of what the shades are suppressing, but even the shadows that swirl behind the plastic happiness aid our conclusion drawing. Even shadows tell a story, demented as it may be.
It begins to rain as I approached our gate. Tiny little droplets splattering my threadbare sweater, liquid polka dots on my book bag. As the sprinkling transforms into heavy, fat droplets, then faster and harder, feeling like gravel on my cheeks, my eye glasses fog, making me stumble. But I don’t wear glasses, and it isn’t raining. It’s merely the condensation in my brain. I shake my head, wondering why the rain feels so real, and lift my middle and index finger to my cheek. Amazed, I find my cheek is wet. Standing there, in the middle of a seemingly perfect world to such a young untarnished girl, I let my tears run down my cheeks, tasting the salt on my lips and feeling the shudders wave over my back. A pink, lacy curtain is pulled back across the street. Slanted eyes watch my private moment, wondering why Laughter would not escape from my lips in such a perfect place. Why does this girl Weep so? She must wonder. She is new to our perfect world, grown up in a small poverty-stricken neighborhood on the other side of town. Heaven on earth, she must think. She still finds the lawn gnomes charming.
The slushy snow cone sky seems to be bearing down on me as I walk home. I kick a few of the fall’s last papery leaves that have been sleeping in the gutter. Glamorous silver and red cars whip past me. The leaves float a few feet in the air like ghosts. I commiserate with these poor brown creatures, for I too am dead, only my death is internal. Alone in a quick paced world we are.
My backpack makes me feel like a small horse is resting on my backside and I am pleased to see my home looming ahead. Large oak trees line our block, every house is virtually the same, with the exception of different color doors and a few yards scattered with tacky pink flamingos and lawn gnomes. Suburban paradise.
My house is at the very end of the street. Very picturesque. Very welcoming. But very secretive. All along the block, gauzy shades cover the windows of these secretive houses, letting no mess spill out onto their perfectly manicured lawns. The fake smiles of their inhabitants give out no information to help us come to some conclusion of what the shades are suppressing, but even the shadows that swirl behind the plastic happiness aid our conclusion drawing. Even shadows tell a story, demented as it may be.
It begins to rain as I approached our gate. Tiny little droplets splattering my threadbare sweater, liquid polka dots on my book bag. As the sprinkling transforms into heavy, fat droplets, then faster and harder, feeling like gravel on my cheeks, my eye glasses fog, making me stumble. But I don’t wear glasses, and it isn’t raining. It’s merely the condensation in my brain. I shake my head, wondering why the rain feels so real, and lift my middle and index finger to my cheek. Amazed, I find my cheek is wet. Standing there, in the middle of a seemingly perfect world to such a young untarnished girl, I let my tears run down my cheeks, tasting the salt on my lips and feeling the shudders wave over my back. A pink, lacy curtain is pulled back across the street. Slanted eyes watch my private moment, wondering why Laughter would not escape from my lips in such a perfect place. Why does this girl Weep so? She must wonder. She is new to our perfect world, grown up in a small poverty-stricken neighborhood on the other side of town. Heaven on earth, she must think. She still finds the lawn gnomes charming.