The beginning of an end.
He sits on the floor of the ocean, currents running swiftly over his smooth shell, uniquely decorated by Mother Nature herself. The gastropod sways, held gently in the flow of the water… when suddenly there is a disturbance in his tranquility. A strong tapping on his shell circulates fear and panic throughout his small and tender being. Microscopic chips of the shell fly through the water and fall to the bottom, soon to become one of countless unnoticed grains. Layer after layer, his shell is penetrated in cylindrical perfection, and access to the little creature’s delicate interior is gained through a flawlessly drilled hole. The monster lets out a moaning battle cry of triumph; the little clam is helpless as his insides are pulled apart.
Suddenly, I feel myself violently jerked from the bowels of my dreams, and pushed back into reality. The room is burdened with a thick and heavy atmosphere; it threatens to suffocate like a wet towel. I notice the time of day is ambiguous, but no one is around to really care. My stomach is alive with fire, so I rub my raw backside with a dirty t-shirt, and then slowly slide off the disheveled mattress, careful not to disturb the dirty bed sheets that litter it. The monster is in clear view, drunkenly draped across the dusty couch.
The fluorescent bulbs of the bathroom flicker fiercely as an attempt to turn on, but they never succeed at producing anything more than a dim glow. The green floral wallpaper is peeling, and is infested with mildew, the walls are sick and nobody intends to heal them. I wrap my fingers around the dirty porcelain sides of the toilet and empty the contents of my stomach. Soon, the consistent stream is reduced to dry heaves and I make my way to the sink. I twist the knob that produces hot water, and soon steam obscures the reflection staring back from the cracked mirror.
The scent of fresh vomit fills the air, bile lingers in my mouth, and stomach acids are tearing up my esophagus. The walls of the hallway rapidly start to narrow, threatening to trap me in, but my hand reaches the front door and I know I’m safe forever. I throw all my weight into pushing it open, and tumble out into the world as the door abruptly releases me. The world is milky and opaque; the clouds have ascended to earth, gracing all humanity with their heavenly presence. I duck behind a shrub, as the old lady next door emerges from the fog and enters my view. The wrinkles that have polluted her face have wrinkles and the scent of her breath is very similar to sulfur.
I can feel the gravel poking the vulnerable undersides of my feet as I wander out into the veiled street. Bright automobile eyes can be seen slightly in the far distance. In the middle of the road I lay waiting, entirely at peace.
A narrative I wrote for composition I. It's quite evident that I wrote the whole thing within about fifteen minutes before class.
Suddenly, I feel myself violently jerked from the bowels of my dreams, and pushed back into reality. The room is burdened with a thick and heavy atmosphere; it threatens to suffocate like a wet towel. I notice the time of day is ambiguous, but no one is around to really care. My stomach is alive with fire, so I rub my raw backside with a dirty t-shirt, and then slowly slide off the disheveled mattress, careful not to disturb the dirty bed sheets that litter it. The monster is in clear view, drunkenly draped across the dusty couch.
The fluorescent bulbs of the bathroom flicker fiercely as an attempt to turn on, but they never succeed at producing anything more than a dim glow. The green floral wallpaper is peeling, and is infested with mildew, the walls are sick and nobody intends to heal them. I wrap my fingers around the dirty porcelain sides of the toilet and empty the contents of my stomach. Soon, the consistent stream is reduced to dry heaves and I make my way to the sink. I twist the knob that produces hot water, and soon steam obscures the reflection staring back from the cracked mirror.
The scent of fresh vomit fills the air, bile lingers in my mouth, and stomach acids are tearing up my esophagus. The walls of the hallway rapidly start to narrow, threatening to trap me in, but my hand reaches the front door and I know I’m safe forever. I throw all my weight into pushing it open, and tumble out into the world as the door abruptly releases me. The world is milky and opaque; the clouds have ascended to earth, gracing all humanity with their heavenly presence. I duck behind a shrub, as the old lady next door emerges from the fog and enters my view. The wrinkles that have polluted her face have wrinkles and the scent of her breath is very similar to sulfur.
I can feel the gravel poking the vulnerable undersides of my feet as I wander out into the veiled street. Bright automobile eyes can be seen slightly in the far distance. In the middle of the road I lay waiting, entirely at peace.
A narrative I wrote for composition I. It's quite evident that I wrote the whole thing within about fifteen minutes before class.