Here is a Random Short Story (if you could even call it that.) That I wrote when I was in the zone. (wtf?)
Don't steal it or I will hunt you down and kill you.... (why would anyone want to steal this sh*t anyway.....?!?!?)
*the following material is in need of drastic editing, to bad I suck at editing...
The Witch at Dawn:
The wind tares at the seams and she wanders down the hill. Every person in the world is asleep everyday, she is awake. She wanders through the woods and she hums a nervous tune. For, she has not let go of all her pride, it’s not time to die yet. She is not ready to be stoned to death, she first needs to find her purpose in the woods. She knows that her purpose in the city is null and void. Every person in the city knows not really what they are supposed to do, they just pretend. The city is for pretenders. The woods are for animals with purpose. A vital niche. She needs to find her vital niche. A nameless, faceless, and endless at that, she wanders through the darkest part of the pines. She finds the place were she left her happiness so many moons ago. This place still smells of smoke, this place still reeks of innocence. She is not bitter now, for she is not in front of the sun. The moon, is a lot less judgmental than the sun. (In her experience of course.) The city is still lit, you can in fact see the lit city, from the top of the forest. She is at the bottom of the trail, she will climb her way up , until the light of the city is masked by the light of day. It’s show time, she must now prove to herself that her pride is less than the night’s wisdom. The night is older than the day, the night has always been, the day came later. She was born into the night, she empathizes with the wisdom the night has that know one appreciates.
The green eyes linger in the shadows, the spaceship is still a lit. The blackest people in the meadow everything is now forming a tip. The grave yard is florescent, the failures all banish with the dust, people carry their microphones with way too much lust.
The devil only resides in the voids of living flesh. The woods, the pines, and the dirt ground do not have flesh. They have years, they are bored and they do not have fears. Only humans shed tears. She is not a tree, she is not a human. What is she? She is a lost witch at dawn.
Maybe on another occasion she would take the long path, the long and winding road up to the top. This night, she argues against it, for she does not know what will happen. The darkness is the hole, the hole that is the void, the void that is the devil. The light is the warm sun, the sun that is the knowledge, the knowledge that is “God”. Of course, God is a Placebo, of course the devil is a placebo too. Which placebo will you swallow today?
The tree’s never have a chance to swallow, they just reside, thrive, and die. She wants to be a tree in another life. She wants to only Reside, thrive, and die. Without the devil, without God, just with the other pines, and the dirty ground.
The journey begins to settle her. The wind’s moans become atypical of the night. The sky is now as black as faded eyeliner. It’s green almost blue. The yellow of the sun will come next, but now it’s just a mound of coal. She now remembers the last time she was here, when her fears were shared with smoke and green eyes. Her tears are now taking methylphenidates, they will focus in on her, and take over her body like a Scorpio rising Nazi. Fuck. Her weakness for all the pines to see. Crying is so hard, so is sharing your misery. It will pass, it will circle for a while, then it will pass. The hills become a bit harder, the climb is a little rough, the water from the river is filling up her lungs. She’s still breathing, she will be fine. She makes it to the overpass, with just enough time.
The last focus of the institution was to make their patients swim, find another land form, to start a new, and begin. What will they do now, now that there holy placebo has run out? They will starve for a new messiah, they will elect one of their own, they will soon find that everyday people still long to go home. They will kill their new messiah, they will make him pay. For he just tried to help them, he just tried to say “die and become a tree.” That’s the only advise that he had.
The water is foaming at the end of the bridge. The blisters are healing, what now? What will become of you? What will you do? You don’t have a plan, you can’t see anything through. What is this that you think you must prove?
She ponders at last, why am I here? Where else would she be, lying awake, shaking in the covers of another mistake? The woods are the best option, every time, she just has to remind herself of this. The grass becomes longer as she starts to eye the spot, at the top of the trail. There is a wooden block, that has been carved into a bench. The city is still lit. The only people in the city are the sick, crazy, and of course the Patients too. She is on the top of the town, looking down, she starts to turn the frown from the journey upside down. A crooked smile, a forced smile, but a smile. She is the witch, she is the itch that know one can scratch, she is the bitch that know one can spay. She now is on top of the town. She is not the bottom, the bottom is under her.
The night turns, she panics. What will become of her? Will she sit back down? Will the town start to search for the witch, the witch that disappeared that night? Or will the town just decide to find another witch. A witch with moral, a witch with an eager stare, a witch with golden blonde hair?
Yeah, that’s probably what will happen. Bastards.
