Elle courait dans le couloir comme le matin les joggers courent le long de la piste cyclable. C'était son entrainement quotidien. A défaut de joli chemin en plein air, le corridor était son stade. Et elle était rémunérée pour courir. Non pas pour faire la gloire de la Chine aux JO, non, mais pour faire circuler l'air dans cet immeuble-ville. Les mouvement d'air provoqué par ses déplacements assuraient en partie la ventilation de l'habitation. Elle fait partie cette génération remise au goût moderne des enfants des mines.
Une fois son jogging d'une heure effectué, elle pouvait vaquer à ses occupations...
I read the note that proves nothing except by its very existence.
Details.
I caught the thrill in your eye when the first tear fell.
Details.
I could never report you but nine out of ten questions, I answered correctly.
Details.
You're right, I suppose, that you never hit me.
Details.
Broke your pinkie moving a couch, eh? Left because she was a bitch? It always goes the same but it's never, ever your fault?
Details, details, details.
With a thundering bang, the gate closed behind them. They had not realized that they were being followed. Startled, the pair spun around. On the other side of the gate, a female figure stood, a heavy, elegant cloak draped about her shoulders, her dark hair streaming down her back. As she raised her arm ever so slightly, the trapped pair caught the smallest glimpse of... keys! The woman held the keys to the gate in her hand and tossed a disgusted look over her shoulder as she turned and began to walk away in the direction of the manor.
The...
she was tired. she was cold. she was a ninja and she was hungry. hungry for revenge. they were out there she just had to find them. the ninja girl gather herself and left the doorway. time for payback. out in the streets, people stared at the ninja girl. she ignored them and walked right passed the throngs of people. weapons must be located for ninja zombies wouldn't die on their own.
after weapon collection it was time for zombie hunting.
remember to cut off the head first this time she reminded herself. there are no points for style when...
Daring to be noticed for the first time in her life, she pushed her chair back and stood up. She realized her mistake. Cheeks going red, the burning feeling of all eyes on her, she wanted to sit back down but froze in that position, the terror rendering her unable to go further and unable to sit back down. Why did she want to be noticed? What had prompted such a stupid exercise in self will. The teacher stopped her lesson and looked at her. "Is everything okay?" she asked.
She didn't know what to respond. Was everything okay? No,...
It wasn't anything that could be helped. I had to go, so I went. Just before I reached the door, I managed to glance through the front window and saw my mother and Mrs. West arguing. I don't know what they were arguing about, but I knew for certain that one of them had the box, and also that both of them wanted it.
I wanted it it too, of course, and had already made up my mind that I would not be leaving this hick town until I had it. As the word spread day by day, my odds...
She could tell I was faking it. They all could. They'd have to have known I wasn't "fine". I mean, come on. It's not really rocket science to figure out when someone's on the edge, is it? Am I really hiding everything so well that no one even thinks to ask me for a real answer? Don't people get tired of all those stupid, meaningless conversations?
"Hey. How are you?"
"Oh, I'm good."
No, you're not. No one is ever quite as "good" as they say they are, so why do we let them say that they are? What if...
It was his job to paint portraits of people. They'd give him huge sums to paint them. Just look in the mirror, idiots! But it was his living, and he did it well. He lifted his brush to the canvas and glanced back at the young lady, who smiled. He smiled back weakly and started to paint. He loved the way the brush flowed over the canvas like ink out of a pen. It was beautiful. He painted slowly but surely, letting the paint take him where it needed to go. Soon the painting was finished. He showed the young...
I stare up into the sky, watching all the birds fly by.
Someday I'm gonna fly too.
My balloons float, why can't I?
I'm just a girl, I'm not special like you.
You flew and I want to fly after.
Not yet, but someday.
My head sighs but my heart beats faster.
I'll find a way.
He wanted people to know he'd been there, so he left his shoes. There was nothing else he could leave. He trudged back up the hill towards camp. But the boots stayed. Years after, as groups of people ventured to the clear lake, they saw his shoes and left their own shoes. Without meaning to, he had started a tradition. Pairs of shoes after pairs of shoes were left by the lake, a little memento of the wearer there by the lake forever. Pairs of shoes after pairs of shoes after pairs of shoes.