In my Art class...The smell of paint lingers,
No matter how much fresh air blows through.
Paint splatters from classes long gone,
Still stain the old wooden tables,
Some hold names of the people,
Who have come and gone.
Some are pieces of artwork all their own.
Each tell a story.
We sit on the old stools,
Hard and uncomfortable from all those years of wear,
Ideas flow from each creative mind.
You could almost hear them.
If you listened, maybe.
There's always one person,
Who everyone admires.
He sits at my table,
Pencil skittering across the paper.
He stops to chat,
He argues with the teacher,
He gets sent out of the lessons,
He doesn't even try.
Yet this boy always comes out,
With the best works of art,
In the whole of our group.
We all feel the pressure.
His name may not be on any of the tables,
But it will be on the walls and the displays,
For many years to come.
Freedom of the MoonSilence.
That's all that could be heard. Not the tiniest of creaks. None of the usual footsteps and calls for people to go on missions. Not even the spiders were out today, they felt no inclination to weave their silken silver traps between the oaken beams.
The water from a broken tap in the small kitchen finally pooled enough to drip down into the sink. Once. Twice. Three times. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Morticia watched it through the window of the box she was staying in, lying on the small bed listlessly. Her one green eye looking but not really seeing.
It was that time again, and she was confined to the diamond box. Forced to watch the afternoon light filter dimly through the translucent stone, and forced to sit in complete solitude lest she got out and killed someone.
Not Morticia herself... But her.
Thursday 'Flame' Morgues. The most ruthless killer and hunter ever to have set foot anywhere. She could kill a room full of people in less than two seconds, and that was w
MistakesWords left unspoken
Things left undone
You know you've done wrong
Guilt racks your body
There's nothing left to say
Secrets kept hidden
Until your very last day