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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Something of a mix between the great gatsby and gossip girl. Only the prologue. Involves a myriad of people who lives tangle. Conflict.

Submitted: April 19, 2007

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Submitted: April 19, 2007

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PrologueIt was the first day of July.The day when the suns rays scorched hottest on the moving masses of lands. The sun, exhausted from it's own heat seem to ache behind the clouds, letting it's infant rays bleed through the unassuming shapeless white puffs. The clouds held the burden of the splattering heat on their crescents. Weak from the sun sparks,  the clouds let the winds pass by. The winds whistled. They breezed past the soft grass that covered the earth yearning for warmth of the sun but only receiving the cover of the white puffs. The spiky green patches swayed together under the soft breeze as the clouds continued their tempo of sliding by and then disappearing. The grass tilted with the wind and then drew back to their roots. The wind grew stronger taking hold of the grass by the tips and dragging it. The air was thick and the sun, still pale, let it's few beams warm the grass and dried up the last tears.  The wind grasped the curvy petals of a white flower. The petals twirled a few fantastic steps guided by the wind before they collapsed to the green blanket.  A pair of deep chocolatey brown eyes set in a stone face watched. The eyes moved with the joyful petals that cared not for the sun but for the wind that grew stronger. The dark eyes did not waver from the floating white petals but instead focused as a composer does with his symphony, always watching the melodies and the quick rapid beats. The boy's strong hands,for he was young, moved to the daisy he was holding. It was almost naked now except for a single white petal connected to the yellow center. Gently, he plucked the last one and once again watched it dance its waltz with the wind. It twirled for a few seconds and then gave up quicky. With the petals gone the boy moved his eyes, searching for a distraction.  The boy, with the same unnatural intensity in his eyes looked up to the pasture of clouds sliding by. He looked back to the grass and bent his knees to grab another daisy, continuing to take it's white crown while counting each one that he tookoff under his breath. One. "Our father that art in heaven." The preacher, dressed in black clothing spoke as beads of trickling sweat planted upon his brow.  Seven. The boy returned to shutting off the easy voice of the preacher, studying the slopes of the next petal he would unforgivingly take. A girl next to the boy, in the same somber black color as him, glanced at the flower he held and quickly turned her pointed face back to the preacher. She began to tap her feet, humming the notes of a song silently in her head. There was another boy, more of man though, next to the girl with the tapping feet. He was taller than the first boy and did not have the same dark sensuous eyes as he did. He reached into his jacket pocket, his father's jacket. The suit was uncomfortable on his broad shape and the tall boy shrugged to loosen up the weight. He never had a reason to own a suit, except for today. His hands, roughed and edged, worked itself in to the pocket and fingered an envelope going over the smooth paper.  Twelve. The boy with the dark eyes grabbed the petals without pity, throwing them on the grass. His eyes didn't move to watch the white petals leap through the wind and he furiously grabbed another one.  The three people watched the clouds, the sun, the grass each time avoiding one another's faces. They blended in to the dark crowd, one anamorphous black clot. There was a total of one hundred and twelve people at the funeral on that breezy July day and each one was thankful as the sun, done with it's work trickled down the horizon. It's last yellow beams turned into a rosy pink color in the sky and the clouds, still thick, turned a pleasant violet color. Slowly, the sun set knowing that once more it would have to rise as it had always done since the day of the Mycenaean’s. Sixteen and the stub fell limp in the boy's hands. The girl, continued to tap her feet, each time letting a few of the notes run down her pink mouth. The tall boy ran his tough fingers over the envelope bending the corners a little. They tried to forget the gnawing fear that chewed on their mind. The monstrous fear whose body was made of the memories of thatdesolate and rotting corpse. If they thought of petals and songs then they could distract themselves from the fear. Just maybe they would forget.  Forget that the body in the coffin, was really their fault.


© Copyright 2018 j e brooks. All rights reserved.

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