Mythwriter
Mythwriter joined
I am who I am, not who you make me. I will not be defined by lies and their insanity. I am who I am, forever to be. I choose, by and by, to look through opened eyes.
I am a writer, dreamer, and Christian who strives to make a difference in a world of little sense. I hope to use written and visual means to express creativity, and ultimately drive a point home to get people to think. For the wordsmiths and visionaries, charge on.
My Blogs
Drip... Drip... Drip...
She gazes out of the window, her eyes glazed over as she watches the dark clouds slowly move toward her. The dull conversation in the room around her adds to the gentle rustling of the leaves caused by the wind.
Drip... Drop...
Her fingers move slightly to the unknown beat, listening with half closed eyes to the patterns ignored by those around her. The girl beside her taps her pencil absentmindedly, adding to the symphony of noises.
Drip, drop, tap, drip drop, tap.
The windows begin to shudder as the winds pick up speed, whistling through the tree outside. The drip drop of occasional rain grows steadily into the constant pitter patter of a light drizzle. There is a flash of light and one of the girls yells in fright, the deep rumble of thunder melding with the constant noise.
Rumble... Pitter patter, pitter patter...
A young boy tears his notepaper out of his book, crumpling it furiously and throwing it into the trash can as thunder rumbles, ever closer.
Rip, rumble, crunch.
The rain begins to gain intensity, sounding like deep drums as it pounds against the ceiling. Marching feet, travelling through the storm, their tattered uniforms whipping in the howling wind as thunder rumbles behind them.
Thrum, thrum. Rumble. Crash.
Their feet shuffle as they try to simply stay alive, a crack of thunder setting the nerves every soldier on edge. Their only desire being for the warmth of a fire, they ache for just a little rest.
Pitter patter... Rumble.
Their pace- "Emily." She looks up at the face of the woman above her, her red hair in a tight bun and a stern look on her face, "Please, finish your assignment." Emily looks down at her desk, "Yes ma'am..."
Drip, drop, tap, drip drop, tap.
The woman walks away, leaving Emily to do the paper before her. She sighs and stares at the mass of numbers and letters, her pencil tapping as she thought, and her eyes glazing over.
Drip... Drip... Drip...
Of the dream,
Mythwriter
Post a comment
I do believe we'll leave your readers quite perplexed by that inside joke.
I would agree. Ah, the wonderful confusion of completely random pieces of speech
A Pinkus Jeepus!
Let the off-roading begin!
Quick! Hand me that weapon! I spot a penguin!