Beginning Creative Writing 16665

Tory Hargrove
Beginning Creative Writing (16665)
Professor Brian Yansky
17 November 2014
“You stand there and accuse me, but where were you at the time?” She said.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know. He didn’t tell me you were from the past, I’m sort of in training.” He said.
“In training? What the fuck could you be in training for? YOU’RE FUCKING DEAD! Remember dying? What could you possibly be talking about? What is this place? Is this Heaven or could I somehow be dreaming? Please stop! Just tell me already! Am I dead? Please tell me.”
“I knew you wouldn’t be able to see it through.” He said.
“Am I supposed to be scared now?” She said.
“Did you enjoy yourself last night?” His head leaned closer to her again, but this time he had one eyebrow fiercely strained downward as if he was sternly waiting for Lucy to answer.
“Why won’t the cynic ditch the enormous silence?” He said.
A simultaneous paradise attends in the cozy workload. The newly recruited guardian angel knows this, but Lucy doesn’t, of course, she’s never been dead before. She’s never seen Heaven or Hell. It’s not her time. Her clock still hangs. Her clock still ticks. Lucy’s suffering still has an eternal opening to change things for people like this existing in sorrows on Earth.
“Midnight, on the bridge. Come alone like you always would.” He said.
After the childish need stamps its useful witch, Lucy calms down. The guardian angel with the face of a young man recognizable from her devastation of a past is no longer standing there. She finally looks around since the horizon has changed for her second day in whatever universe she could have possibly landed into off Avenue Bridge in her own home town of Austin, Texas.
The clock stuck two for the second time since Lucy landed in this weird place. In fact, Lucy had been aware of the clock ticking above her in the same spot out of the grayness for exactly twenty-five hours now according to the white clock’s timing. When the clock struck two for this second time since Lucy had fallen, she had forgotten about the terrifying cuckoos of yesterday. She was expecting no cuckoo at two o’clock today. She thought it only came once yesterday. And she was in so much shock and confusion, she couldn’t remember what time the appearing cuckoo came out of yesterday’s grayness even if she wanted to because of it’s randomness and her uncertainty of it’s conspicuous meaning, it honestly scared the shit right out of Lucy, taking her brain’s ability to attain the memory of time right with it! Nevertheless, the clock struck two, and the cuckoo came to Lucy for the third time since she’s fallen. She didn’t care this time. She was looking for an escape back to the town she loved, but seemed to be simultaneously tormented by these days. She had to get out of this place. She needed to go home. She needed to fix things. She needed to change things tormenting herself and others in her hometown. Will Lucy still be here when the clock strikes eight tonight? Will she be expecting or give any attention to the fourth cuckoo if she still hasn’t found an escape back home?
The lit passage abstracts the razor. Lucy feels the pain of why she wanted to be here in the first place. She had hated her life on Earth. She see’s the light in the horizon now. She see’s the danger of the infection now. She didn’t want to build any sort of life on Earth. She was infected. But that was different now.
The infect method faults a work. That’s what those eviler type of angels want. And they all wanted it from the good soul of Lucile Parker from her youngest of years. Lucile may not think this is real, but the battle between the fallen to corrupt the un-fallen angels’ workload is very real.
The flavor orbits underneath a narrative. The conversation between Lucy and her deceased male friend will be remembered as an illusive dream to Lucy, but the flavor orbits underneath a narrative in that illusive haven of hers.

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