Amber's Last Thoughts

      

This is about one of my fictional characters. I wrote this a while back.




      I was sitting in the hall, nothing happening, just sitting. He told me to wait for him, so I did. Hours were passing, time was flying, and he didn’t come. I had the feeling that something was wrong, but I didn’t trust my heart for once because he told me my heart would lie to me one day. By midnight my heart was choking, and praying I would listen, yet I still pushed it to the side. That’s when Amy found me, and said she was sorry and that I wasn’t safe. Why didn’t I believe her? Her news was threatening, unbelievable to any normal kid. He was killed after school, stabbed with his own arrow from archery. His killer was after me, and I ignored the warning. Amy stayed with me till one, and then said she was going to get someone else to watch me, and I told her I was fine. At two Chris told me he was there for me. And that as long as I didn’t leave him as I had before he would always protect me. That’s when he pulled a knife, and ended my life. The last thing I saw was my archer, who died trying to save me, fly by in my mind. And my murder’s voice drifting off into space made me cringe, and quietly scream at him, asking why he had done this. But I knew why, he loved me still, and since he couldn’t have me, no one could.

Summer Storm

A longing lake loved within all,

Silence falls again once more.

The trees sway, shimmering softly now.

The trees beat, bow and bend.

A bird falls quiet not before,

And yet not after the noisy, old cow.

The flowers stop not to mend,

The flowers that stop for fall.

A frisky wind is not to allow,

Oh, what control it will depend.

The winter born deer make their call,

The winter born deer no longer feel sore.

A whistling is now heard to send,

So loud that it could never be for a doll.

The waves, they are crashing unlike before,

The waves the enemy of the workers plow.

A symphony of calamity all before fall,

Sounds more beautifully detonated than of that cow.

The storm, oh, how it is willing to lend.

The storm, it is rain but so much more.

A thrill thundering through the sky for all,

Tocking clocks dock before the initial blend.

The ships the have landed as all have before,

The ships seem to be leading the prow.

A chilly killed unliked thought is now not to be bore,

But like all sweet seeded scenes the storm seems to fend.

The rain, how it answers the chalky chuncky cheeky call,

The rain, and the life it is willing to allow.

A deep colored down cast sky at its core,

You would think we could, would, and should just fall.

The promise of live after the last calls of the cow,

The promise of truth of what the storms truly defend.

A storm used like the workers plow,

People seem to be repeating their work in all.

The clouds are so much more,

The clouds and how they mend.

A child clings to the widow and seems to bow,

They are tired but need to see that core.

The trip had been unlike any trend,

The trip and how it too seemed to join the call.

But storms all come to their end,

Never as they did the way they did before.

The ticky pricking licks from the plow,

The ticky time tipping into the water made wall.

But storms all come to their end,

And then returns the noisy, old cow.

The birds, flowers, and deer come to be all,

The birds and their perfectly pitched praises asking for more.

A longing lake loved within all,

Silence falls again once more.

The trees sway, shimmering softly now,

The trees beat, bow, and bend.

I have not posted in the longest time!!!!!!

I'm fixing this today!



This is something I wrote for school called Robinson, I hope you like it!

      Names weigh nothing in times like these, that is why I will tell you my story first.

     My life started ending when I was back in my home town of Boston, Massachusetts. My family had left me at a friend’s house for the day, I was only eight at the time, while they went into town to go to the festival.   The train went off its tracks and blew to smoking flames when it hit the bottom of the valley. Eight and an orphan, I didn’t know what had happened for three days, because that is when the paper came boasting about how a city had made it past the flames of burnt iron slamming the floor. This was the first of three deaths in the end of my life.

     The second came years later when I was around the age of 15. Flashbacks of losing my parents and sister then moving to Romania 7 years earlier still flooded my mind. I lived with my Great Aunt those seven years. I had become heard even though her fresh baked bread tasted like heaven as its sweet smell filled the sometimes cold house. I wasn’t completely alive any more, I had lost too much. Cinders of pain slept on my back, I was always tense, and no one could touch me. My Great Aunt loved me any way, though we never saw eye to eye. We were the only family we had left and that was enough for her.

     She died of a shuddering halt of her heart we think. No one knows for sure. Old age maybe? But who really cares now? She was 89, and I was 15, and again I was alone. I visited her grave every Sunday afternoon though. Somehow I felt more at home sitting on the stripped earth on the cemetery. The smell old molded old flowers filled the air, the cold stone enchanted me with its beautiful engravings. Just a boy in a cemetery, simple enough right? If that’s what you think, then you aren’t looking hard enough. I was the boy who saw death in life and life in death. Nothing could please me. Nothing.

     There was one Sunday though when I didn’t go in the afternoon. I was 17, and I was too intrigued by the night to go while it was light out. Someone told me a ghost story, I had to see it. There was nothing and no one to stop me. When I stepped through the familiar gates chills shuddered down my spine, gripping every muscle and tearing from the bone slightly, then replacing them. The stories were true, and the assumption had more to them.  A pale blue figure danced about, shimmering a few inches above the path ahead of me. A clear cloth clung to it, just a wisp in the undead wind of silence.  After approaching it, I was never the same. I was fully alive again. It was a girl, who had been 15 for 300 years, and she was beautiful.

     I became ill a few months later. I became weaker, and I wasn’t hungry any more. I died a quiet death in a lonely hospital room, but that was okay. She was waiting for me at my final resting place. And thus I went through the third and final death of the end of my life, and yet it can also be viewed as the beginning it.

     The stone above my head bears my name, Chand S. Robinson. And my princess’s name, just down the way, Acanthus K. Negus.