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Walking Alone

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Original Writing Dew clings to the harsh pale grass. The cool droplets of water stick to my bare legs as I brush past, silently, stealthily. Where am I going? It'll come back to me in a moment. I'll just follow my instinct. Right, if I'm automatically taking this direction to Wherever, then this is the right way. Wearing my jacket was a good idea. I had to rummage to find it. I can't remember the last time I wore it. I can't even remember when I was last out of town for a weekend. That would be nice; a weekend out with a few friends- not that I'd ask. They'd probably be busy anyway. Ok, I cannot get distracted. I shall walk on. Left, right, left, right. I'm starting to enjoy this monotony. Yes, this is rather pleasant, rather agreeable. I look around for some sort of landmark, or something to help me recognise where I am. I won't admit to being lost because that would call into the question of my destination, which, to be honest, is still unbeknownst to me. ...read more.


I pull my jacket tighter around me and shiver again, glancing around, praying, pleading, for some form of refuge. The house is not an option, it's someone's home. I can't break in. Not now, anyway. I trudge towards a large wooden gate. I thwack it open, shocking myself as I do so. An ear-piercing screech of pain comes from the gate, like a toddler protesting against eating the remnants of her cereal. I guess my thwacking skills aren't quite up to par, the gate's stuck. What now? Onwards again? Alright, I'll stomp my feel around a bit to restore some warmth to my pathetic shell of a body. That's better, slightly. Argh, my eyes! Some plonker has his headlights on full and he's facing me head-on. Perhaps I should step out the way. Oh, he's slowing down. My rescuer, maybe? That would be nice... "What the hell do you think you were doing, standing in the middle of the road at this ungodly hour?" "I see spots...." I whimper. ...read more.


A child's laughter, my laughter. A hot summer morning: we were having a barbeque. I swung on this swing. I lived in this house. The memories come flooding, hitting me with a wave of nausea. I look up at the house, my house, my poor, poor house. Mutilated, derelict, left piteously to ruin. It's ugly, horrific. My once beautiful house is looking like a dump. This grass was once green, and this porch was once magnificently up kept. Memories. I now know why I didn't recognise it at first. All those memories, those awful memories, blocked out for all these years. I clutch my head and keel over, onto the callous ground. There is an immense pressure on my head. Bottled up for all these years, it's finally unleashed on me again. I convulse and vomit, thus further disfiguring the house. Another sharp burst of pain in my side. I'm in agony, reliving the past. I'm dying. I'm dying at the place of my birth; whoever came up with the Circle of Life must be smug. I convulse one more time and pass out, my head in a fug of trapped memories, waiting to be recollected. Original Writing Anna Sturrock ...read more.

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