Bean's story_A New Viewpoint_An elf in the library_Mrs. Morrison
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Bean's story
That's the thing about this city. No one lives in it. Except me. Me and my loyal dog Lick-- back off I named her when I was five.-- So here I am writing in a notebook I stole from the store that no one shops at. And if you want to know why everyone left. I don't know. I just grew up here all by myself and have never seen another person. Okay okay, calm down. I will answer all of your questions in time, but I thought it would be fun to write down what my days are like living in an abandoned city. Entry 1 That first entry wasn't official. But this one is. Hi, my name is Bean. I came up with tha...
A New Viewpoint
A Different Viewpoint“That’s the thing about this city nothing ever changes, or at least never anything important. Why can’t there be anything for a kid to do? There is nothing.” She sat in the swing on the front porch idly moving it back and forth staring out across the street www.onedoor.ccat the empty house. Feeling angry at being so bored she was just about to go clean her room when a large moving van pulled into the driveway of the empty house. This made her perk up significantly. “What is this?” She sat forward watching the driver climb out of the truck cab and walk to the back of the trailer and unl...
An elf in the library
It was the perfect hiding place. The Aryan crew, the Taylor Street Ballers, and the cops want me dead. I am secreted in the old forgotten Beckley Library at the center of City Park praying that I will survive.I lived on Capital City's streets for 10 years because I lost my job and my house. So, it has been the street life for me.My life living rough in the park is not completely unpleasant because I have a part-time job flipping burgers and share an off-the-beaten-path grotto with four close friends. We have to endure the violent gangs that terrorize the park. The cops harass us if we enter th...
Mrs. Morrison
Mrs. MorrisonMrs. Morrison was too busy to die. And yet, by the end of the day that is exactly what would happen. Her demise was unexpected, certainly not something to worry about this morning, not on a day as lovely as this. Outside her freshly painted Cape Cod, Mrs. Morrison’s azaleas were in full bloom, a little late this year but more than worth the wait. The dogwood that dear Donald had planted in 1948 reigned in the courtyard; in a week or two, depending on the rains, it would shower the brick beneath it with creamy petals; the passage of another year marked in white. Just to the north o...