Snow in May_Last Gasp_Mrs Agatha_A Place of Beauty and Darkness
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Snow in May
Once upon time, a spring day in May, the town was silent with snowy cold mist. The weather was being so nice and everyone loved to stay in house without going out anywhere else. The poet Mr. Dupre was writing the poem about the girl who was beautifully walking towards in the mist. Her figure was clear and clearer when she ran closer to him. He couldn’t look away from her at that time because she was so beautiful like an angel in the mist. She wore a beautiful baby pink dress with fluffy coat. She ran over to the church and then she opened the door and ran again towards...
Last Gasp
They woke up, laying on their stomach.Groggy.Feeling out of sorts.Their head throbbing with a grinding headache.Keeping their eyes closed against the brightness around them, they shifted position.They tried to roll over, and groaned. Everything was sore, aching. Their ribs complained at the movement, their neck started to spasm, their back and hips tightened up.Their legs tangled in the sheets as they tried again to turn over, flopping back on the bed. Exhausted from the movement, and short of breath.They must have pushed too hard on that last ride. Maybe they would take a sauna before heading...
Mrs Agatha
Am not so sure then in Biafran land if there was 50 people that can read anything written in any language, including igbo language 40 percent.British colonial Masters on their part couldn't speak igbo language 20 percent, yet, they were the ones that came out with written form of it. I was wondering how one can write 100 percent language one found difficult to speak 20 percent. To breached the gaps, force, injustice, disrespect had to marry, for the culture and traditions of the people In question warrants that indirect rule was the only option available for the British that found it difficult...
A Place of Beauty awww.onedoor.ccnd Darkness
*trigger warning* child abuse and violence against LGBTQ+ In a place of beauty and darkness, there sits a throne which is made up of all the time that ever was. Seated upon it is the Old Year and every soul who leaves their life must pass through these midnight halls on their way to the next. The Old Year does not judge, it is now and forever and exists simply to ease the passing and hear the tales of what went before from those that wish to tell them. A young woman approaches the throne, painfully thin with hair shorn short to her head, the memory of fire and ice in her veins still from the d...