Bauxtridge Preparatory_Pictures on the Wall_The Fairweathers_The Devil's Apprentice
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Bauxtridge Preparatory
The expression on her face was unreadable as she took long, fast strides toward the formidablewww.onedoor.cc-looking Victorian building. If there was one thing she liked about England, it was the way all the buildings she ever saw practically oozed royalty– just like in the movies. She walked through the grounds of Bauxtridge Preparatory as though she had wings for legs– for the first time ever barely noticing the intricate patterns of the buildings she and Anna Leigh used to spend hours goggling over."Cris! Yo.. Cris. Wait up, girl!"She came to a stop mid-stride, cringing as if in physical pain at her newe...
Pictures on the Wall
Part 1 I don’t remember what her face looked like. Father doesn’t allow her picture to be hung on the walls, he hasn’t for an awfully long time. I don’t even remember what her voice sounded like, it’s a gurgle of a mess in my mind these days. No matter how hard I try, it's not even a distant memory anymore. I want to remember; I want to pretend she can touch me again. I want to see her face, but Father says I mustn’t.So instead, the halls that she used to walk are all I must remind myself. The roses have since wilted and father has yet to replant, they won’t bloom again. Not without her touch ...
The Fairweathers
Let me tell you the tale of the Fairweathers, a most ordinary family from the outside, but there is always more that meets the eye with the "ordinary" folks. The Fairweathers were the perfect family with grandma Sandra, mother Vivian, father Francisco, and their children Madeline and Carson. Sandra had pure white locks that fell just past her shoulders. Her eyes blazed with an emerald shine, darker but just as stunning as her daughter Vivian's. Vivian's hair was flaming red and fell in loose curls down her back. Vivian's eyes were a jade color and stood is stark contrast to her porcelain skin...
The Devil's Apprentice
By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. Soon, there'd be no trace of the man who'd killed me. The old oak was Fall-dry and fixing to burn. The flames licked at its bark as though they liked the taste. I just stood there, watering the dirt with my blood, sipping Old Crow from a chipped bottle. Edward Laramy dangled like a messed-up piñata; his dead eyes open in an accusatory fashion. The rope at his throat had turned the flesh purple and burst blood vessels bloomed like flowers beneath the skin of his cheeks. The mob had long high-tailed it out of town, but they needn't have bo...