WRITING: start of a story

I was floating through an open field. The breeze gently wrestled with the tips of my shoulder length hair and a pleasant smell drifted up to me as I made my way across the rainbow of wild flowers. Suddenly, the sky turned black with anger and a flash of lightning was followed by a crack of thunder in the distance.

I sat up in bed as I awoke from my dream, a bird’s singsong voice wafted up to me through my open second-story window as I stepped onto the plush burgundy carpet. My feet made little thuds as I galloped down the steep stairway with the expectation of breakfast growling in my stomach. But the familiar smell of eggs and bacon frying weren’t noticeable as usual and the house was incredibly quiet. As I stepped into the kitchen, a feeling of fear fell through me, pooling in the center of my abdomen. Where were my parents? I looked at the refrigerator hoping to find a note explaining my their absence. None was there. I turned back the way I’d come and entered my parents bedroom. I’ll never forget what I saw. My father, at first glance, looked to be sleeping, but as I approached his unmoving body I realized he wasn’t breathing. I almost tripped trying to back away. That’s when I noticed their bathroom door. It was open and spotted with blood. I didn’t want to look inside, hoping with all hope that my mother was somehow still alive, but as I passed through the door, her lifeless eyes stared up at me.

This is the beginning of a story I never finished…


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