Once upon a time, there was a young girl.
She sat on a rusted swing, the park long abandoned.
She sat, her pigtails tied in red ribbon.
She sat, her once sparkling eyes, now clouded over.
She sat in a blue and white plaid dress- though this story is told without color.
Her blonde hair fell over her shoulders, her black MaryJane's just touching the dirt.
She sat there, and just stared.
Simply. Stared.
No one knew of the park, no one knew of her. No one passed on the dirt road in their fancy new cars, no one seemed to have a clue- not one- of the poor little girl.
Shall I not have pulled at your heartstrings yet, well, then perhaps you are searching in all the wrong places.
For the tale of this girl is not a happy one.
YOU ARE READING
Constantine
TerrorA short story that originally was to be a poem- some have called ...dark. Though I, on the other hand, like to see it as more of a, mm, different outlook on things. Was written for an assignment, to be made after the style of Edgar Allan Poe. My ins...
