The silhouette glided cross the wet pavement road, hopping over bumps and cracks in the aged concrete, carful not to wake the quit bundle of blankets shimmied under an arm. Town houses lined each side of the road, baracaded by a row of street lights, spilling yellow light into the houses windows, creeping under the cracks in the doors. The figure halted at the 11th house, studying it closely, before trudging up to the white door, age wearing away at it continuously, chipping away at the white paint, witch exposed the true wood. The shadow lifted it's hood, and bringing the infant to its face, pecking it's cheek lightly, while laying it down gently on the dryest part of the welcome mat. And without a word, the figure rung the doorbell, stealing back into the night, and did not look back once. -Live long and be brave martha, for there shall be no soul to wipe the tears from your cheeks.
YOU ARE READING
turning the key
Pertualanganmartha, its not nice to throw your food. martha, use your manners. martha, we don't ruthlessly decapitate people's limbs and force feed them to them in the form of a pot roast. silly little martha. and silly little martha does whatever the hell she...
