in the beginning, there was nothing. wide, open plains filled with tall grass and covered by a blanket of perfect silence. even the air was still.
it started with a piercing, hollow shriek of wind, that spun through the high grass and turned the golden skies to the deepest black.
the end came much like the beginning. through the constant, mechanical sounds of life came the siren of the wind. it tore down city streets and wound around the sharp bends of country back roads. it ripped everything in its path to pieces, gathering into a whirling, dark mass of storm and debris.
and then it was over. all that remained were the wide open plains, held together overhead by a shining gold sky.
YOU ARE READING
a last note from your narrator
Poetrypeople write because no one listens - h.h. a collection of short stories written in various points in my life. mostly bad points. fair warning. title from the book thief by markus zusak i...
