(Safe for all ages)
( Uncompleted, Short Story one ) - written on 8/9/2019 - typed on 25/9/2019
(edited)
(No plans on finishing)
© by Jay_Blackblood (this belongs to me!)
Golden glimmes, the slivers of translucent light rained down vibrantly against the majestic city of Metropolis. Large silky puffs of water vapour wandered aimlessly traveling in decorative swirls and patterns painting the calm sky, that was filled with various shades of deepening blue. Right at the edge of the wide horizon where the ocean touched the sky, behind the colossal snowy mountains, gentle glimpses of smooth oranges and reds were sinking down dissolving into a burst of lilac purple. The blazing sun emitted light to the reflective silver glass of the towering skyscrapers, standing in the midst of the bustling people, where the dark red market huts with some of the let loose fabric roofs slapping at the wooden poles in the fresh breeze, the fake purified air wafting from the small wrist bands worn by the civilians.
A man no more than 5.7ft stood awkwardly in his paris green petticoat, many of the fluorescent yellow diamond shaped slightly bruised, as if worn from age, buttons adorned in various places. His half deathly pale face, and the other half vibrating with life nodded slowly to his companion in a dark and rich royal purple suit. The female, his associate, furrowed her magenta eyebrows in confusion to the FireGrass © map where tiny dots some in opaque and some barely visible littered the on the projected screen. In the far distance where the trees stood tall, the smell of earthy spirit dirt and reflective hologic plastic tree leaves in replacement of the withering seasonal kind. They glowed i the morning sun. The rustling of the small colony of silver ants scurried up and down the old oak tree, the last remaining tree with real decaying leaves as the sign board in front, the smell of pungent rotting iron, from rusting pole where the sign read:
'Tree of Life'
The sign itself was covered in epoxy to protect it from natural disasters, such as the annual uprooting of mole furrds. Chewed ice gum was stuck to the back of the board, still fresh sticky and on fire.
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(safe for all ages)
( Completed Short Story Two ) - written on 9/9/19 - typed on 25/9/19
(edited)
(no plans on making sequel)
© by Jay_Blackblood (this belongs to me!)
The clock ticks, the long hand inching its way to the final number of the day. The number beginning the night. Upon closer inspection, miniscule figures barely bigger than an atomic atom press their crackled, rough scraped palms against the weighted hour hand, the whips ripping against their backs. With each stomp from the time master, they continue to trudge one step at a time, one tick for each push. The time master of the clock 464, the gold one rimmed in skulls, stands in his black trench coat, the goblin like hunched back monster with the large golden circle burned into his chest. Above his bulging circular belly. The symbol of the time master.
The echoing sound reverbs off the walls, every individual tick going unheard to the silent deaf ears, but all of them chimin together, the repeatedness burning in the monsters ears. Every beat synchronized. The tiny trap door, revealing a small pomeranian, covered brown, black, creamy white hair, rushes out yapping in pure delight. The small golden colar reading nothing but -
"All worker, the time zone has changer, I repeat the time zone has changed."
"All digital clock to change to AM immediately."
The soft clicks of brown rich moccasins, hammer against the clear transparent marble floor, like studded jewels. The tall lanky man following after the ribbed hairless creature, skin grey, rough and coarse. The creature runs on all fours, bony and head cracked to the side. The rough biting collar. A heavy large metal clinking chain, rustling from old age, putriditious smell of boiled blood, reeking from the vast clock shaped bowl, shallow and spherical, the poisonous green acid leaking from the side. A pair of thin glass spectacles perched on the wrinkly papery nose. More for the aesthetic look rather than for a purpose.
The Time Master seats himself on the mahogany wooden tripod, slightly crooked and wobbly from the chipped leg.
His Head turning to the everlasting stack of laid papers.
Paperwork
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MY ENGLISH WORKS
Short Story@babybunnytae here! So I have compiled all my English works into a book in hopes of getting more feedback on my writing. There are no main characters or anything, there is no plotline and none of the stories are related. They are just things I've w...
