written_agreement, The Contributor
Hello. I am a 14 year old, recently moved to Virginia, with an obsession with literature. I don't frequent this site as much as I used to, but it's still excellent and a fun hobby of mine. Lemme tell you some things about me.
Favorite Author: Terry Brooks, Christopher Moore, Orson Scott Card
Favorite Band: La Dispute
Favorite Poet: Edgar Allan Poe
NFL Team: Ravens
Thanks for comin' over! As for a sample of my writing.........
He had slowed to a walk as he paced the streets of the abandoned, desolate city.
The things were everywhere; they didn't seem to mind him walking ever-so slowly through the streets, crazed look in his eye. He could of sworn he even got a nod of recognition from a few. Alas, it didn't matter to him; soon he'd be with his Anastasia. His.
He walked like a snail through the ghost city, ghouls and death and blood staining the former glory of his home.
His home. The words echoed through the man's head. He had long since dropped the pipe; he was unarmed and unaccompanied, wandering about the avenues of the Dead City.
Of what was once Ann Arbor; the place he had met his love, his father, his end.
He had a feeling he was close to them. To his loved ones. To the ones who had cared for him, and who he had cared for. A draft blew through, making the Tall One shiver. It was a temporary discomfort, though; it didn't bother him at all, for he knew soon he'd be at permanent content. The blood pouring from him had long since stopped; maybe he had no blood to bleed. It mattered naught to him; he just knew that freedom, that happiness, that his own personal heaven was within his grasp. It was so, so close. Just so close.
He could smell her scent; that of dirt, blood, and whatever ecstaticness smelt like. It smelled good, that much he knew. He didn't know much of anything, it seemed like; only of his Anastasia. She was forever his. Forever. However long that was, the Tall One did not know; only that it was long, and he wanted to be with her for a very, very long time. So long. A poem floated through his head, one he had memorized long ago.
No one can ever dissever my soul from the soul of my....
It haunted him; it encouraged him. The lines echoed ever eerily, reminding him of his quest. Invigorating him, to keep walking. So he could find his Annabell Lee. No, his Anastasia. His Anastasia.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this city; by the, sea
He knew she was there. Just ten more minutes, just ten more steps. Just keep going no matter what. He would get to her. He would. He knew it.
The Tall One fell to the floor, dead. Or perhaps just passed out. Perhaps waking from a dream. None knew; none would, for a very, very long time. The time it took him to have his fill of time with his Annabel Lee. His personal Annabel Lee.