Writing.

This was an assignment from my American lit teacher after reading The Scarlet Letter. She wanted us to write about a place and just describe it for two pages. I began writing, and this is what I came up with. I hope you enjoy reading this. Please let me know what you think.

Another dark day coldly greets the world; the sun is unable to penetrate the thick grey shroud. The darkness chokes back any small glimmer of light. Darkness creeps through the bleak town, which seems desolate. The streets are abandoned; traffic lights vainly switch from red to green to yellow. Cars liter the streets: Most car doors are left open and keys still in the ignition. If they were left running, the batteries had long ago died. The wind plays with the bare branches of dying trees, and crumpled papers, and various pieces of garbage. Windows of the buildings lining the empty streets are shattered and cracked: Shards cover the ground. Doors are broken down or left ajar, slowly moving back and forth on rusty hinges. The sound of which is like finger nails scratching a chalkboard. The air is heavy, almost suffocating: Each inhale of air burns the lungs and leaves an acrid taste on the tongue.

The paint on the houses, in a near by development, is faded and chipping away. Some houses have completely collapsed, others are missing roofs or parts of them. Mail is scattered on the street, the ink on the envelop no longer legible. What once were carefully tended to gardens bringing forth delicate flowers, weeds and dead bushes and rotting leaves and dry dirt where there was once grass are left instead. The cement sidewalk is cracked and destroyed making it impossible to walk on.

The street leads to a house that stands alone: Darker than the others. Gnarly dead oak trees line the way leading to the door, which has been torn off one of the hinges. Inside, a violent scene unfolds. Pictures lay smashed on the floor, but the pictures that were once protected by the frames have been removed. Whoever lived in the house was a lover of books; however, all the bookshelves in the livingroom are knocked down. A trajectory of books and ripped out pages lie across the floor. There are several places where the walls have been punched through, and a stainless steel kitchen knife is wedged in the broken coffee table. It is unknown whether it was used as a weapon of defense or destruction. The walls down the hall are decorated with claw marks. Blood – most likely from a powerful blow to the head – is splattered on one of the walls and the carpet. The bedroom is a scene of wild chaos and a fight for life. Half packed suit cases lay on an unmade bed; clothes are strewn around the room; drawers are yanked out of dressers. Someone or something forced it’s way through the window. A body was thrown against the closet door: The lock of black hair left around the coat hook serves as proof. The poor soul was dragged out of the room, which explains the claw marks and blood down the hall. There’s another room further down the hall; it is the room of a young child. This room has been left untouched by the intruder. What used to be a cheery yellow room, is covered with dust. A cradle, changing table, rocking chair, night stand, and baby toys are positioned strategically around the room. Everything was once brand-new, but now the wood is starting to rot. Baby clothes in a variety of shades of blue and pink are neatly stacked in the closet –all have still have the price tags attached. On the night stand lies a newspaper. The pages are taking on a brownish hue, and the ink is fading. The newspaper is dated June 17, 2012. Five words all in bold on the front page are immediately noticed: “The End of the World!”