Heart touching

There was a boy who loved a girl very much, but never purposed her. she was working in a Audio Cds store as a sales girl. That boy went to that shop daily and purchase one CD daily from her. He tried to purpose her many times, but he couldnt do that. One day.. he died. The girl went to his home and went inside his room. She saw all those Cds there in his room and all those cds was packed as it is. He never opened cover of any cd......... The girl really felt very bad and started crying... you know why???? bcoz she put a love letter for him daily inside cd's cover.

I Love You

Sara grasped the sopping wet doll with her muddy fists as she sat curled up in a ball as her drunk mother beat her with rage.'Stop it !' screamed Sara,as her mother continued her unwanted beating.'Why should I?!' her mother replied.Sara was only in fifth grade,and she received abuse from her adoptive mother.As long as Sara could remember,her mother had beat her everyday. Although,her real mother was nothing like this. Her real mother loved her and cared for her. It was different for the first few years of her life. Until that tragic day,the day that her mother slipped from her grasp and fell into the wonderful hands of Heaven. Sara missed her mother very much and often longed to be with her.She wished that she would somehow come back to life. But she understood this was impossible to revive a human from death.Sara,blood dripping from her trembling body,looked up at her attacker with loving,forgiving eyes as she breathed her last breath of air. She faintly said 'I love you.'

She Was Murdered

I sat in the middle of the field and prayed.
It was the place that I went to on her birthday. She had always taken me there, from age 1 to 10. She told me she wanted only the best for me. I couldn't help but laugh at that. I thought that she was joking, always. She was always joking and kidding... and it just seemed like one of those sarcastic moments.
I learned it wasn't.
She really loved me. It shocked me to think about it. Never once had she told me she loved me. From the day that I came to the day that she left, she only told me jokes and she only called me sarcastic names. Never once had she really showed affection. Never once had she shown a sign of care.
Never once had she hugged me.
Around age 7 I thought that she was just that kind of person. I thought that she just wouldn't tell me she loved me, or call me sweetie, or feed me a warm, home-made meal. It was just completely the furthest thing from my mind. I grew up with her for 10 years like that. She wasn't SUPPOSSED to be nice to me. It wasn't against the law to treat me like I wasn't who I was to her. It wasn't like she meant to make me feel the way I did, at least, I never thought she meant to. I felt like she really did love me. She gave me a roof under my head, and there was food on the table once a day. She ate the same time that I did, so I know that it wasn't to make me feel bad. I knew it wasn't to starve me. I knew that she ate like me. It was simply to keep ourselves fed.
I felt someone whisper in my ear.
"You... are... a... freak..."
I stood up instantly and walked away. I didn't glance in the person's direction. I didn't want to give them the satisfaction. I just walked away.
Ever since the somber day of death, I hadn't talked. I had a hard time seeing. I had a hard time breathing. She was my life, and her falling off of this Earth killed me.
It really did.
I could feel eyes burning a hole into the back of my head.
The next day I walked into my classroom. I always found time to go to school, but it was hard to take, considering I couldn't talk, or barely see, or barely breathe. I always ditched P.E. I just couldn't do it.
I passed out one day.
Never again would I go back to it.
I try to talk everyday, but nothing ever comes out. Its not my fault. My heart isn't whole, its not even broken. Half of it is just... gone.
But the other half remains hollow.
I stood there, in the doorway of my education chamber. Everyone always criticizes me. They don't understand. They think I'm deaf. They think I'm blind. They think I'm dumb.
But I can't help but say in my mind that everyone of them are all three.
It was about 5 minutes before class. I hated being early for fear of sorrow and shame. I stumbled inside from a force coming behind me.
"Wanna move it, you fricking loser?!" I heard someone yell.
I fell inside.
I went immediately to my seat and I sat down. As I stared around at everyone else, I couldn't help but be paranoid. I always felt a gun sticking into my back, with every second of every day. I wondered if she felt the same way.
"What the frick is wrong with you? Are you mental?" I heard someone strike at me. I looked up, and it was a girl. Everyday she asked me the same question, and everyday I had the same urge to hit her. But everyday, I had the same common sense that I carried with myself.
"Would you like to talk to me or what? You loser, what the hell is wrong with you?" She snapped.
I did nothing.
She kept going. She kept grilling me.
"What was it again? Was it your Mom or whatever? Whatever DID happen to her? You little freak? Is that why you're so stupid? When she died, your brain cells did too, huh?" She asked, wanting to fry me.
It was working. I was trying not to let it.
"What is it again? What really DID happen to her? I would like to know. What happened to your old, stupid, bit-"
"She was murdered." I muttered.
No one said a word.
"What was that?" She asked, sounding more surprised than anything.
I said nothing.
"Answer me!" She screamed in my face.
I looked into her cold eyes, and screamed the first three words that I've said in 3 years.
"She... was... murdered!"

Used

She'd always had a bit of a reputation for having lots of fun,
a good time girl, up for a laugh, you wouldn't take her to meet your Mum.
She didn't go out and choose this as the direction she would flow,
It's just how things happened to turn out for her all that time ago.
That was years ago though and she was young and foolish then,
so why now in her older years is she still being treated badly and used by men?
They don't see her for who she really is because she always puts on a mask,
they take advantage of her insecurities, treat her body like a task.
She's sorry for all the hurt she's caused to everyone along the way,
but she's hurting now more than you'll ever know and it's time she had her say.
She wants to know why you treated her like dirt and lead her a not so merry dance?
She was definitly worth your time and love, you should have given her a chance!

Failed Freedom

My heart beat faster; my feet hit the ground harder. I had to escape! He ran quickly behind me, his hunting dogs by his side. He screamed at them to run faster. They obeyed. Summoning more energy, I too ran faster. The dogs barked furiously. They were close. So close! No. I would not be dragged back to slavery. I was going to be a free African American woman! Ahead, mere yards away, was the border line. Freedom. I was almost there! My pace slowed, but I quickly sped up again. That small amount of time was all the dogs needed. They pounced on me, threw me to the ground. The slave catcher caught up and laughed. I tried to get up, but the dogs had me pinned to the ground. A scream caught in my throat. "This one isn't worth much. Only a few hundred dollars. I could catch more slaves for much more than that!" he said to himself. Then to the dogs he said, "You boys hungry?" It was then that I recognized him. He was the most feared slave catcher around! This cruel man would starve is dogs, so that given the command, they would feed on slave flesh! The dogs snarrled and ripped at my body with their razzor sharp teeth and claws. Unbearable pain swept through me. Meat was torn from my bones. The slave catchers laugh rang through my bloody ears. After one last failed attempt to remove the savage beasts from on top of me, I closed my eyes, and fell into an endless sleep.

Prisinor Of A Deadly Game

His deep brown eyes were frozen over
His pale freakled skin was cold
Rope burns glowed red on his neck
A tear spilled out of his lifeless eye
As I watched him lay there,
Dead on the warm carpet floor
I felt a wave of sarrow and agony wash over me
"Why had he done this?"
I thought saddly to myself
As I stroked his soft orange hair
Tears poured out of my eyes like rivers
He had so freely risked his life
All he wanted
Was to feel a few seconds of peace
Instead he fell into an eternal sleep
He paid the ultimate price
I kissed his forehead gingerly
And bid him goodnight
Forever.......

The Hungry Tree Spirit

My house lies in the farthest part of a clump of woods, right beside Misery Lake. A misnomer since it is one of the most beautiful lakes I’ve ever seen and not the least bit miserable. My fingers, frozen over my typewriter, deserve a break so I walk to my back porch. The dark green of the forest shivers in anticipation, a storm is coming. Dark clouds cover the still waters of Misery Lake, turning the once bright, clear blue into a dark, almost black lake. My feet pull me to a large tree between my house and the lake, and I climb the tree, branches scratching my face roughly. I can feel a cold wind come from the West, where the sun is just now setting. An array of reds and yellows cover the lake like liquid gold, just as rain starts pounding on my face.

The lake ripples softly then, getting more violent, and eventually thrashes about as raindrops lash at it. Closing my eyes as the rain pours on my face and body relaxes me, one thing that never fails. As I open my eyes slowly, long eyelashes save my eyeballs from the water, presenting gorgeous drops in front of my eyes, stuck onto my eyelashes. I get closer to the ground as I climb down the tree quickly, hoping that in the next morning I won’t have an obit saying:
Author found dead in Misery Lake.
Author was found dead at the foot of a tree that lightning struck.
The author will be missed dearly.

I briskly move toward my house, plopping down to sit at the edge of my porch, where the rain almost touches my skin, but shies away at the last moment. My eyes move to the tree I had climbed, barely able to see it with the sheets of falling rain. As my body relaxes onto the porch floor the rain comes down harder. Curtains of rain fall from the black skies, obstructing my view from anything farther than four feet in front of me. I can hear the trees creaking and groaning, like a chorus singing excitedly. The rain isn’t pouring in sheets, nor is it pouring curtains but the whole darn fabric store is coming down. My hands are invisible to my eyes, light now gone from my vision. A hand touches mine delicately, as a gentle voice says, “I didn’t think anyone lived this far in the woods.”

Lightning strikes, it lights up the sky so I can see the face of the speaker. Thunder claps and roars and I jump in surprise. A young boy stands in front of me, young and angelic. His face and body are soaking wet, his clothing sticking to him closely. He reminds me of a lost puppy, his green eyes filled with pain, hunger of some sort. He looks into my house pleadingly, asking if he can dry up inside, away from the cold wind I didn’t feel until now. A shiver runs down my body, but not reacting to the cold wind, something else triggered it. The boy sits in front of my fireplace, beside the typewriter and large pile of trashed stories. “So, you’re a writer.” He says, more of a statement than a question. I answer anyway. “Yes, I am.”
“Could I,” he hesitates, “read something you wrote?” has asks me looking up at me with his large doe-like eyes. I shrug, “You can read anything you find in here,” I say as I sit down the cup of hot chocolate beside him. I sip from my own cup, holding cider, while the teen searches the room. He picks up paper after paper, stopping each time to carefully inspect it and read it. Somehow he gets through my entire pile of balled up papers. He looks at me, puzzled, “You had a fiancé, but you guys broke up… why couldn’t you love your fiancé?” He asks me. I stare at him shocked and bewildered that he could piece together my life from the fragmented things I wrote about.

“Children don’t need to meddle in the affair of adults,” I spit at him. He takes on a look of stubbornness, “I’m no kid. I’m twenty,” the boy, no, man says. I sigh and give up, taking another sip of my cider. “What are you writing about now?”
“I’m writing about a group of teens who combine to take down a powerful leader, haven’t got the details down yet, but I’ll work through them,” I say politely.
“I know what you should write about,” he says looking into the distance, out the window and toward the lake. Rain knocks on my roof, reminding me a storm is still beating on my house. The guy rocks back and forth on his feet slowly. “Did you know that there’s a tree spirit in the tree beside the lake. It’s a nasty old spirit that comes out of the tree, only when it’s hungry to feed on human souls.”
“I hate stories like that the most,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Waste of a good myth,” he pouts.

He turns toward me and sits in front of me, the long button-up shirt he’s wearing, while his clothes dry, hanging down to his knees. I lean back, meeting his fiery green eyes with my own pale green ones, no match in intensity or shine. He smiles seductively; his pink lips curling back to reveal gleaming white teeth. On his hands and knees he crawls forward until his face is beside my own. “You can love me,” he whispers into my ear, tickling me with his minty breath. He nips at my ear playfully then puts his face in front of mine, only a breath apart. He swoops in to kiss me, his soft lips touching my own. I can feel his soft, black hair melding with my brown hair. He pushes me onto the ground and kisses me deeper, one hand behind my head, the other on my chest right below my neck.

His hair has grown to reach his waist in a matter of seconds, but he keeps me from stopping the kiss with each provocative look and motion. My heart skips a beat when he finally breaks the kiss to kiss my neck, and then back to my lips. He softly bites my lip and blood dribbles into his mouth, his tongue licking up the little bit drawn from my bottom lip. His pointed fingernails scratch at my vulnerable skin. My eyes meet his; I can see the hunger from before rising up in his emerald eyes. This has to be a dream, maybe a nightmare, I ponder. Tomorrow I’ll wake up alone and this’ll be a distant memory I convince myself as I continue to kiss the demonic boy.

My fingers entwine with his as my eyes close. Blood drips down my arm and pools on the floor where I’m laying with him, the strange boy that appeared from the rain storm that still hammers on my roof.
I never knew death could produce such an ectasy of emotions, the pinacle of pleasure. Then all my senses go numb.