Post by Holden J. Caulfield on Sept 20, 2007 16:33:17 GMT -5
Out of tune;
this tale of terror
The slow tolling of the funeral bell.
I want to know what's going on
in that pretty little head of yours
Where every day is a bone palace ballet!
[/size][/right][/color]this tale of terror
The slow tolling of the funeral bell.
I want to know what's going on
in that pretty little head of yours
Where every day is a bone palace ballet!
His dark brown hair was in his face as he looked to the ground. He wore a white dress shirt that was tucked in. The sleeves of the white shirt were rolled up to his elbows. On his hands were black fingerless gloves but you couldn't see them since his hands were in his pockets. His pants were a dark blue jeans with a black studded belt and a silver razorblade belt buckle. Covering his white ankle socks were black and gray Vans.
"Listen up, sweetie. We all know that you're a beautiful girl. In this horrible world. And this suggestion of horror; the portraits of the walls. The look in their eyes, they always seem to follow. The look in their eyes, they always seem to follow me.
"Out of tune; this tale of terror. The slow tolling of the funeral bell. I want to know what's going on in that pretty little head of yours. Where every day is a Bone Palace Ballet!"
The six foot tall, fifth year Hufflepuff walked to HangOut Park. It was a place he didn't visit often since it was usually overcrowded with students and sometimes faculty. For some reason today no one was there. Maybe it was because of the resent weather.
The weather for today was Holden Caulfield's favorite weather. Favorite by a long shot. The sun and her brilliant raze couldn't be seen. Gray and melancholy looking clouds covered up the whole sky. The wind blew a slight chilling air. It was fantastic. Not hot but not cold but with a slight chilly.
"Biting the flesh from your finger. You know I just can't help myself. I wish to believe but belief is a graveyard. May this night never see morning. It's finally worth it now. Maybe you're the one that's overrated. Shriek and scream. Much too horrified to speak!"
He unshalked [fancy word for 'walked'] to the swing sets. When he got there he turned around and sat down on a red swing seat. Holden didn't feel like swinging really; he just wanted somewhere to sit and think quietly to himself. One of his feet [the left] helped him move back and forth slowly. His hands gribbed the swing chains and his cheek went against his left fist. Holden continued to slowly swing back and forth.
"Out of tune; this tale of terror. The slow tolling of the funeral bell. I want to know what's going on in that pretty little head of yours. Where every day is a Bone Palace Ballet! Every Day! Every Day!"