Traces of Smoke

The murmur of drums cascading through the front door, gods griefing silently. The little green man who was awakened by such a sudden phenomenon, with a blissful smile he hugged himself warmth. The diamond suddenly paled when the emerald illuminated its rhombus. The mousy powder pureed with little sprinkles of lightning, frigid whisper, and serene dimming light but the cockerel has yet to rise. The little fellow and his kind sways in the soothing air, emitting the aura when the big old Reddie is not around; the morning air of serenity. 

Promptly, a trace of smoke blossomed out of the far away Neverland, the green little man started getting premonitions. His hand started to sweat, abruptly his heart started to beat, his breath quickened, his head feeling heavier and heavier like twenty rubber bands were coiled around his head each second. He then started yelling, screaming, and furiously whacking his body toward his friends, who had no idea what caused their friend to commit this outrageous act, anger is contagious. He was then beaten into a pulp; his beautiful big emerald hair that extended upward like blades pointing toward the sky was torn beyond recognition, his smooth and yellow babies were taken, his body fluid spilled sticky everywhere.

 ‘When smokes of negativity have trailed into my life, I know I can’t stop this anxiety attack from taking my life; if not my life, my future,’-the green little man. 

There is a story in every life but when the story ends, life doesn’t. Unfortunately, this story ended when life ended since we expected no hell for us to spring from.

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