June 3, 2009

Here’s a bit of my Composition final for you:

    When we were nine, it happened. As we laid back on the plush grass of the Renaissance Fair, I looked up at the sky and watched the vultures circle. At the time, they were beautiful to me—their long, mahogany colored wings, their heads bald, but somehow still majestic. I squinted my eyes to narrow and perfect my vision, and realized that they were there for a reason, that it wasn’t a mere performance put on by bird trainers. I sat up so swiftly that my head hurt, and looked this way and that for anyone who was supposed to be chaperoning my friend and I. Both of my parents were eating in the greek food court, watching belly dancers twist this way and that, baring their midriffs as their finger cymbals clashed madly. I looked at my friend. She looked at me. Let’s go, I said, and pulled her hand as we picked ourselves up and ran towards the area the vultures were circling. Face painting stands, young men selling soft pretzels, children’s rides and tourists and shops upon shops flew by as we ran, trying our hardest not to trip over our dresses or loose our fairy wings in our fervor. At last, they were directly above us, and we came to a halt at the muddy lake, a good hundred feet away from any sort of festival activity. The mud, shining with the Texas summer heat, was difficult to look at, at first—but there was a human hand, clearly visible, and then we spotted a boot, and strands of hair, and the mud was an oddly tinted shade of red. We screamed in unison, and I blacked out.


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