he sighed, "nothing," and let me go.
"never anything." i mumbled.


birthday presentI am named after seven different men Ive never said more than two words to in my entire life. They all pronounce it like its something special, a family history for people who dont really have one. They say its something to be proud of, I am the sixth Jonathan and I look like my father. Strong heritage. Blood doesnt care about our heritage, just does its job as it races to cuts on his skin like quicksilver and I know I cant touch it, hes sick. Id get sick. I am the sixth Jonathan in my family and I look like my father, but when he cries I cringe with it. Its a horrible sound. If I cobirthday present


drabbleWhen it rained, you could see the end of the world.drabble
As the dust settled you could see for miles, our land was flat and covered in yellow green crayon wrapper grass shoots, interrupted solely by suburban new growth houses in alternating pastels. During dry spells you could hardly see four feet in front of you, as the wind pulled up centuries old walkways and uprooted your neighbors plants with ease. But on the days it rained, no, you could see the end of the world.
When it came, it wasnt as if we stopped what we were doing and ran outside, these moments happened in between breakfasts and class periods. No one dr


zeroes. prologue-2.Grass was never really green: it was cracked or muddy, wet while it formed yellow green crayon wrappers fields with occasional brown spots where kids had kicked doomed sprouts to Kansas dust. Under spotlights it was blotchy, but looked as if we were staring at a three year old on sugar rushs picture of a tree. Our football field had sprayed on white lines and paint peeled field goal spires. Our bleachers were wooden and splintered, but we were proud. Gold and burgundy uniforms were worn almost religiously, handed off to mothers who screamed when you tracked practice mud inside, or girlfriends with matching cheerlzeroes. prologue-2.


zeroes. prologue-1. My parents were not the type of people that bred thinkers or revolutionaries. They were the kind of people my neighbors would call mister and misses; people who celebrated my birthdays in backyards with matching table kitchenware sets and pitchers of homemade lemonade. They had no stories of horrible childhoods, only history lessons in dining rooms on Sundays. While speaking of relatives from Ellis Island and long lines of farmers whod moved all the way from New York City to Bermuda, just to make a new life for themselves, my parents did not make me a rebel. They dizeroes. prologue-1.
| i am skin and bones and half a heart fake and empty you're the first real thing ive felt in a while |
*blows it away*
*splats on the wall*
TRY AGAIN
--
they burned his horses
back, back i say!
--
they burned his horses
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