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Creative Writing: St. Christopher

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Creative Writing: St. Christopher
My toes pressed firmly into the cool-March sand. The waves gently crashed onto the shoreline of the quiet, small town, which was still in hibernation from the cold winter season. St. Christopher’s beach was always breathtakingly beautiful at this time of year – the weather was not warm enough for the town’s more promiscuous side to come and twirl around in their sheer undergarments, but it was not too cold as to where the touch of the salty water felt like a thousand daggers were piercing your body. It was perfect. Perhaps the only perfect part I had left in my upside-down life.
“Gia, Gia!” My serenity and thoughts quickly disseminated into the cool ocean breeze and I turned around to face my friends, I suppose, who were gathering their things
…show more content…
The path was familiar, so despite the growing darkness, I could make my way through. I skipped over every rock, hopped over every puddle, and maneuvered my way through the low swinging branches of the great white oaks that lined the right side of the street. Living in a small town like Duren had its perks: there weren’t many people to hide your business from, you could walk out in the middle of the street at 2 AM without any concern, and the best part, you could look up and find a night sky filled with over a million stars. I looked up as I continued to walk straight ahead – the stars seemed to be brighter than usual that night. They danced in a melodic pattern across the black canvas and smiled upon those who wistfully sent up their wishes towards them. I was lost in a trance - the ethereal beauty of the sky had my full attention, as I wistfully longed to float away and become one with the …show more content…
The question simply asked for her to recall details of the supposed incident that took place.” “Objection sustained – Gia, proceed to tell us what happened that night.” “What SUPPOSEDLY happened, your honor.” “Thank you, counsel. You may take your seat now.” I woke up from the depth of my memories when the banging of the gavel shook the courtroom. The jury gazed at me with pity – something I never wanted from outsiders in my entire life. Same went on the day of my mother’s funeral; same goes today, as I stand on the courtroom’s platform. The courtroom may recognize me as the victim, but in truth, the title goes to my

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