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Creative Writing

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The Looking Glass 

A grand piano rested on the stage, at the same place as the stage above; however, the bass bridge beneath the cover had become shelter to a family of mice, and the ivory keys, a stage for the dance of beetles. I held the candle to the pianist’s face to observe his eyes squeezed shut, a dismal tension marring his countenance, and a tear glimmering like a crystal on his cheek which was as pale and ivory as the piano’s keys. The Joker, dressed in the same checkered waistcoat, sported a jubilant smile that juxtaposed with the tears that ran down his face with the blue ruined paint below his eye. I gazed deep into his eyes in which tears were swimming like a desolate lake by the moon, with his gaze secured at a distant nothingness. 


The tempest roared louder into the night, shrieking and howling, as if it harbored its own share of grief. The rain beat against his window panes like monsters waiting to devour him, as the fire died out. Saint-Just fell to the ground, breaking into a sob and laying his head at Claude’s feet, with his beautiful, carob hair, covering Claude’s mud-soaked boots.  



After devouring a whole meatloaf, he pleaded me to order for another.
I watched him as he stuffed the food with his little hands, stopping not even to breathe, and I could only imagine how starved he must have been. I glanced at his earnest, green eyes that were filled with an evanescent joy, and that reflected on the promise of a good life that had long been broken. I imagined his little hands reaching out for young, innocent, dreams that had long escaped from his fingers and dwindled into the mist.

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