Short Story

There is a little place in a little room where a little chap hides away amidst the gloom. Tucks his little legs undermeath a well-worn chair plucks a piece of paper and attacks at his despair. A stubby lead pencil scratches through the fears of every little cruelness that reduces us to tears. Sharp is the lead but wellis penetrate all the nooks and crannies that this world creates. There is so little time for us to stop and look as he places the cover upon his little book. There will come a day when this little man will die and they'll put him in a tiny hole undermeath the sky His little lead pencel book and chair will be placed inside a plastic bag and taken who knows where ... --- Short Story - Anne Clark