Plague

“Can you stand up?”

She asks, extending her hand. Her hair is getting longer, now the wind can rustles it and mess it up a little bit. She wears her usual blue jeans and gray shirt today. Her lips are coloured by her newest shade of lip cream; a faded pink lip cream.

“I don’t know.” Her companion replies. “I might be falling as well.”

“But you are already,” she lets out a sigh as she pulls back her hand. It seems like her offer is useless. Her companion doesn’t really want to get up.

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Pulchra Es Amica Mea

Pulchra es, amica mea.
Pulchra es, amica mea.
Pulchra es, amica mea.
Pulchra es, amica mea.*

As the Artemis went up, and her beam was outshone by the artificial shaft of light from the lamps on the ceilings, he stood up and was not blinded by both of the glows. Instead, his character radiated through the air, diffused onto the room, and it knocked down the windows and all the glasses from the bookcase. Slightly, very slightly, the floor trembled. The tables shook. The lift’s door quivered. The dust from the lamps up there was actually it fell apart. Yet these were unnoticed. All eyes were directed towards him.

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Remember The Wine

For the record, he does arrived on time. He glances to his surroundings; he doesn’t recognise any familiar faces. It seems like he is expected to wait for a minute or more. He finds an unoccupied bench, so he drags his feet there and sits with a long sigh. He has expected this to happen, of course it will be happening. He will wait, and he will be the one who always wait.

It is six in the evening, and the temperature is twelve Celsius degree. Mercutio huffs, it creates a puff of air in front of his face. It is lucky that he decides to wear a sweater underneath his coat. He just forgets the gloves, and it results in him burying his hand in his coat’s pocket. It will be so nice if Rosaline is here with him now, her power is so useful in days like these. The snow doesn’t fall yet, but it is cold enough to form a ghostly vapour whenever he takes a breath.

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