In 100 Words

by living-glass

A short descriptive I have written without repeating any of the exact 100 words:

 
Short, chopped, an edgy look. Twiddling her thumbs, glancing. Five more minutes, was surely, passing by too slowly? Works of art covering, layering; sunken deep into skin, nothing but a mistaken identity. Pointing out at the vast Atlantic, turning around, indulging in those glistening eyes, is all that she can remember. But just like this, waves demolishing every single piece, each beautiful monument engraved deep inside memories meant to be wrapped with pretty ribbons, away from anyone else. “Miss?” Lifting herself up, screeching, crashing, banging, everything came surging back. Sirens are wailing, overwhelming screaming,  and blood trickling down Mother’s fingers. 
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