Jenny Jenkins, cute little girl, but she has had a tough life. Far worse than other lives, she never knew of a thing above poverty. T'is late December, and here she sits shivering next to two stone blocks trying to warm herself with a single, small, thin match stick. Of course to no avail, as her eyes stare at the flame, the match reaches the end of itself, leaving a little burn on her finger. She can't feel it though, she lost her sense of touch about an hour ago. All four limbs numb, heat leaving her body, she starts to feel sleepy. She slumps onto one of the stone blocks, resting her head under some writing. Curious, she tries to read what it says. "Here lies Miriam..." and with that, Jenny's eyes glazed over. Her eyes meeting my own. Her tiny, fragile flame had been extinguished. Little did she know, the two stone blocks were tombstones that read " Here lies Miriam and David Jenkins". As I watched this happen, I couldn't help but feel saddened. Normally I watch deaths happen, visit the poor souls, and continue with my job, but it's always harder with children. I visited her parents, now I've visited her. Well, let's see who's next on the list. Damn, another kid....

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Ok, so all of my poetry is posted so I figured I should put up my stories. This, and others which I will post on here, are in the persona of Death or the Grim Reaper watching these people die, and he keeps a sort of journal explaining what happened to them. And when they finally do kick the bucket, they see him because it is their time to go, but to other people it just looks like their eyes have glazed over and they have died. That's what I meant by "Her eyes meeting my own." And as always, criticism of any kind are welcome and appreciated.

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bishu's picture

I sincerely appreciate the sad feeling expressed friend

I sincerely appreciate the sad feeling expressed friend.This side of the blob,perhaps things are worse.Some of my writes reflect a fragment of them.A massive rock which is very difficult to move Mr EB.



allets's picture

How Sad

Poverty is a tough life. In December it is worse, especially for little girls who have no shoes. - I love prose that engages and bites ~allets~