The point of this short story is to detail something bad happening to someone during Thanksgiving. We can't go into 1st perspective, can't mention the person or war or death. Here I go.
Sharon’s face took in the scene, a whole new place to her now. Life was isolated but her. The turkey never got to the late November feast, never even got but a single cut slashed through it. The weak knife was still there even, too insignificant to be pulled from its current position.
Some of the favorites had been taken out-that is all; taken out. The mashed potatoes were in a bowl, neighbored by a white plate, which blurred a reflection of the cracked ceiling, on the counter just left of the table. For these occasions, the table would be blanketed with a beauteous white fabric with blue flowers rampant, but not tonight. Tonight, it would just feel cruel to put it on. It would be less than useless at this point.
An evil had taken over, straining mainly the kitchen/dining room that was prepared for a Thanksgiving dinner for two, like a straightjacket of eternal insanity. It was all too silent, only the rain’s fall smashing against the windows. Even the table was haunted, too naked and too spotless for the night. The napkins, utensils, and plates disappeared back home, and the red candle was tossed aside for another day (or never), all grasping the gray and broken aura of the apartment and afraid to prolong their stay.
The television was shut down, the lights blacked out, and the doors slammed up. The compressed air, not even scented with the comforting food supposed to be prepared for the night, was crushing the ashen gray walls, which had familiar faces grinning in hanging pictures, taunting the strange new feeling in the apartment.
Thanksgiving suddenly had no meaning. There was scarcely anything to be thankful for.
Sharon’s face took in the scene, a whole new place to her now. Life was isolated but her. The turkey never got to the late November feast, never even got but a single cut slashed through it. The weak knife was still there even, too insignificant to be pulled from its current position.
Some of the favorites had been taken out-that is all; taken out. The mashed potatoes were in a bowl, neighbored by a white plate, which blurred a reflection of the cracked ceiling, on the counter just left of the table. For these occasions, the table would be blanketed with a beauteous white fabric with blue flowers rampant, but not tonight. Tonight, it would just feel cruel to put it on. It would be less than useless at this point.
An evil had taken over, straining mainly the kitchen/dining room that was prepared for a Thanksgiving dinner for two, like a straightjacket of eternal insanity. It was all too silent, only the rain’s fall smashing against the windows. Even the table was haunted, too naked and too spotless for the night. The napkins, utensils, and plates disappeared back home, and the red candle was tossed aside for another day (or never), all grasping the gray and broken aura of the apartment and afraid to prolong their stay.
The television was shut down, the lights blacked out, and the doors slammed up. The compressed air, not even scented with the comforting food supposed to be prepared for the night, was crushing the ashen gray walls, which had familiar faces grinning in hanging pictures, taunting the strange new feeling in the apartment.
Thanksgiving suddenly had no meaning. There was scarcely anything to be thankful for.
