I once would walk down over the hills of sorrow and pain. My red hair blowing flames behind
me.I would laugh as the hands covered in soot, with the flesh bruised and open wounds gushing
out the guilt sorrow. The pain they felt as those shriveled fingers came to grab the darkness I
have. To use it to make me feel their pain, but as I laughed at those pathetic souls, their hands
would coil and shrivel away.
YOU ARE READING
Grey Dictator
Short StoryShort story I wrote based of a piece of work by Banksy. It is from the eyes of the little girl holding the balloons and what it is like in a dictatorship country.
