A little short story I wrote. Hope you enjoy it, and please give back feedback!
It was wrinkled and crumpled, providing a contrasting look with the smooth, gray sidewalk. Its color was shockingly pink, almost red. The baby’s shriveled skin seemed to be stretchable to reveal a wonderful, large, pink fabric to write and draw stories on. The story would be an epic of his life, his failures and successes, love and hate. And the first sentence of the story was his shrilling cry, declaring to the world that he had been born.
His cry was, as aforementioned, shrilling. He cried as if every grievance and injustice in the world had been injected directly into his veins. He cried as if he wanted to squeeze the poison out of his body, out from the two little holes in his forehead. His cry was truly deafening, and it was astonishing that such a little body of mass could produce such a loud sound. If anyone from a small speaker company interested in making small yet powerful speakers saw this baby, the baby would have been a great subject of study for him.
But nobody from small speaker companies came. Nobody from any companies came. In fact, nobody came at all. The baby was left there lying on the sidewalk. He could see an endless, clear blueness in front of him, but he did not know that it was the sky. He could also see a great red ball of light in the middle of the blueness, but he did not know that it was the Sun. All he had heard from the moment of his existence was a demented, nerve-racking sound coming from someplace very, very close. But he could not figure out where it was coming from. This was unfortunate, because the terrible sound was scaring him, causing him to cry more and more terribly.
Hours upon hours passed. The baby was slowly drying up. His once moist skin was becoming parched and chapped as the Sun beat down on him indifferently. Too busy meddling with the grand scheme of the Universe, the Sun seemed to be apathetic about the yet-to-be conscious carbon life form. This was wholly unjustified, because after all the Sun was as unnecessary and useless to the entire universe as the little baby was. But the baby was still crying. It was croaking as loudly as it had been when it was first born, when his skin was moist and crinkled and not parched and smoothed. Then all of a sudden it stopped, as suddenly as it had started.
The Sun was too grand to care. It started to set below the horizon like it had for millennia. The blueness turned into a sickening crimson red. The small, frail body of the baby slowly cooled down on the sidewalk like a fresh piece of steak left out too long on a plate. The last sentence, the second to last sentence, and in fact all the sentences in the epic of his life were the same as the first sentence. What a boring epic it was.
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