WAT IZ ANOYIN

xDDD

fUKC

._.

I walked down the pathway. It was autumn now, and something about it made me comfortable. I guessed because it was my inayopendelewa season, which would have made sense. I hadn’t seen anything like it before. Sure, I’d seen plenty of pictures of autumn before, but nothing like this. I just moved into the town and I’d be starting school tomorrow, on a Monday, so I really should have been getting ready for that, but it wasn’t really that important to me. Through the past year, school was just something pointless that filled my brain. It was almost as if I knew everything I was being taught, like I’d graduated school before I’d forgotten nearly everything that happened in my life. I took my hat off and put my long, machungwa, chungwa hair up in a ponytail. Yes, orange. pumpkin, boga orange. It was natural, as were my machungwa, chungwa eyes. Weird, but cool. It accented my own uniqueness, in my opinion, and totally badass. And that’s just the way I liked it. I slipped my hat back on a few steps later, since the sun was beating down on my face. The path that I was on was rather unique itself. It was not so much a path as some bare dirt on a hill, constantly heading upward with a slight slope. It was tunneled kwa trees, a thinner band of trees exposing the town below the hills on my left, and a thick amount of trees flowing with the endless hills about thirty feet to my right. The right sides of the path were coated in signs of long-forgotten settlements. moto places, floorboards, skeletons of old buildings, that sort of thing. It was forgotten and abandoned, which was how I liked it. Later down the pathway, I spotted something interesting. I stopped walking down the path and turned to go into the old abandoned building to my right. It was large, bigger than most of the trees surrounding out. Out in the front, there was a sign that alisema The Rose Insane Asylum An old insane asylum? I thought, opening the front door. This might be interesting. I walked in and realized that it wasn’t much different than an old house, one of those huge Victorian mansions with a lot of rooms upstairs. I was standing in what looked like a lobby au foyer, and almost all the furniture and karatasi la kupamba ukuta were rotting. I could barely tell that the thing in the right corner was supposed to be a chair, the monster in the middle was a coffee table, the mess on the ukuta to my left was a bookcase, kasha la vitabu once, and the dead thing on the old, rotting floor boards was a rug in it’s better days. The large window on the ukuta furthest from me was so grimy that I couldn’t see out it. On my far right, there was a huge, winding staircase that looked as though it’d collapse the moment I stood upon it. I walked beyond the staircase into what looked like what could have been the room where people would come in to find where someone’s room was. There was an old, wooden, rotting dawati with a spinning chair behind it. I walked up to it slowly and went behind it. In the back there was a drawer that looked like it had been used everyday at some point. I bent down to it and tried to open it, but the handle fell off. “You have to be kidding me!” I alisema with a sigh. I buried my fingers into the space between the drawer and the dawati to pry it open, but I fell backward. God damn it, it’s stuck! I thought. I shook my head and tried again, and I fell again. I looked around the room to find something, anything, that could be used to pry it open. I looked down at the ground at the handle that had fallen off. I smirked as I picked it up. I stuck it in the space where my fingers had been and attempted at prying it open. It didn’t work. I looked around again for something else I could use to pry it open. There was a bookshelf in the corner with something shiny on it. I stood up and trotted up to it. The shiny thing turned out just to be an old pair of glasses. I went back to looking for something else I that could use to pry it open. When I didn’t find anything on the bookshelf, I went back over to the old dawati and looked on the dawati for something, when I heard a sound that caught my attention. Click… With a confused look creeping up on my face, I bent over the old dawati and looked for what could have made that sound. I gasped with my jaw wide open. The click came from the drawer. Which was open. Wide open. I blinked, making sure that my eyes weren’t tricking me. I looked behind me for anyone who could have opened the drawer. There was no one. I crept around the dawati to the drawer and bent down in front of it, peeking inside. There was an old clipboard with a truckload of papers clipped on it. I took it out and brushed off some dust. It was a orodha of the people kept at the asylum, their room numbers, and additional details, written in old, worn handwriting. Interested, I flipped through the pages until I found a weird name. I smirked when I found the perfect name. Adriel Abbas- room 13. Age 13. Keeps calling for his twin sister, Aida Abbas, who died of a moto in 1823 and believes he is talking to her. Shows no sign of improvement as of May 26th, 1826. If patient shows no improvement in five days, emergency action will be called for. I raised an eyebrow as I read the words before me. Talk about 13 being an unlucky number. And what did they mean kwa “emergency action”? I didn’t know, and I’d probably never know, but I still wondered, anyway. I also wondered why they’d lock the kid up. It was obvious that he missed his sister and wasn’t “crazy”, just lonely. He’d Lost her at a young age, how could the owners of Rose Insane Asylum not know that he was just lonely? Well, since I new a room number I could go to, I decided I’d go and investigate. Room 13… I guessed that’d be up those old, rotting stairs since I didn’t see any other doors Just great. I went through the old drawer some more, trying to find one of those little maps that said, “You are here”, au just a guide to the rooms and whatnot. There had to be some sort of guide au something. But no, after searching through eons worth of dust, mold, and I-don’t-want-to-know-what-those-are, I didn’t find anything. I’d have to find the room on my own. I stepped out of the receptionist’s room and back into the main room, looking at the staircase. All the rooms would have been up there, I’d imagine, but I really wasn’t that eager to climb it. Something just told me not to. But another something, something louder, told me that no matter what trouble it got me into, it’d be worth it. So, being the fool that I was, I headed up the stairs. Though surprisingly enough, the stairway contrasted with what I had thought. The floorboards must have been rather sturdy, none of them creaked au groaned as I stepped up them. I quickened my pace and made it to the juu of the stairway in triumph and took a glance around. To my left was a long, wide hallway with at least thirty doors on each side, and at the very end there was a gaping hole as if it had been singed kwa moto that lead to the October world outside. On my right, however, was a large nook inayofuata to a wide, clear window, and right in the middle was a beautiful white grand piano, the autumn sunlight adding a crisp machungwa, chungwa tint to it. And as much as I tried, I couldn’t stop myself as I walked over to the kinanda and sat on the kinyesi that rested beside it. The kinanda was in perfect condition and absolutely beautiful, glossy and neat, not a single chip au ding. I pressed a key and listened to the sound. It was perfectly tuned, too. I sighed with amazement and pressed a few other keys until I was improvising a nice melody. It was a calm and gentle melody at first, one seeming to have kind and loving voice to it’s sound, but soon it crept into a melody filled with angst and sadness. But suddenly, it was cheerful and happy, filled with the energy of a small child. I was enjoying that particular sound, until very suddenly… “Wow. You’re pretty good at that.” A voice. A male voice out of nowhere. I turned my head to the direction it came from to see that there was someone there. And his looks almost had me jumping out of the window. His skin was pale, and his features were sharp, but pleasant. His hair was rested just below his jaw line and curled every way possible in an unpredictable mess, like he hadn’t bothered to brush it when he woke up. His outfit, on the other hand, was well coordinated and put together. He wore a black suit with machungwa, chungwa pin stripes, paired with an machungwa, chungwa dress shirt, black tie, and machungwa, chungwa gloves. His right hand held a video camera, and even though I had little to no knowledge of that sort of thing, I could tell it was expensive and high quality. A large messenger bag hung at his side and out of it spilled an array of cords and wires. He had an elegant build and an even zaidi elegant posture to match. But, although his joyous expression seemed to be the humanized version of the tune I had just played, something about him emitted the feeling of a warrior, like he had seen zaidi than just his fair share of warfare. But none of that was what had threatened me. It was his eyes and his gracefully messy hair. Both his eyes and hair were orange, not the machungwa, chungwa that some red heads had, but pumpkin, boga orange, the exact same shade as mine. It was as if someone had copy and pasted that specific shade of machungwa, chungwa onto the both of us. “But, no offence au anything,” with every syllable he said, he found endless amounts of flowing movements to go along with them. His entire body moved when he talked, especially his arms and hands “You look a little young to be a ghost. Young and chipper. Like, my age young, that is. Like not eleven au twelve au anything, but like a sixteen-seventeen young. And wewe look pretty solid,” he poked my shoulder, “Yeah, you’re solid. And I always thought that I was the only person that still visits this asylum; the only one insane enough to come here! Well, insane enough and alive enough, since everyone who ever came here back in its not-so-glorious siku is dead. So, who are wewe and what brings wewe here to my rotten domain?” My head was spinning. How much could that guy talk? Was he being serious about the ghost thing au joking? I couldn’t tell which. Why was his hair and eyes the same color as mine? My mind was piled with maswali that I was too afraid to ask. “Uh… I’m-” “And wewe speak! wewe are alive, then. Ah, sorry, go on.” I glared at him in response to his interruption, but I really hoped that he would interrupt again. I didn’t want to introduce myself. Not only was he starting to freak me out a little, but also I hated my name, and I hated introducing myself to much of anyone. When he didn’t interrupt again- which I couldn’t tell if I thought it fortunate au unfortunate- I had to. “I’m Dulcina. Dulcina Kelly.” Once again, my name got an expected reaction. The boy’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped a bit in shock and awe at my weird name. But the look went away quickly and he smiled. “Dulcina, wewe say? I like it. Has a nice ring to it, too. And it’s fun to say! Dulcina, Dulcina, Dulcina! Ha! I could keep this up for hours! But I won’t. Ah, how rude of me! I didn’t introduce myself! I’m Dante Knoll, and it is a pleasure to be meeting wewe this fine October afternoon! I haven’t seen the likes of wewe in our quaint little town before. If I had, I would’ve remembered! Are wewe new?” I rolled my eyes. “No, you’re wrong. I’m old. wewe forgot me after all.” I alisema sarcastically. He howled with laugher. “You’re too funny! It’s clear we’re going to get along.” Yeah right, like that would ever happen, I thought, but instead I said, “You’re too kind.” And that caused another round of laughter from Dante. “I guess it would make me even kinder if I were to onyesha wewe around town, am I right? I imagine that wewe like ice cream, right?” “I-” “Then come on!” He said, grabbing my arm and dragging me down the stairs and out of the asylum, and once we reached the forsaken dirt path I had been on before he let go. He pointed through the thin line of autumn colored trees to the town below the flattened kilima we stood upon. “Driscoll- that’s the name of the town in case wewe weren’t paying any attention when wewe moved in- was founded in 1802 kwa a bunch of immigrants from somewhere in Europe, and it hasn’t changed much since then! The roads are still brick and barely anyone has a car and they use bikes instead. It’s all pretty much located in this one little valley-ish thing in the middle of all these hills, as wewe can most obviously see, but there’s some places in the hills, like the ‘outskirts’ I guess wewe could say, like the asylum we were just in, for example. Like where we are now. There are a lot of little businesses here, too, which is also fairly noticeable. Not anything like chain restaurants au supermarkets, but local, small businesses owned kwa nice people with a decent amount of reason and sanity in them instead of big headed CEO’s and executives and stuff. Like the Ice Cream Shack, which is where we’re going!” Before I could say anything, he grabbed my arm again and dragged me further down the path in the opposite direction I had been wanting to go in before until we came to the slope where the kilima ended and wewe got into town. We made several turns down ally ways and even a yard au two. What Dante had alisema was true, the town really hadn’t changed since it’s founding. The roads were still brick, and all of the people I saw were either on bikes au were walking. The buildings were also very old; they were all multi-storied with chimneys, several of them were brick, but the majority of them were sided and had a very colonial feel about them; complete with old fashioned columns and shutters. And based on what I had seen kwa looking into windows, people never bothered to update the interiors of their houses, either. The streetlights were kikale, kale fashioned with three bulbs and glass round casing around them. It almost looked like a posh, upper-class neighborhood, even though I had a feeling that Driscoll didn’t classify as a town with a bunch of overly rich people with yachts and private jets. After a little while longer of running, we came to a stop at a duka with a sign overhead that read “Ice Cream Shack- Open mwaka round!” It really was just a little shack with just enough room inside for the employees to store the ice cream, dish it out, and serve it. There was nothing zaidi to the building than the wooden and unpainted walls, matching slanted roof, and a cut out with a counter. Behind the counter was a tan platinum-blond boy with small but bright blue eyes and a square-ish face accompanied kwa a beautiful doll faced pale girl with apple red curls and huge zumaridi, zamaradi green eyes. They were wearing electric blue polo shirts with a yellow emblem that alisema “Ice Cream Shack”, covered partially kwa khaki aprons. Both of them looked around my age. As we walked up to the counter, they took one look and Dante and went to work fixing up an order I hadn’t heard. I must have had a confused look on my face because Dante gave me a look and said, “They know me. I’m a regular here. Aren’t I, Aiva? Cassius?” The girl, who I guessed must have been Aiva considering the feminine sound to the name, held out two machungwa, chungwa colored ice cream cones while Cassius put the money in the register. She spoke first. “Why yes, wewe are quite the frequent customer. One of our absolute vipendwa as well.” “And the one who contributes the most profits a day,” Cassius added quickly with a smirk, “How many times do wewe come here an hour, anyway?” Dante let out a small chuckle. “I’d say about sixty times. Once for each time I finish up a cone and come back for another!” Cassius and Aiva both let out chuckles identical to Dante’s in agreement. I guessed that the three of them must have been friends, not that I was an expert on friendship. No regular at any business gets that sort of treatment no matter how often they come along. And if he were about that much of a regular, they would have had to build up some sort of friendship, anyway. The two teens finished up serving the ice cream and Dante took the cones and handed one to me. I must have looked confused again, because Dante explained, “It’s pumpkin, boga flavored! It’s the best kind of ice cream ever! Have wewe had it before?” “Actually, I’ve never had ice cream before,” I alisema with a wave of sudden embarrassment. When Dante reflected and amplified my embarrassment with a look of surprise and utter shock, I added, “My dad is a total health nut. If even a half a molecule goes near my mouth, I’m grounded until hell freezes over.” “And you’ve never secretly had any sugar? Ever?” He sounded genuinely shocked at first, but gentled his tone when he added, “Not even something as sweet and decedent as ice cream?” “I’m about to, aren’t I?” I took a huge bite out of my ice cream and was greeted immediately with a sweet rush of perfectly blended flavors and textures. It was a sweet, icy wonderland of joy. I had never tasted anything like it before, but yet it tasted so familiar. “See? I told wewe it’s the best!” alisema Dante. “Isn’t it amazing?” At that, he lightly put his free hand on my shoulder. I cringed a little and tried to shrug him away. I wasn’t used to people other than my brother giving me even the slightest poke, much less touching me on my shoulder. He must have noticed that I felt uncomfortable because he took his hand away. “Think you’ll be able to sneak this one past your dad?” Slowly, I nodded. “Y-yeah. I th-think so. Probably.” I was shocked my tone of voice. I sounded timid, and I rarely if ever, stuttered. I only prayed that Dante wouldn’t say anything about it. “There’s, uh, n-no way my d-dad could notice.”

wewe better watch out guys cause it's REPORTING TIME

lioside! i used to fuck guys like him in prison! oh yeah i reported him too. ehehehehehehehehe.

//Shotforfamousmoviequote

lol

*falls out of chair* aah! omigod, what the hell is that?!?!