12th June 2018

Preposition Writing

Over the hill flourished with colourful flowers lays a house, an old house, surrounded by dead leafless trees. Between the house and I a light wind blows the crunchy leaves so they fly and twirl in a mysterious way. Underneath the leaves lays a carcass, no flesh or skin just bones, a pile of bone which seem to be from a red hungry fox. Because of the daunting looking house I stay outside, the tall creaky white structure towering over my scared body. Without moving my feet I peer through the dusty, single glazed window into the dark inside of this monsters body. Underneath the three-legged oak table is a hole, a big hole, that looks like it goes down a long way. After seeing that I have to go inside, incase something is in there. Inside my stomach a thousand butterflies twist and turn, making me grab myself. On top of the table were scratches, scratches from someone struggling. At the bottom of the hole lays another carcass, this time fresh, with a skinny, rib showing wolf munching into the fresh flesh. After 30 seconds of staring in shock I run, run out of this squeaky old house, run back through the crunchy leaves dancing in the wind and the crumbling carcass, run back down the flower covered hill, I run all the way back.

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Writing