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outcast

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The wind wisped through the dying grass, stealing through the pines, uplifted to the billows above rolling hills. Stalks of barley buckled under the relentless wind. The stars, attempting to shimmer as specs of hope could not be seen, blanketed by a thick layer of cloud-cover. The moon also tried to reveal its light but was equally shut away from the earth, only casting an eerie glow across the forsaken land. She was walking through the fields; the frosted blades of grass slicing her tender feat like a bucket of knives. Her hair was lifeless in the still breeze. Gradually the overcast sky dissipated but equally, the air grew even more frigid. She looked to the west and the east. The sun, she knew, would not rise for days. A howling wind cut through the mountain ridge and the thick forest tree cover. She trembled in the cold, alive, but in fear-- bleeding, forsaken and cold, dying from the heavenly wrath. A whisper reached over the ridge and through the frigid air. It spoke deeply with unique warmth her unreceptive skin could feel. “Do not fear, trust in me.” She heard a barely audible pitter pat echo around her. The rain fell. It was warm and soothing, a wonderful grace that nourished the meadow and wet her hair, moistening her cracked and forgotten skin. She felt something. The whisper departed, sending its promise across the winds and into the rain. Flowers arose from the ashen wasteland and the stars shone brightly through the impenetrable sky, their light shimmering in the pure rain as the moon smiled, casting a tranquil glow over the land, knowing it could be seen. That night, the world left itself, nature remained, and life was reborn.





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