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TITLE: Mia -Chapter 1

this is story that I've been working on for a while.
its been hard to finish it...I'll be a while before i can even get close to finishing it. anyway i just really want some more input because my friends didn't give me all the critiquing i had wanted.

thanks everyone ~elisa R. vanett
Chapter One

You can’t run away from trouble. There ain’t no place that far.

-James Baskett

Mia made her way down the dark corridors of the thick, tall, oak trees that sheltered her from the dark quiet street. There were few lampposts that glowered in the warm summer air that steadily dropped cooler each night as fall drew near. Her old white tennis shoes had turned light rustic red colors, the tops of the shoes had been scuffed up by the consistent running she had been doing recently; Mia had decided she would have to shoplift her next pair of shoes if she ever wanted to make it to Denver by Christmas. The bright fireball of orange sun was already setting in the far eastern hemisphere, burning off its last rays before the day was ended, and pale moon would emerge from under the midnight sky, and the stars would speckle the sky.
Mia sat down under an orange glowing streetlight, and rested her heavy head on the post. She turned her face up at the sky that skewered rain clouds. She saw the figure of a man walk across the room in house across the street. She watched quietly as he turned off the lamplight in the room of the house and walk away from the window, where Mia couldn’t see him anymore. Her aching body and stomach growled for warmth and a meal. Slowly, Mia pulled out her hoodie and nibbled at a piece of hard bread that she’d begged a little old man to buy for her. She remembered his red nose, and his tiny frail looking body, Mia realized that he seamed like reasonable person to ask, so she seized the moment. He’d also bought her 2 bottles of water; she kindly thanked him and ran down an alleyway and hid behind a reeking dumpster, where he or no one else would see her tears.
Mia watched the little house on the corner, the upstairs light turned on and Mia noticed the figure waltzing throughout the house. She sighed at the thought of a home, but decided it was better to not to think about it.

The next morning Mia awoke early to warmth of the sunshine, and she was off on her way, far away from the little house on the corner and the streetlight. She pulled her small rucksack over her head and onto her shoulders, she didn’t want to run today, she just walked down the streets and alleys, looking at the playful children who would run and play tag, and laugh and shoot hoops, and little infants who would splash about in shallow swimming pools.
Mia must have walked over 15 miles by mid-afternoon. Walking down a small street, there was a park. A wooden sign with white letters carved neatly in the brown wood, HOLLENDALE PARK. In memory of Sir Edmund Hollendale (1958-2001), who worked and dedicated his life to children, it is in his memory of his life that this park was built.” It read in audacious print. There where 3 tubes stacked on top of each other, colorful with blue, yellow and green stripes. A lonely swing set stood still at the far end of the park, secluded under the fresh lightly scented pines that reminded Mia of Christmas.
Mia stretched out her small slender fingers over the rough surface of the wood sign, 43 years was such a short life. Sir Edmund Hollendale, who ever he was, he must have been a great man that really loved children if someone wanted to build a park in honor of his name. Mia slowly made her away across the pebbled park, the sound of small stones crunching underneath the soles of her feet. She listened to sound that her feet made as she walked further down the isles of monkey bars and jungle gyms, until she reached the grass. And the sound beneath her feet couldn’t be heard and she sat herself on one of the lonely swings.
Dropping her bag beneath her feet, Mia pulled off her shoes and her thin pair of socks, and sat on the red plastic seat. Mia’s feet where bare and she felt the summer air breathe life into her suffocated toes. Gripping the metal chains, Mia was reminded of that same rustic smell that just an old swing set should have. She loved the smell. Because it was only found on your hands after hours and hours of playing on end until you couldn’t play anymore because your palms would turn bright red, and any time your skin would touch the surface of a metal-monkey bar or a chain, the same stingy sensation would come back and mingle with your sore molecules. Mia swung in the air, sometimes stopping and lying in the grass and looking up at the big blue sky that breezed lazily bye. Mia’s liked this park for some reason. Maybe she could stay for a while, that is, if no one seamed to mind.
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