veronica bancroft

United States

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she/her 13
bookworm
potterhead
cancer/leo
swimmer
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writer
gryffindor
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enemies to lovers fan club
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Message from Writer

Oh no, honey, i’m an angel i swear. the horns are only there to hold up the halo ;)

“All you need is love. But a little chocolate now and then doesn't hurt.” ~Charles M. Schulz

“I'm not upset that you lied to me, I'm upset that from now on I can't believe you.”~Friedrich Nietzsche

"My coach said I ran like a girl, and I said if he ran a little faster he could too" ~Mia Hamm

the sign of death (short story)

June 1, 2021

FREE WRITING

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The lady picked up the phone, her old limbs aging with aces and sores. She didn’t want to stay here for much longer she knew, and that was why she was calling them. This lady had heard stories upon stories of the adventures people had journeyed when calling them. She had never heard them come back alive to tell their own story, only rumors created from rumors. The lady did not care, nor fret. She knew what she desired and was ready to complete the task they had chosen for her. She reached into her tulip knit bag, retrieving her telephone. Carefully dialing in the numbers, she brought it to her ear. 
    The phone rang for a few minutes until the line went static and a voice from the other end whispered, “Welcome.”
                                                                                ***
    Everybody had death’s number. All you have to do to call them is to complete a task. But rarely does anybody call death. People in Navitas experienced life to the brim. Skydiving, parasailing, cliff-jumping, these were regular activities people would pursue everyday. There were many people who took these a bit too far, and had death greet them the unwanted way.
    The tales of meeting death were almost never true- the only truly known facts were that once you called death, they would give you a task and in order to die, you must complete it. But why would people want to end their lives? That question was asked most in Navitas. Everybody had something they loved to do, and most never grew tired from it. 
    The first entrance of death was recorded in a large paper book the church housed. It was a small infant, barely a year old. He had somehow gotten his mothers phone, and unluckily, dialed death’s number. Whether he completed the task or not was unknown. But death marked their spot on this child by branding him with a small tattoo on the back of his neck. A swan, most call the tattoo. But many argued against it until today. The odd aspect of the crime was the boy’s body. The child’s body was ice cold, and his blood had faded from a crimson red into a dim white. He had been found with his eyes open- almost like he was curious- and rolled up in a ball. 
    Centuries later, the book had been filled with countless names, slowly reaching the middle of it. And more bodies branded with the mark of the swan. Sometimes, tourists would go see the book, for their interest in the great ‘death’. Most thought it was a myth until the next death struck again. And when would that be?

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