On days when the sun rose in winter, often it would filter through the thin clouds and disperse

rays of light among the pines surrounding the small town. During this season, the boy who
worked at the hotel would take an extra long walk on his way to his early shift. The boy liked
watching the steam rise from the orange flowers in the cemetery garden as the light advanced
from stem to pedal. None of the other boys enjoyed watching the flowers. Often the hotel boy
was cast out and he could hear the others whispering things about him. This bothered the boy,
yet he was still pleased to be mentioned at all. The boy knew his long pauses and distant
communication skills had earned him a reputation worthy of derogatory comments, but he
hastened to give in to his endeavours, convincing himself that his motives, although seemingly
mad, were enough to earn him true happiness. The boy knew silence and therefore contented in
listening, as the others never learned.
As the boy had grown up, he had practiced conversation, but never had he endeavoured
to create an appearance for himself before speaking as the other kids had learned to do.
Rather, he had practiced speaking direct and without judgement and assuming no bias was held
against him. These attempts were often fruitless in his atmosphere of industry and seemingly
dull individuals that he could not escape. It was his last year of high school.
The boy conceded that he was merely out of his element, and it was through this
realization that the boy reached a kind of enlightenment. He was comfortable with the harsh
thoughts of death and darkness, and therefore sought to create artful romances of the negative
clouds that often settled in his mind, such as a morning in the hills. For he knew, that day was
still to come, and the day would simply be as he made it. Sometimes he would deliberately
move to stir conflict with individuals whilst observing and noting all reactions or advances that
may be given in return. He was so wildly childish in the sense of fascination and naturally
occurring motivation.
Although content with remoteness, the boy still exceeded in conversation. Not because
he could talk quickly, or clearly, but because he tasted each word as they escaped his lips, and
danced to the music that another could create, no matter how sad or gleeful. The boy took his
time, and took joy in the processes of achievements and when success had been reached, the
boy could then smile twice as wide. The boy was young but carried much with him. His
experiences were seemingly never forgotten, and the boy would never part with a single
moment he had forged. For these were the rays that hit the flower. Although there is a time
when the flower becomes completely enveloped in the light, the pedals have their moments to
shine in between. He enjoyed conversations with those who had less pedals to cover. The boy
liked to run.
He never knew what from. He only knew that it would get him a little farther and save
him a bit of time, or so it was in the beginning. It started with anger and frustration. No one had
been listening, yet they always managed to whisper. They would never hear him. He needed to
move, he needed either to escape or create enough motion to draw attention. This often would
make his heart race, and as the battle was fought in his mind, his body grew tired and
unhealthy. He moved his feet and fought his lungs, regularly drowning out the voices with
familiar songs and tunes as he went. The boys thirst for exploration eventually overcame his
woeful ties and he became addicted.
It was on one of his explorations that he came across an old gated community. He fancied the
gargoyles that perched atop the tall, worn gate pillars.

Its the people, not the characters