General

Like a charred bone the lamppost stands black against the snow. The light at the top has long been broken. Wherever those shards of glass fell had been long covered by leaf litter and stones. Its paint has been chipped by shrapnel and there are a few bullet holes. It stands as a monument to what life used to be and what it became. No more reassuring glow guiding you home, no more friendly orange-yellow glow. Just cold metal to the touch, rough to the finger tips and a symbol of our sorrows. When we make it out of these dark times I'm going to paint it bright colors and hang a basket of flowers from the top. I wouldn't want to tear it down. I will transform it to show how we transformed from these terrible times back to joy. I know it will come. I have faith.

By sydneyvosse01, October 18, 2014*.
General

The lamppost flickered eerily on the pavement and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. It's orange glow only made it worse as it reminded me of the same eyes of a wolf I had spotted earlier this evening.

By Lilith Montana, February 21, 2014.