FicWad: fresh-picked original and fan fiction

The model was plastered onto the forty foot warehouse building. Mid afternoon, sunny blues and empty bottles of soda pop littered the vacant block. Her once chaste lips now bled graffiti. Under that rusted “suicide bridge” and below Jersey's richest, there sat the once prosperous lot. Its concrete grasslands and unknown stenches were enough to make anyone speed past. Walking was okay; it was quiet and strange enough that you would pause for a brief moment. Thoughtless walks were okay. If you would pause, observe the deserted building, take out those rotting beats droning through your ears, you might hear the desire. The vastly cracked windows that cast deformed shadows, mirroring your childhood fears. If you were to stop, sit down by the diamond shaped steel fence holding faded signs that you guiltily disobeyed, but still held on to that cancer stick in your hand. The smoke would rid itself, sending sickly odors to cling onto the nearest object. Shredded leaves washed up in the wind fixed themselves near that peeling supermodel. You think for a moment, breathing in the smoke, eyes fixed on the high voltage sign, the open door, that disgusting habit you got from your dysfunctional family. The smoke again drifts, the ash tumbles sadly from your stub of a cigarette. You can hear the ripped out headphones, screechy and ludicrously loud tunes.

As ravens call, perfectly fitting your anxious mood, beads of cold water fall from above. You look up, still cautiously moving towards the door ajar. More and more fall, vaguely familiar smells fall around you. Only a few seconds pass before you're drenched in rain and the cigarette puffs its last breath. It's what we do, you think, sighing before dropping your used everyday dose of cancer on the ground. Deathly chirps ring to your poor ears, breaking you away from the moment and back to mechanical world. Light flashes false hope when you pull out your phone. It's your dead friend. Only it's not, just a person with the same name. You decide to answer anyway, putting one headphone back in the vacant ear. You continue on your brisk walk, leaving the corporate grave and its scarred but lively supermodel to rot. The rain mixed with the voice of someone you barely know carries you back up the wretched streets. Past “suicide bridge”, past the person you were a minute before. You laugh. That voice on the line laughs. You make plans to pass each other by, to say hello sometime far from the abandoned brick building, far from pieces of cardboard telling you what to do.

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PLEASE BE CRITICAL! IT SEEMS TOO DENSE TO ME AND I'M NOT SURE HOW TO FIX IT. D;/

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