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The Book of Gardenia (Sample Chapters)

The Book of Gardenia (Sample Chapters)

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Published by Triston Milton
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Published by: Triston Milton on May 25, 2012
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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Triston M. Milton910 Portland ave. S Apt. 112Minneapolis, MN 55404Bjkmilton@gmail.com
7,100 words.The Book of Gardenia: Diary of KayBy. B.J.K. Milton
7,100 words.The Younger Years“I'm u’erly gi’ee wi’h exci’ement!”
CHAPTER ONEDark And Gloomy Weeping Willow
They say your only as important as the people willing to die just to protect you. It isn't justsaying you will, but to actually do it is something different. I never would have imagined thatsomeone would... would die for me. And though she may not seem Important to you... she wassure important to him. And that's all that mattered to me.I remember that night. Cold, yet windless. Busy, yet quiet. I merely sat there and cried atwhat lied in front of me. There she lied, my angel, my savior, my Guinevere. Or my father's to be exact. See what made me cry even harder, was thoughts of how my father would feel when herealized his true love Guin died, died defending me.Her brown skin all but perfect. Her hair, an dusty black that seemed to glimmer slightly inthe light of the full moon. Her eyes a bloody red. She laid there, arms stretched out, like somecrucifix that hung perfectly from the ground. I think of its Irony, because up till now, her nameand the word Harlot seemed to make up the sentence of her life. At least that's what everyonekept drilling in my head. But not my father. No he.Well aren't I getting ahead of myself.#I was born Christopher, which was weird enough considering that it is a boy's name, and I'm,in fact, a girl. I was born to Douglas Christopher Wells and Annabelle Tao Ming. They called my birth a miracle. Two very powerful families in the world giving birth to a child who would oneday inherit all of it. Talk about holding all of the cards.But I digress.#Most people called me Kimera, due to the fact that, well for lack of a better word, I am inter.Inter. Inter? Well I was from two cultures. This fact made my younger years in Britain lonelyones.I remember the first day of class. My father was home so he was taking me to class. Theexcitement and joy that I had as the wind flowed through my hair as we winded down the hillfrom my home. The smell of clovers that bellowed from my father. The pompous kids whothrew my lunch box over the fence, where a homeless man stayed. He was old and shabby,smelling of sea salt and a powerful second smell that seemed indistinguishable. Liqueur? Piss? Icouldn't put a name to it, but it made me choose death over hunger. Or hunger over the smell?Yes, that's it.Well anyways, I had left class early and ran home, tail between my legs, and eyes full of tears. I spent the remainder of the day, crying in my mother's lap, waiting to grow up so I

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