Creative Writing: Michelangelo's Narrative

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Michelangelo hovered around the couch where April lay, perched like a crouching lemur over the back as anxiety tightened his brow. Restlessness bit at his heels, and it kept him fidgeting on his feet. April's tossing did not help. If only he could read minds! Then, perhaps, he could do more for her . . . It was too quiet now. He hated quiet. Quiet meant no one was sure. Michelangelo racked his head for useful words to kill the silence. "So . . . monsters? What do you think that means?" Michelangelo said to no one. "Like, mutant monsters, or monster monsters? 'Cause I'm kinda hoping for mutant monsters. Monster monsters are way worse. Monster monsters are like gargoyles and mummies. Or zombies." He had to say zombies, didn't he? Ghastly images

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