hey lovies. this isnt my work i mean like i gave a little help but this is SO aaron & jelly :) well like so say watever jelly might c the review and aaron will look at it well i'm on here if he's over or watever. so say watever. aaron and jelly like being critacized so they no if they should make it better but be critical 2 a point don't try 2 hurt theyre feelings please. cuz these 2 r my lovers XD so like read and review lovies. :D well bye darlings. -aly
P.S. me, aaron, & jelly don't own the characters or the 1st line or like the factory (Roald Dahl does) . we own margarte & mr. smythe so far. so we'll add more people we own once we write more. bye :)
"…five lucky children will get the chance to tour the Wonka factor, one we'll get a prize beyond your imagination"
The snow melted down her neck. Her cheeks were a rose pink from the snow running down her face. Her face was porcelain almost white with her rose cheeks. The icy metal of the bars froze her hands. She looked out at the scenery of the factory. The empty factory looked like a cemetery.
She released herself from the gate and wrapped her jacket around her. Her fingers slowly buttoned up each button on her black trench coat, which reached down to her ankles to cover all of her dress. She shoved her cold pale hands into her pockets. Her steps were small and paced as she shoveled her feet through the white layer of flakes covering the sideway. She looked down at her boot covered feet.
Her arm pushed open the door to the bar. Her body slipped out of her coat and she hung it on the hooks. She clutched her forest green apron and tied it around her small waist. The small apron hugged her chest and open as it passed her waistline. The drinks went off quickly. Tons of men would sit at the bar and complain and drink.
An old man approached the bar. "Hello, Mr. Smyth." She smiled sweetly as she dried a glass with an old rag. "Morning Margaret." The man sat on the stool in front of Margaret. He removed his old raggedy hat from his head to the bar and emerged from his jacket and droned it over the back of his stool. "So how's your wife, Helen?" she smiled again and leaned against the bar table. "She's good." He sneered.
Her days usually conceded of this, short, mean less, small talk with the customers. Her feet trudged through the snow to her home. Her body pushed open the door to the house.
