Shortstories

Three short, destructive stories.

One.
The girl was laughing, because of the clown. The main street was colourful, and the people were laughing too. Because of the clown.
Later, the girl was crying, because of the knife. The backstreet was cold and grey and the people were away. Because of the fact that nobody ever looks.

Two.
A boy dug in the dirt, he was looking for jewels or precious treasures. He dug every day, even though he scarcely found anything, because he had hope. He wanted to be rich.
One day he reached hell, searching for jewels or a precious treasure. He had dug every day for the girl he liked, and now that he was dying, he felt no hope. He wanted to be back home.
But home is as far as heaven from hell.

Three.
An angel sat in the heavens, and watched a boy writing three destructive stories. As angels do, he sat patiently, waiting for the third story to be complete.
(In his head, he wanted to turn the stories around, make them friendlier, instructive, positive.)
He waited, and by the time he noticed that the last story wouldn't end unless he became impatient, the boy was long in his grave.