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Rawayya
Short story
~1.8 mins read
we've made one for you.
Two Snooty Uncles Walking to the Beat
A Short Story
Carla Connor was thinking about Shane Thornton again. Shane was a vile volcano with wide fingers and handsome fingers.
Carla walked over to the window and reflected on her sunny surroundings. She had always loved dirty Shanghai with its impossible, inexpensive igloos. It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel afraid.
Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the a vile figure of Shane Thornton.
Carla gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She was a grateful, arrogant, tea drinker with ample fingers and handsome fingers. Her friends saw her as a lazy, lively lover. Once, she had even saved a many disabled person that was stuck in a drain.
But not even a grateful person who had once saved a many disabled person that was stuck in a drain, was prepared for what Shane had in store today.
The clouds danced like smiling mice, making Carla cross. Carla grabbed a spotty hat that had been strewn nearby; she massaged it with her fingers.
As Carla stepped outside and Shane came closer, she could see the sore glint in his eye.
Shane gazed with the affection of 8561 sinister miniature mice. He said, in hushed tones, "I love you and I want revenge."
Carla looked back, even more cross and still fingering the spotty hat. "Shane, I just don't need you in my life any more," she replied.
They looked at each other with sneezy feelings, like two decaying, decomposing dogs walking at a very sweet Christening, which had R & B music playing in the background and two snooty uncles walking to the beat.
Suddenly, Shane lunged forward and tried to punch Carla in the face. Quickly, Carla grabbed the spotty hat and brought it down on Shane's skull.
Shane's wide fingers trembled and his handsome fingers wobbled. He looked confident, his emotions raw like a rabblesnatching, rapid rock.
Then he let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Shane Thornton was dead.
Carla Connor went back inside and made herself a nice cup of tea.
THE END
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Rawayya
Poems
~0.6 mins read
Comfort After Loss Of A Loved One
Poems are like children. We create them and they feel very personal to us, but then they travel outward, interact with others, and take on a life of their own.
My brother died in 1997 at the age of 38. I wrote a poem about my own grieving process and sent it to a few friends who had also suffered losses. They sent it around and, to my surprise, it started to travel around the Internet a little. I have received some very touching emails from people telling me the poem gave them some peace after the loss of a loved one. There is no greater feeling than that - knowing that some little words I wrote in my hour of darkness helped someone else find some comfort in theirs. I hope it helps you, too.
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