clarekins
My father was a car lover. He brought me to a rally one hot Summer's day, as a desperate attempt to spark some enthusiasm in me for cars. But his efforts were wasted on me.
The nest appeared to be moving, curling in on itself and out again. With a closer look I noticed it was not the nest that moved, but hundreds of fleshy pale slimey maggots, fighting over the stinking remains of a rotting pigeon.
In all her glorious hatred of others, she couldn't even bring herself to lend me a pound for the bus fare.
Days had passed and I could still taste him after at the back of my mouth. With every exhalation I could detect that scent, so distinctly his. A misty muskness with a tangy after-taste.
You thought it was so damn clever of you, to slip that dead beatle into my ham sandwich. I worried for a split second that the crunch was cucumber. I hate cucumber.
Ill. illness. illy dilly pilly illness.
Yup, it struck again. There's no denying it. She's practically yellow.
Crispy dry skin. Dry mouth. Sticky hands.
and the stench...
"TICKETS! TICKETS PLEASE! ...Sir, your ticket please.."
and so he advanced through the carriage, standing tall and proud.
"Such posture" thought Aunt Vera...."What a fine figure of a man", she whispered to her sister, who chuckled to herself, avoiding eye contact with me and my sisters.
"So he has a violent streak in him, does he?"
"Aye sir"
"Well, you know how its done here - we respond to violence with violence. Give the fellow a taste of his own medecine."
"I see"
"Martha! ... Be a dear and fetch me the hammer."
writing since 2011 · 9 entries · 9 days shown up
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megaphonetastesirviolenceticketspleaseherselfillnessdrymouthcucumbernestwallmorningwokepicked