Short stories

The crow is pointing its beak at the old-man. Noticing the gesture, the old-man stands from the rusty, by now, ancient bench — flicking the long-brown, broken follicle from his broad cheek, flicking it in the direction of the crow as if to return the gesture,he cries, “My redundant life curses me enough to give me the privilege of noticing even the beaks of a mere crow…. I could be mad for noticing…I’m mad for returning the favor.”Forcing the saddest smile, and a suddenly lapsing into melancholy, he lands slowly back into the rusty, by now worthless, redundant, mad to be existing, bench, and observes the slow sunset in the uncertainty of a spring night.


What I was doing that day !

Man that Chillstep goes well with wine, and springs melancholy evenings, as I read some Charles Bukowski: that’s exactly what I was doing that day.


Why did Karen hit the Red Volkswagen ?

Every since that day, Karen couldn’t forget about about the blood-red Volkswagen. Last Sunday, as she was walking her dog, she watched the car swerve in- to the owners drive. The smoothness of its stop, the coolness of it’s character, and the expression in it’s lights, all spoke to individual parts of her character. It had to be hers. That car was made for her; if she didn’t posses it, the red Volkswagen had no meaning. It was against the laws of nature. She quickly made a Molotov cocktail – courtesy of her anarchist days – and made her way towards the owners house. She knew she couldn’t hesitate, so she lit the Molotov 50 meters away, and threw it towards the car as she rode passed it. bulls-eye, she had hit it, with perfect accuracy. She rode 20 meters passed the explosion, and span her bike round to watch the red paint turn into black flames. She knew why she did it, she had to, the thought of her high-school bully owning such a beautiful car was driving her crazy. (pun intended)


One thought on “Short stories

  1. This reminds me of Kahlil Gibrand’s

    Said a blade of grass to an autumn leaf, “You make such a noise falling! You scatter all my winter dreams.”

    Said the leaf indignant, “Low-born and low-dwelling! Songless, peevish thing! You live not in the upper air and you cannot tell the sound of singing.”

    Then the autumn leaf lay down upon the earth and slept. And when spring came she waked again — and she was a blade of grass.

    And when it was autumn and her winter sleep was upon her, and above her through all the air the leaves were falling, she muttered to herself, “O these autumn leaves! They make such noise! They scatter all my winter dreams.”


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