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Story on a RoadOut there is a road leading into nowhere. Ridiculously complex is the road, as it should and shall ever be. The twists and turns will take you where you don’t want to go. Out there, at the end of this road, there is a house, a house so glorifying in its nature. For who builds a house at the end of this road? And, for that matter, who builds a road, complex, that leads to nowhere but an old house at the end of the road. Out there on the second floor of this house at the end of the blatantly complex road there lies and forever shall lay conceptual art of a one Montague Bellum. You see, Mr. Bellum is, for lack of a better term, an oddStory on a Road
by ~wahehehehe
A gay once...A homosexual once walked up to me on the street and told me to come to his party. I was the appropriate match of course: I was wearing eye-liner. I walked with him, walking fairly fast. The homosexual was jogging to the side of me, wearing a gaily effeminate pink. When we finally got to his house, I looked down by my feet. The mat said: Welcome all you gays! Well I certainly was welcome wasn't I? I walked into his house. The walls were covered in glorious stripes of bright yellow and pink. Stepping farther in I saw that he had one of those faggy little pomeranians. To my surprise we were not there to indulge in one of those homo parties. No!A gay once...
by ~wahehehehe
Peppermint Gasoline The park smelled of the world. Of course, why would I expect more? The park, relieved from my insanity, and stooping with the scent of what some would call happiness, had me sitting, dismayed on a bench. The world around me, seamlessly expanding, placed here to mess with my psyche turned black like a desperate demanding soul. Demanding for me to take a stand and escape from this park. I need to go home. Now is the point when I know I’m crazy. The park, ever expanding, is going to pop like a bubble. It’s going to explode! “Enough,” I shout. The sound echoing from my lipsPeppermint Gasoline
by ~wahehehehe
1st creative writing journal My delicious lunch ended with the buzzing of the noisy school bell. As I was walking to my succeeding period, Creative Writing, I noticed a small girl who was wearing an equally small dress move clumsily until eventually in less than a second she splatted face-first onto the chilling gray cement. By the time I arrived at Room 15, I was seeing, in person, the downfalls of eleven other children. Of course, the trip to Room 15 was not only ripe with falls and sobs, it also was a double feature for the sick sense of darkness that accompanied me on my odd and mysterious schlep across the hellish institution known only1st creative writing journal
by ~wahehehehe
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