A Suzanne production:
Procrastinated... again
Published at Friday, February 27, 2009, 1:06 AM
It seems that I have procrastinated, and obviously, I have not been able to pass up the Commonwealth Essay thingy... UGH. It was supposed to be due 1 March, and it's 27 February already, and I only have 200+ words... o___o No time for the teachers to read it, even less time for the Datin to approve it...
Anyhow... there's another short story competition by MPH... It's in one month, and if I ever wanna join it, I vetter start now, as I'm gonna be busy for the whole of March. And the theme, Staying and Leaving! UGH! It's so... abstract... .___.
Oh well, I'll see how. Here's the 200 words from the Long Way Home essay, slightly edited, for whoever who actually reads this... Enjoy... however you'd like.
Clink. Clank.
The chiming sounds of coins meeting the ground stirred his mind. It annoyed his senses, as he did not lay out his coat on the cold, unfriendly floor without due cause. Nevertheless, he grinned like a shaggy dog, nodding obediently as one would do when his owner tossed him a dried bone. The coins on the ground were then scooped up and introduced to the stack of coins and notes resting comfortably on his coat, safe from the damp floor.
He then fumbled his boney fingers, reaching out for his ash black guitar. It was the only thing he does best. When aliens would invade Earth and cast a “wit-dimming” spell on humankind, he was positive he would still be able to play his guitar with perfection. When humankind would ask for him to offer firewood, he would rather die of chill than to sacrifice the guitar.
Despite the years the guitar has gone through with him, it was almost flawless, unlike his dull, worn-out clothes which was a favourite among housewives for housekeeping purposes. The guitar in question was his first and only guitar he had. He could remember spending restless nights lying on the bed he could hardly remember, drawing out names to match his handsome guitar.
He recalled the time he received his baby guitar. It was given to him by his… As a figure appeared before his eyes, he dispersed the person with an imaginary wave of his hand. He never wanted to go back there. If it meant living on the streets with his guitar, it was fine by him.
He started strumming his guitar slowly. As the unpleasantly cold breeze blew by, he picked up pace. It is astonishing that no one has admired his talents for what it is worth.
Anyhow... there's another short story competition by MPH... It's in one month, and if I ever wanna join it, I vetter start now, as I'm gonna be busy for the whole of March. And the theme, Staying and Leaving! UGH! It's so... abstract... .___.
Oh well, I'll see how. Here's the 200 words from the Long Way Home essay, slightly edited, for whoever who actually reads this... Enjoy... however you'd like.
Clink. Clank.
The chiming sounds of coins meeting the ground stirred his mind. It annoyed his senses, as he did not lay out his coat on the cold, unfriendly floor without due cause. Nevertheless, he grinned like a shaggy dog, nodding obediently as one would do when his owner tossed him a dried bone. The coins on the ground were then scooped up and introduced to the stack of coins and notes resting comfortably on his coat, safe from the damp floor.
He then fumbled his boney fingers, reaching out for his ash black guitar. It was the only thing he does best. When aliens would invade Earth and cast a “wit-dimming” spell on humankind, he was positive he would still be able to play his guitar with perfection. When humankind would ask for him to offer firewood, he would rather die of chill than to sacrifice the guitar.
Despite the years the guitar has gone through with him, it was almost flawless, unlike his dull, worn-out clothes which was a favourite among housewives for housekeeping purposes. The guitar in question was his first and only guitar he had. He could remember spending restless nights lying on the bed he could hardly remember, drawing out names to match his handsome guitar.
He recalled the time he received his baby guitar. It was given to him by his… As a figure appeared before his eyes, he dispersed the person with an imaginary wave of his hand. He never wanted to go back there. If it meant living on the streets with his guitar, it was fine by him.
He started strumming his guitar slowly. As the unpleasantly cold breeze blew by, he picked up pace. It is astonishing that no one has admired his talents for what it is worth.
Labels: Commonwealth Essay
