teenager writing for no reason • semi-unactive • find me also semi-unactive on goodreads @liyaana ☾ • current read: thirteen - steve cavanagh • i try to follow back lmao 💔
teenager writing for no reason • semi-unactive • find me also semi-unactive on goodreads @liyaana ☾ • current read: thirteen - steve cavanagh • i try to follow back lmao 💔
Her soul is red like her father’s anger, Pink like her mother’s love, Her soul is black like midnight, Yellow like the high noon sun
Her soul is green like the peace of nature, Blue like the deep churning sea, Grey like an oncoming rainstorm, Orange like a fireplace’s heat
Her soul is purple like a crystal globe, Brown the way chocolate is sweet, Her soul is light like innocence, Dark in the same way as greed
Her soul is all these beautiful colours, Which, when mixed together—
Form an ugly, murky monster, who feasts on children’s flesh and fear and picks her teeth with human bones.
the sands whisper as the wind carries them far, far from scorching heat the whispers of ancient prophecy buried from centuries of neglect are lifted up, up and blown north, where they settle a thin coating of dust sprinkled over the hood of a grey toyota prius and a lonely man drives, drives away, not knowing his car holds pieces of prophecy from the buried sahara sands
“That’s my goldfish, dude!” “No, sir, I think you misunderstand me, this criminal is wanted in seventeen countries for war crimes and multiple counts of vehicular slaughter. He is extremely unstable!”
I put my head in my hands and stare at my goldfish of 4 years, Jerry P. A complete freeloader, I should say, but whenever people see him looking sorry for himself at the bottom of his very expensive tank, they always coo and say, “Oh, you poor thing!” As if I’m starving him. Or something.
Some days I go downstairs in the morning to feed him and I just can’t see him anywhere. Jerry P disappears like this a lot, but I always assume he’s making out with the clownfish statue behind the seaweed props and I never think twice about his absence.
I told all of this to the lady at the front desk. She just shook her head and pointed down the corridor. Now I’ve been dragged into an interrogation room, and a beast of an officer with a moustache to rival Hitler’s is telling me my goldfish is wanted for felonies in more countries than I’ve ever visited.
“So what am I supposed to do about JP being a criminal mastermind, exactly?” I sigh wearily, glancing at my watch. I’ve been sitting here for forty five minutes already. Did I leave the stove on? Shit, did I leave dinner on the stove and leave the stove on?
“Sir, you have two options, one of which is allowing us to detain Jerry P and sentence him to a life sentence. And the other is death by electric chair. Well, tank.”
“Right.” I’m still puzzling over whether my house could possibly be burning down at this very moment. “Uh, you can put him down, or whatever. He wasn’t that important anyway. Look, man—can I go home now?”
The officer’s eyebrows knit together and the lines on his forehead deepen into canyons. “You don’t want to say goodbye?”
“I-I really don’t have time for…” But the dude looks so upset that I turn around and flash JP one last middle finger, for old time’s sake.
“Goodbye, you lousy ass.”
I will feast on your dying mind— Devour your fond memories, Eat away at your thoughts, Gnaw on your ancient beliefs
I am the monster that feeds On your once-alive brain And then makes sure that Your loved ones get eaten too.
Nothing but crumbs will be left Of offspring you raised tenderly Your sweet, sweet granchildren Snapped up into my waiting jaws.
You will have nobody left; Bite by bite I will snatch them All away from you as you lie Helpless to watch them go—
And my good comrade Death Will dine on the final pieces Of your dying mind.
“Please send the email into Head Office by tomorrow evening.”
🖇️📌🔒
To: kittyswan@inlook.co.ke CC: darrenjames@coldmail.com From: chrislark@dmail.com
Subject: Why Does This Keep Happening
Hello Kitty, hope this email finds you alright and you’re having a restful weekend, so on so on so on. Wish I could say the same. We’ve got devastating news. Our life-sized light-up sculpture of Micheal Myers holding hands with a giant owo penguin is BROKEN. Again.
Some kids turned up yesterday and just hacked at it with their knives until it was just a pile of flickering debris. Chris from Maintenance—the one with the metal bars on his lungs—cleaned up the mess and the bodies but now we have two problems to sort out. One being finding a new sculpture, and the other; contacting the parents.
My fellow department members and I believe we should tackle the more important situation first. So I spent all night trying to find a suitable replacement and I think I’ve found the one. How I’m still awake surviving off two oreos and a glass of apple juice is beyond me.
Below is the link to the statue I found on definitelynotascam.hak.co late last night.
[Enter link]
Please get in touch soon so we can arrange for a delivery before I poison myself out of grief.
Thanking you, I am
Yours sincerely,
Chris Number 3 of 11
You’ve heard of the Chicken and the Egg, now get ready for…
Orange or the Orange?
What was named first, the orange or orange?
Is an orange called an orange because an orange is orange, or is orange called orange because an orange is orange?
MUM, IT’S HAPPENING AGAIN!
The letters o, r, a, n, g, e. They shouldn’t go together.
O-ran-j.
Oh-rin-juh.
O-ren-guh.
How do you say it? How do you spell it? It shouldn’t be spelt orange, that looks weird on the screen. Hell, if I say it aloud it doesn’t make sense even then.
Mum, I think an orange has ruined my mental state.
Mum? Mum?!
Oh no. My mum is an orange.
O r a n g e !
