Short stories & poems

Sneaky sneaky.

Someone’s sneaking something into my food.

It says, “TOXIC. DO NOT SNEAK INTO SOMEONES FOOD.”

They try to be sneaky sneaky.

They aren’t.

I grab their hand.

I give them the death stare.

They screech and run out the door.

I say, “HAVE A NICE DAY.”

Not so sneaky sneaky.

this night is everything bubbles so many bubbles i should write a book lots of words that would be so great the stars are so pretty i should text him why not maybe i will write that book im so smart i shouldnt text him i wish this night would last forever bubbles im going to text him

God, I hate her so much.

I hate the way she smiles, the way she laughs, the way she jumps up and down with joy when she gets good news.

But most of all, I hate the way she can have everything I can’t—she gets all the boys. No matter how hard I try, she’ll win everything I want.

I see her everywhere—the hair like spun gold, the sparkling, ocean blue eyes, the long, dark lashes. She’s in my head, whether she’s in my peripheal vision or not. I can’t erase the pretty little ribbons she likes the wear in her hair and the way that they fold over her perfect ponytails she likes to wear. The way she curls them around her hair, double knots it, ties a tiny bow and lets the ends flow long and unbothered. God, why must she be so flawless? Even now, I can picture her red, knitted jumper, her pleated skirt and her dangling golden earrings. Not even the white soles of her black converse shoes escapes my mind.

Wait.

The soles of her shoes are not completely white.

You don’t see it immediately, but… Looking closely, the pearly colour is not pearly at all. They’ve got a smidge grey, almost as if… she’s gotten them dirty? Ha! Well, guess she’s not perfect then. She doesn’t even take good care of her shoes, letting them get ever so filthy. Little bitch.

But when I open my eyes, she’s simply sitting across the library, book and pen in hand. I glance at the clock; 30 minutes have passed.

Was it worth it? I don’t know.

Did it make me feel any better?

Mrs Carson always was my favorite math teacher, She was kind, yet ferocious. You couldn’t miss a lesson. So when the stabbing pain began, I sat strong at my desk. My ribs curled over the spike being driven in my side. I slammed my fist into the desk, taking a deep breath in. Just the one class, that’s all I needed to make it through. My eyes didn’t wander from the board but my mind yelped, The equations tip toeing around the constant feeling of nausea. Finally we saw it was time to go, I hobbled as fast as I could. Stepping out of our temporary card board trailer, I fled down the metal walk way. My mind fell blank to be greeted by a nurse in the ER. Kidney stones lay stuck in my side. No sign of when they’d be out. All I had to rely on were prescription pain killers, the light kind. They turned the stabs into dull flicks, knives into rubberbands. Then there I was again, in Mrs. Carson’s room, ready for a lesson. Yet the fog, so hazy kept my mind polluted. The numbers fading from thoughts entirely. There was no fighting this, the drug ran deep in my veins. More than a week had passed before I was free, Broken up into dust, the stones had left. Back in that cardboard trailer my mind was finally clear, Only still, a week behind in all my fields.

As he sits quietly alone in the full but empty field Ignoring and non feeling, moving but still to yield

Watching the small dots, appear on the ground Green and yellow shirts, cheering all around

Never was any good at sports, or even a pun Boring was my middle name, never any fun

The team captain, with his non thinking empty head Been in school with him, since small kid he truely said

Teasing and pulling, of my capless tangled loose hair Trying to protect myself was a no, now he will beware

My once slow heart beat, comes alive when he is around It knows when evil and negativity, making a sound

His perfect voice and never out of place hair, he always gloats Gets what he wants and never gives back, and he hates goats

Little did he know, what has been going on in my boring life I landed a president job, of this school and have a great wife

His name is called, up to the decorated stage with a grin It seems that an award was to be given, payback is to begin

Another name is called, the same as mine as I meet him on stage Hello ole classmate, thanks for my plaque you don’t look your age

As he jumpes around, with his own psycho inner dance The crown is bored and empties out, no more to enhance

“Kitty is pretty,” said Rose. She was the youngest child of the family and had an ineffable love for this superb cat. They had the orange tabby cat for 19 years, though they usually live for 15. The family thought nothing of this, until one strange day…dun dun dun…

The cat, Mr. Whiskers, went outside and walked across the street, unaware of the car coming by. Emily, the oldest child, shouted, “MR. WHISKERS!!” Their brother, Boberty (?), raced outside and wished he could do anything to save Mr. Whiskers. The car was coming too fast, and the cat disappeared…OoOoOhHh…

The next morning, Mr. Whiskers was playing with his kitty cat toys when everyone woke 🆙

                            ✨✨✨

Mr. Whiskers couldn’t die. It was like he was immortal (wink wink). This was a joke in the Jones household. The mother, Sarah Jones was the granddaughter of Rose, and she had inherited the kitty cat.

Mr. Whiskers missed his old family, and he missed the Jones when they passed, too. The cycle would never end, but Mr. Whiskers came to understand that this was the way it would be. Family after another, he would meet new people and remember old ones.

No decision is a decision, I decided not to decide

“Your target is the cabba gang’s leader, Mirage” The director told the two agents as slid a paper across the table with the targets file. “The buyer said whatever you do to him is your choice.” Agent Z smirked but Agent A’s expression remained unchanged as he picks up the file and reads through it. “Meaning you can kidnap him, incapacitate him, hell you two could demostrate how your guns work to his face. Point is, I don’t care what you two do as long as it sends a message. Any questions?” “No, I believe you solidified your point” A responded as he put the file down. “And Z Keep it quiet this time will ya?” The director declared. “SIr yes sir!” Z shouted Agent A and the director could both tell she was being sarcastic.

I kind of want to start writing fanfiction, just for fun, i don’t know if people would read it, and I have never done it before…. I dont have a ton of interests its mostly Harry Potter and Mauraders because they are my whole personality, if I could have tips it would be awesome, if not here is some flowers 💐 happy late valentines day. I will write a poem too.

The castle deflates Trapping me in Like a cold winters wind Everyone laughs But I’m stuck inside Lost a shoe Or maybe two My facepaint is smudged My friends all cackle I finally get out Of the pink bouncy castle

I was born in a time where cats were persecuted. Killed for being harbingers of evil. My first witch Elizabeth found me and allowed me to drink a potion that would protect me. Little did she knew the potion would have the side effect of immortality.

After she was tried and sentenced for witchcraft at the age of forty-five I fled to her daughters arms.

We travelled far to escape persecution only to end up persecuted in the New World.

And so it continued hand to hand, generation to generation, place to place.

A familiar to every descendant.

Until we reach now the year of the Goddess 2025 where my current witch an individual called Gunner is currently holding me up in the air and cooing at me.

I was once feared just for existing, I was the advisor to witches for generations and now I’ve been demoted to a domestic cat. Forced to embrace kisses and things waved in my face that I try to swat away.

What injustice is this?

Well I suppose I can’t complain too much, I get fed every day, I used to have to hunt for my supper, now I get it delivered in a silver dish.