Hi. My name is Andreus. I regard myself as a realist. Some people just can’t face reality. I’ll give you an example or two.
When I read Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray I thought how morbid to be writing poetry sitting among all those dead people. Then I thought that those cows in the lowing herd that were winding slowly o’er the lea are now dead. Every one of them dead as a doornail. They’re not mooing anymore. They’re dead.
That got me thinking about other things. You know in “Oh what a beautiful morning” from Oklahoma? They sing “All the cattle are standin’ like statues; They don’t turn their heads as they see me ride by”. That’s because they’re all dead. For goodness sake! Nor would the corn be as high as an elephant’s eye because by now the elephant and the corn would be dead. There’s not a happy song left in the world because most things that inspired the songs are now dead.
The bluebird of happiness is dead.
When I went to the library a day or two ago I was fingering my way through a history picture book, and I thought that all those people in the pictures are dead. History is about dead people. There are dead people everywhere. Dead! Dead! Dead!
Some people are obsessed with dead people. Thank goodness I’m not. That’s one thing I’m dead sure about.
The night sky had no moon. It was pitch black which accentuated the stars. The evening was warm. Julie and I sat on the park bench in utter silence. We held hands and gazed in amazement at the stars. It was breath-taking. It was truly romantic. We kissed.
Nina was stuck. Her teacher had set homework and it was to write a one-page story about anything. Nina couldn’t think of anything. It would have been a lot easier if the teacher had been more specific. If the teacher had said “Write a story about elephants” at least there would be a starting point.
Or the teacher could have said “Write a story about your favourite aunt” or “Write a story about a family picnic”. But no! The teacher had said to write about anything. Nina’s mind went blank. Did she have writer’s block?
The school day dawned. Nina hadn’t written a word. She was getting desperate. The school bus would leave in about half an hour. Nina sat at the kitchen table and began to write:
Once upon a time my favourite aunt, Matilda, gathered her family around and announced they were all going on a picnic. Such excitement! Off they went to the park. While they were there sitting on rugs and enjoying their lettuce and cucumber sandwiches three elephants escaped from a nearby circus…
On and on Nina’s story went. Such tragedy! Such passion! Such spectacle! Nina finished just in time to catch the bus.
“Dear me,” said the teacher. “I asked for a one-page story and you have written seven. You must learn to have fewer ideas.”
The canyon wasn’t wide but it was very deep. From the swing bridge that crossed the canyon the river at the bottom looked like a thread of cotton. In a wind, even a light breeze, the bridge would be closed. That meant a two-hour drive to get to the other side, rather than a five minute walk on the bridge. But safety came first.
Now Garrett had always been a bit of a dare-devil, so no one was particular surprised when he entered a local radio competition. The radio was going to string a hammock underneath the bridge and the contestant would have to spend a night sleeping there. All for a hundred dollars.
Don’t worry, said the radio, the hammock is quite safe and has been checked by expert engineers. It’s not going to fall.
That might be true but unfortunately Garrett got up to go to the bathroom.
Goldilocks saw the Three Bears shopping in town so she headed for their house. There were three plates of grits on the table. She tried each dish. The first dish was too hot, the second was too cold, but the third was just right so she gobbled it up.
Next she sat in a chair. Clearly she had eaten the grits while standing up. The first chair was too big, the second was too small, but the third was just right but it soon collapsed because she had eaten too much.
Next she went into the bedroom to have a rest. The first bed was too lumpy, the second was too bumpy, and the third was too grumpy. Oh goodness me! Oh hell’s bells! Oh shock and horror! She had gone to the wrong house. The Three Giraffes were still in bed.
Welcome to you’re final math exam of the acedemic yeah following a second yeah of lookdown’s and home educashun. Its wonderfooll to think that despite the trial’s and tribulation’s of these time’s the student’s of this world can hold their head’s high. Congratolashun’s on reaching doctoral standard’s in our education system. If you are having trouble reeding this get your grandmother to read it for you out llowd if you’re mother cant read.
There is only one question for yous to answer. Here it is!!!!!
Do you prefer Charlote Bromte or Jane Austains novels? Typ your answer below and state why you think these two “persons” never mentioned much about slave owners given the times in which they were riting. And did the characters identify their sexual preferences? Pleaze note that you only need to anser this question if you have read the books – otherwise leave the space below blank. When you are dune don’t forget to press SEND!!!!!!!!!
Upon the birth of her baby Desdemona was horrified: her baby had three eyes. Everyone said the baby looked like its father, but all that Desdemona could see were three eyes. It was indeed a deformity that couldn’t be corrected.
Only a few commented on the three eyes. Most were polite and coo-cooed at the “lovely baby”. But it wasn’t lovely; it was hideous. One or two offered a cruel joke by way of coping. Things like: Peek-a-boo, I see a twinkle in its eyes.
Eyes in society are not only for seeing; they are things of beauty. Eyes come in different colours. Some wear coloured contact lenses to complement their hair colouring. Some wear makeup – mascara and eye shadow and artificial eye lashes.
Desdemona and her husband came from different worlds. Her husband’s planet was renowned for its eyes. In fact her husband had eleven eyes and Desdemona had hoped that some of his genetic material would have rubbed off on wee Billie. It was disappointing. Despite his eleven-eyed father Billie would be saddled with only three eyes for a lifetime.
I thought if I heaved his body into the dumpster before I threw in all the squashed cardboard boxes and plastic bags from the warehouse then no one would find the body. The dumpster would be taken away, emptied in some landfill, and we could all get on with our lives.
He’d only been working here for about three weeks and was as lazy as sin. He could get away with it, being the boss’s nephew. He would answer back real smart too, and it made me angry. That’s why I got one of the large untearable plastic bags from the packing cartons and threw it over his head. He struggled a bit before suffocating; more than a bit actually. Then I had the unenviable task of disposing of the body. I had all the time in the world. The boss was away. I was working alone and would lock up at the end of the day. The dumpster was out the back of the warehouse. I left the body in the plastic bag. Sometimes things like that work out nicely.
Then his mother came looking for him. “Have you seen my darling son?”
“No,” I said. “Not for a while.” That bit was at least true. “I haven’t seen him for an hour or so.”
I nearly laughed because we were standing out the back right next to the dumpster. I could see where he had got his horribleness from. His mother was twice as bad; rude, lazy, and full of herself.
And then she took out her phone. “I’ll just dial his number,” she said. “He always keeps his phone in his jean’s pocket and we’re sure to hear it ring.”
For some time now Clarice had suspected that not everything was right with hubby. Ramon had been in a bad mood for several weeks. He was working too hard. Every night this week he had come home late. He said he was “burdened with work”. Somehow for Clarice the story didn’t sit right.
“I suspect he’s having an affair,” thought Clarice. “That sprightly, lithe office assistant called Monica is the likeliest candidate to attract Ramon’s attention.”
Clarice searched online for a company that did private detective work. There it was! It was specific: “We specialize in investigating your spouse.” It was exactly what Clarice wanted. She phoned. They arranged to meet. Max wasn’t at all what she had expected. She had expected a tweedy little man with a monocle; well not exactly a monocle but at least horned-rimmed glasses. Max wasn’t any of that.
Anyway, that was months ago. Clarice no longer needs to have husband Ramon investigated as she’s moved in with Max.