Old piece of prose

y0. I was passing through and thought i’d post an old piece of prose I wrote last year. Please give me your thoughts folks.

The birds are flying again.

They always fly at this time of the night.

Even though the sun is up, the daytime is dark enough to say it’s midnight. Of course, that may be just because of the sunglasses he’s wearing.

He looks up. He sees those birds flying across him and all he could think of is just how tasty they would be if they were to be made into a quiche.

The birds released a colorful aura behind them. An aura that’s dignifying their existence as a happy type of animals.
Always cheery, always chirping. Even when the birds are screaming for help it sounds melodious enough to say that they were actually singing.

Which is, of course, why no one even bothered to look at him when he was eviscerating the birds with his bare hands. Tearing them apart piece by piece, feather by feather, hoping that this will still the beast in him for awhile.

Much to his dismay, it doesn’t.

His neighbors, who are walking down the pavement of the quiet suburban area of Washington, have that grim aura around them.

An aura that shows that they have done something wrong. And then, he remembered them. One was Mr.Smith, the other was Mrs.Johnson.

And they were married, but here they are, walking down the streets, hopping ten feet in the air, and floating a few seconds before they landed back again.

Happy as clams, holding each other’s hands, as if they just had sex. Which is what they just did. They were married all right, but not to each other. Of course, he doesn’t blame them.

Mrs.Johnson always wears something flashy, kinda like a slut.

Mr.Smith always wears something tight. As if to show off something. They were bound to go for each other’s lust.

The tree he just climbed, suddenly twisted on him and he fell down to the ground. Funny enough, the grass looked like clouds as he was about to make contact with it, but changed drastically into hard concrete as he impacted with it, which made his landing very painful.

But then, for him, pain is pleasure.

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The life of a middle school language arts teacher. Not to be taken to seriously. Kapeesh?




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