Breaking a promise can make you feel like a horse by Hedging, literature
Literature
Breaking a promise can make you feel like a horse
“Is breakfast ready?” Matthew Jung asked his wife Jennifer.
“It will be in about fifteen minutes.” Jennifer said. “I hope you don't bet that to Gustafson either.”
“Honey, how many times do I have to say I’m sorry?!” Matthew cried.
"Matthew, sorry just isn’t enough.” Jennifer said. “It won’t undo what you did and get us our money back.”
Matthew Jung was a young farmer who lived with his wife Jennifer and three kids on a farm. They were doing fairly well until Matthew one day made a very stupid bet without talking to his wife first with his old rival, Stanle
The snow white TG of David Murphy by Hedging, literature
Literature
The snow white TG of David Murphy
The true story of Snow White
Prince Charming wasn't a prince to start with. He was an accident caused by two young lovers. Not wanting to be accused of adultery, the abandoned him in the woods near a cave of wolves hoping not to be charged with adultery. Luckily, a kindly enchantress named Mildred rescued the boy and brainwashed the kingdom into thinking he was the prince. For a while, things were fine...till he got hmself in a screw up.
"you told your cousin Frederick what?!" Mildred gasped.
"I was embarssed okay." Charming said. "you know that bedtime story you made up for me...the one about the princess who eats the poisoned apple?"
"S
It’s been three years since Melissa death. Isis was sitting at the end of the pier with a half empty beer bottle in her left hand. She was looking into the moon that was setting into the ocean. The ocean breeze hits her hair as all she could think about is what could have been. If she would have just come home earlier she would have been alive and things would have been better. Melissa wouldn’t have died and things would have been better. She keeps thinking this as she takes another drink of her beer. She then looks down to see her “friend” climb up the pier like a monkey does up a tree.
Isis: What the hell are you do
Mr Snidey slowly lowered himself into his worn old armchair, the seat indented to fit his shape, for so long had he occupied it. His knees creaked like ancient tree trunks as he descended. As he settled himself down, he spread his arms against the armrests luxuriously, much like a king would on a grand throne. Every movement he made appeared to occur in slow motion, his body no longer able to deal with life at what most people would describe as normal speed.
He slowly removed his brown slippers and lifted his legs to rest on the footstool before him. Getting up to turn on the television was an arduous task for Mr Snidey, and he tired easily.
The state of a world and future is held in the hands of a timeless, formless, absent god, just waiting to let the ball drop. A ticking time bomb of epic proportions, and I, stuck in the middle, in preparation. It is always this way, the dread of whispered breaths weighing heavy on my bones, sitting in wait for the next snap of a finger, lost in the many of the past. They never stand out; they always think they'll be the one to make history, to be the Remembered, but in the face of Death, none of the petty creatures - causing their own demise, mind you - will be the one as they beg for life.
Licking their lips of the blood, they will say,
I was never aware of my own breathing, my own heartbeat, until I met them. They somehow managed to bring out my best and worst, and I - no, my whole existence, my entirety - was amplified when they were near. I projected myself into small actions, and when I thought they noticed, I’d erupt. With the flash of a smile like summer and laugh like a warm breeze (certainly not aimed at me) I was complete, and it terrified me. I’d hum with energy when they would touch my arms, but when they pulled away - an apology on their lips - I’d deflate. I became useless and they remained beautiful.
There was no love, but if there was,
There was a thick pool of blood spreading over the floor when she realized what she’d done. The smell of it hung in the air; a constant reminder that had clung to the walls in a painfully satiric gesture. She felt weak, and tired, and terrified, but when hadn’t she? This was a different sort of terror. This was the sort that you couldn’t get used to. It crept on down your back, inching towards your fingers in the form of an almost static buzz.
Look what you did, Elma. Clean up this mess. Look what you did - you stupid bitch. Look!
Henry lay in the center of the room, paler than he had been before. His mouth
The Destruction Of Millie McGuire by CupofCharlie, literature
Literature
The Destruction Of Millie McGuire
‘You may think that he’s a demolition expert when he’s finished with your self-esteem’
- George Ezra.
‘I could not eat for days, I cried so much my face has never been the same’
- Hard-fi.
Millie McGuire pushed open the door to her favourite coffee shop at 1.10pm, as she did at precisely the same time every day, and hurriedly escaped the bitter chill of the unforgiving outdoors. She welcomed the whoosh of hot air cast down upon her by the shop’s heating as she removed her winter hat and stuffed it into her bag, before firmly wiping her boots on the doormat.
Flintwood’s Coffee was the prid