I have in my collection the beginnings of many stories that took birth in my mind. Many a sleepy hour in the office have to be credited for some of these. While the stories in themselves seemingly interesting, never took full form. They are just figments but they are mine so here I place them for your perusal. Enjoy what you can these half-eaten pies.
He wrote he wrote, his murder he wrote He wrote tall tales, of dragons smote He wrote of the wind, ever blowing He wrote of the trees, sturdy and unbowing. He wrote, he lived, he worked all while he wrote And thus lost track of the yarn he had spun Such a collection he made for hisself And it is all but undone.
The Night
She was feeling a little woozy, dinner had been a heavy deal after all, pasta and steak with extra cheese. Perhaps a drink and some nightly breeze might help ease her discomfort. She filled her glass with the red wine her husband had had sent over. “Screw your secretary and buy her diamonds and placate me with a wine case?”, she had thought, rather aloud while signing off the courier sent all the way from Singapore.
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The Farm
About 50kms from the city was the Farm, it had apple orchards, peaches, mango, and rice fields. It was a beautiful place you’d like to visit on a bright summer morning for a whole day of being alone with the nature. That is until the great Tragedy of 2005. People never spoke about it, papers never wrote about it but it threw the Farm into a pit of gloom deeper than my mind and darker than my soul.
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