SMASH!!
The glass shattered everywhere
she was hesitant and didn't know what to do she was homeless for so long that if she didn't break into a store for food she would of died
I havent eaten in months and I don't have money for food, my parents kicked me out at the age of 12, i slept on the filthy ground for 3 years until this man came along one day and saved me he took me to his house and feed me but little did I know
tat for the next 2 years of my life i would...
"Psst, Mary," whispered Bishop. "Mmmmm," replied Mary, lost in dreams of debauchery. "Mary!" said Bishop, loudly, causing Jazzmin and Pony to stir. "WHAT?" was the irritated response from Mary, naked on the woven paisley bedspread. "Hey, man, got any dough in your stash box?" "No!" said Mary, rolling over, trying to regain her dream. It involved a barnyard full of chickens and Robert Plant selling hash brownies. "C'mon, babe! Don't bogart all the dough!"
"FUCK!" snapped Mary, forcing herself upright. She rolled off the mattress onto the floor -- a five-inch drop, since the mattress was on the floor. "What...
I was playing basketball with Michael Jordan, Lebron James, Carmelo Anthony, Kobe Bryant and Kevin Durant. We were playing 3 on 3. It was Michael, Carmelo and myself. We were playing to 21. It was tied 19 to 19, win by two. We've got the ball up top, Melo checks it. I run and set a pick for Jordan across the baseline. Jordan slides off of me, while I set the pick. Kobe gets through pretty quickly, but not quick enough. Jordan catches it in the corner and does a quick turn around jumper. 20-19. Make it take it, so...
Until now, she'd never thought of herself as pretty. The purple satin fabric reaching her feet. Hair tied up beautifully. She had never looked better. Walking down the stairs towards her date a look of amazement on his face she knew this was going to be the best knight of her life.
A smile spread across her face as she saw the entry into the prom. Her friends standing outside waiting for them so then they could all walk in and rock this party together.
The message was received.
"Prayers are needed for a friend. he has cancer."
Horrible! Terrible news!
Certainly not the kind to be wished upon anyone.
Within minutes the responses were coming in.
"Right on it Buddy!"
"My prayer list is never too long!"
"I'll be shouting out to the Big Guy!"
And I sat and wondered!
Is this same guy who said all gays should be dead?
Is this the guy who said all Muslims are terrorists?
Is this the guy who said all poor and homeless people deserve to be poor and homeless?
I sat and wondered, "What is...
£18000. That's all it would take. But it was more than Charles had, that was certain. He gazed in wonder at that glossy, dog-eared magazine page. Awe, even. He had been looking at that same page every morning for the past fourteen years and with a sigh he would fold the mag shut and let it sit on his lap and lean his head back and rock. The rocking chair had belonged to his father. That was the only thing of his father's that he ever got. The cancer got him, a few years earlier. The rest of the family...
Marchiel was wondering again. Wondering what Francis was up to. He was awfully quiet in the living room. She had left him alone for less than ten minutes to fold the laundry. He had been building towers contentedly, block by purposely placed block. But now it was awfully silent. When she got back into the living room the sliding door was open, and her 4 year old was no longer building with blocks. Marchiel raced to the door and stumbled over the thresh hold, as Francis, his big eyes all alight stood by the tree bleeding. An uprooted rose bush...
Morlane hung his head. At times like these, his emotions were torments of conflict. He was grateful, yes; but he was ashamed. He was melancholy, true; but he was jubilant. Every month for the last 4 years he had made the trek; every month he had experienced these emotions again. He couldn't talk to anyone about these feelings. His father, raised on a quiet farm, couldn't know about such things. His fiancee, sophisticated city girl that she was, couldn't be expected to understand. Only his regiment could understand. And he was the only one left. Except for --
"GOD BLESS...
Starvation.
He'd heard the word before, used it - but he hadn't known what it meant. He knew that now. He had no idea of what it really meant, not until now, not until this moment (but he knew it would continue to get worse until he could eat, of course it would, that gnawing inside would only get worse)
His vision was failing, he was dizzy - he needed something, needed to find something to eat, or he would -
He knew it with a painful clarity. He would die.
Again.
It had been bad enough the first time...
"Carry the wreath, Henry, your mother is waiting."
Father's terse words spoken from the side of his mouth, muffled by his coat's collar and the stub of a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He fancied himself a small-town Bogart. He was the only one.
Two days past christmas and we're out before dawn, getting decorations.
"For next year. Don't worry about it," he says, pulling the flask from the inside pocket. "Carry it another few blocks and maybe I'll give you a sip."
He drinks and staggers and coughs. The butt falls from his mouth and I crush...