Tags: creative writing
Category: picture, poetry, writing
It was a dark and stormy night when Rebecca finished weaving. She looked through the petrified window from the snug room, and wondered what lover the rain was from. It could be Dexter from Till My Dying Day, or Susan who made pastries down by the quay. She was a bit peckish so she climbed into her Burberry rubbers and went squelching towards the toffee shop.
Gary was coming to dinner with Sonia and Alice, who were on placement from Woolwich. He thought two assistants mightier than one P.A. Rebecca grabbed a parsnip and some fruity potatoes, ignoring the marshmallows and pygmy heat ups. She had everything else, and left with a fancy in her hand; wolf.
Her bounce around flat wasn’t permanent or home; she was entitled to a Knight Frankish kitchen garden with room for a prom. She looked out at the Arcade; a prehistoric version with no invasion but parking bays; another Brookside.
Yabber yabber, see yer, won’t see yer; she made five calls about a fortnight.
There was going to be a swanning session for the wrist warmer jogging assembly who were out to promote yearning in a healthy way.
Leave a Reply