Tags: creative writing
Category: picture, poetry, writing
Gwendoline had never been a suffragette, but she liked bags. She had a cause, but it would have to wait till the middle ages when pairs had become singletons and singletons loved themselves. it was a slot day in the bathroom.
She stepped outside, without stubbing anything and dressed in a room with a view. It had black culottes because she was told to bronze and a koala kagoul to soften the winds. The peoples of Urethra glistened from the corner.
On the landing she paused at the ramps, taking the plunge to look for nail scissors. They weren’t on her fingers so she returned to the steam. They weren’t there either.
The door made a noise from the leafleter.
Something she couldn’t do was colourful and cheesy.
Leave a Reply