The Organ Grinder's Monkey :Story:Jorge was an intelligent 12-year old boy, born into a family of equally intelligent people. His mother and father were both revered scientists, and travelled to faraway lands often, leaving Jorge under the care of his biologist grandfather and his aggravating over-achieving sisters. Despite his intelligence, Jorge achieved far less than he should and, his family convinced of a future doomed to mediocrity, was urged on to a (dubiously) Prestigious School for Gifted Boys.Even in school, Jorge was not exactly well-liked, and shunned by the boys who excelled in sports and literature and manhood more than he did. His teachers looked down upon hi
Lake And ItIt felt so cold in that lake.The chill embraced me, touched my skin with its long, thin fingers. It brushed my hair, grazed the slowly-fading glow of my cheeks, and enveloped my nose, constricting my breathing. I told it to stop, no, please but it didn't listen, several weeks of friendship obscured in the darkness of that deep lake, and I spiralled.I met it during the summer. I frequented the lake (which was near my home, but not really near, as I had to travel through an extraordinary number of thickets over an equally extraordinary number of rolling hills after crossing an old, dusty road) a little bit more often than the usual tourists
Snippets of a Life ForgottenInstead of studying, I had the MOTIVATION and the ENERGY to waste my time exploring my character, Ilias, with four mini-stories (it doesn't exceed more than 6 or 7 paragraphs each). Excuse the lame grammar and spelling mistakes if they are there; it's freshly-written with no edits. So here it is:1.A young man is coming out of a bookstore. He holds a copy of Midnight's Children in his hands, without the aesthetically-pleasing plastic bags that normally accompany such things. He is heading down the stairs into Brookham's Train Station, somewhere between the wide lanes and potted trees and the outdoor cafe, blending with the people - who are
The JacketA long time ago, a hundred years to two, the little town knew everything. They took pride of it, and bragged. Simply, it meant the little town was a tight-knit community. That was something to be proud of - they had many stories to tell.Unfortunately, impressive their accuracies were, there was one story with one too many a variation - so much more than the rest that it stood out like a thumb. Nobody knew the actual story, as it was pure guesswork and logic that pieced the next version together. There was nobody alive to verify it.Although, if a soul ever does try, he'd be in vain; after all, the real tale defies every aspect of logic one
Sta.sh
