At the stroke of midnight…. the disturbing sound woke me up immediately, it was funeral requiem playing.
I screamed ‘to hell, stop it’?
No one reacted . I spanked the wood hard.
The hymns became more sorrowful. I shouted ‘oh god, please help me, I hate this noise’.
But that did not work anything in my benefit.
Examining around I suddenly found myself bordered in on all sides.
I smelt roses on my body. It was my funeral.
I write a lot, which keeps me off the streets and out of trouble. There is always something to write about, always a new story to craft. Not writing, for me, is like trying to hold back a sneeze. Learning to write was the most powerful influence in my life. I can still remember the awe I felt when I realized I could put real words onto paper and tell out a story. From that first ‘a-ha’ moment I knew I wanted to write.
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