Over mother's books
In the corners of her shelves
Dust has long settled.
On a weathered couch
Just as seven years ago
He sits, watching films.
An old childhood friend
The life and soul of parties
Has passed away. Flu.
In the front garden
Tall grass, some fading roses,
A lack of huskies.
Sir, since you are a teacher proper
I would invite you home for supper
To teach a street rat such as I
How to speak better on the fly
But since my boyfriend does object
To such a splendid intellect
I'm afraid I must decline
To give a thought to words like thine.
The Old Man and the Stench by TheOtherSarshi, literature
Literature
The Old Man and the Stench
This summer an acquaintance told me that an old man was looking for someone to help him write a book.
"He's an old university professor, and a bit quirky," he told me. "He'll only be around for a few months, because he needs to return to the university and he'll sell his apartment here, but until then he wants to get the book done."
So I decided to check out the job offer.
I met the old man at a bar. He wore a cowboy hat and a suit which made him look like someone who'd stumbled into town straight from the set of the Dallas series. I sat down with him and we started talking. Now, as I was speaking, my eyes wandered to his suit, where I hap
The episodic literature experience by TheOtherSarshi, literature
Literature
The episodic literature experience
I'm no longer dreaming of getting published: I'm hungry for it, like a ravenous wolf who once got a taste of its prey and now cannot help but stalk. I have plans, I have ideas, I (finally!) have courage. The only thing I seem to lack is time (last year I was almost exclusively out of work. This year I took everything that came my way; it was, perhaps, unwise).
My first novel is out, published in a free-to-read format on BigWorldNetwork.com. In April it will come out as an ebook, audiobook and paperback. Right now it's in a strange sort of place: it was published chapter by chapter every week for a year, with three breaks of a week each. 48 c
The Fighter and the Blond by TheOtherSarshi, literature
Literature
The Fighter and the Blond
The building was eerily quiet, as if all its inhabitants had taken vows of silence. It suited Sara just fine. She felt like a shadow herself, a ghost haunting an elegant Kyoto penthouse. And why not? Surely heads of criminal organizations had beautiful homes that they eventually killed people in. She could be one of the murdered, eventually, if she played her cards wrong. Unless, of course, they were more clever than to kill her in elegant places where her death would draw a lot of attention. Sara was still a bit shaky on the details of such organizations. All of her information came from fiction, which was unreliable as a whole.
The thought
There's a rumor of wasps
nesting in people's bodies.
You sit in the garden with a friend
unsuspecting
and a wasp flies in your ear
pierces your ear drum
digs galleries within you
builds chambers between your vital organs.
It lays eggs and they hatch, buzzing.
You put your fingers in your ears
but it's too late
they sting you from inside
you walk: a living, buzzing, hurting thing
alive with wasps inside you.
You stumble through dark alleys
keeping them inside
biting your tongue with pain
until you feel you're nearly dead.
Then you tear yourself open
letting them fly out
and they're freed into the world
making other victims.
But for now, you'r
Amnesia does things to me by TheOtherSarshi, literature
Literature
Amnesia does things to me
Amnesia is a scary game
Amnesia is a fright
I love to play, so it’s a shame
It kills my sleep at night.
Insomniac, I walk around
A glass of drink to find
When in the dark I hear a sound–
Steve might be right behind!
I dart around, a crazy girl
In an old, friendly house
I find a box, in it I curl
More quiet than a mouse.
When dawn is nigh, I crawl outside
And glance around in fear
The laptop then I open wide–
The time to play is here.