Why am I a big baby ?

[Vermilioncore]

I’m not cool or anything.

Yeah I get pussy but I act all giddy and silly like I’m gay or smthn and instead of going clubbing or doing drugs, my girl and I just do puzzles or watch cartoons together. Is that bad or good?

 

[yeeyeeslayer]

the fuck is this :

The Pigeon
BY

FICTION, SHORT STORY
Haus had been staring out of the window when he noticed a tattered, dirty pigeon pacing around the sidewalk avoiding the footsteps of passerbys. From the window he could see parked cars and people on their bicycles colliding against the pedestrians and their unassuming glances. His flat was small, homely, and many surfaces collected dust despite the weekly cleanings ordered by the landlord. In the corner of his flat was a statuette of a dove given to him by his older brother Strauss who had moved out of Nottingham four years ago to live in an estate with his fiancé and baby. How did the statue not collect dust? Haus passed it off as a simple coincidence despite having multiple dreams of being bludgeoned with the statue by a burglar.

”Haus, bread and butter or hot cakes with syrup?” his aunt, whom shared the flat with him asked. “Hot cakes please and thank you, Aunt Greta,” he said, departing from the window and walking over to his wardrobe cabinet. “Strauss should be coming in the next week, eh?” she asked, going into the kitchen and turning nobs on the stove top. Haus could not help picture his brother exactly as how he last saw him; perfectly content and with a gleeful sneer while holding the hands of his gorgeous wife and infantile son. Nothing could worry him but the thought of losing those close to him, Haus thought, and he, nothing of joy but the loss of loneliness. “Yes, he should be coming.”

Haus sat on his bed eating breakfast as the world outside his window started and stopped. Lights flickered and and neon signs buzzed. Voices bellowed and cars sounded their horns angrily. It was a world that did not have time for the slow and the lame. His head throbbed and his eyes ached to shut and stay closed, but Haus continued to survey the world from his little window as if he was on the lookout for someone in particular despite not even knowing the names of those in the neighboring flat. He swallowed the last bite of his breakfast and set his dish on his night stand. Almost immediately upon setting down the dish, it was picked up by Aunt Greta as if she was standing by in anticipation of collecting it. Her apron was messy and she looked as if she had been working in a restaurant kitchen despite barely starting her house work an hour ago.

Advertisement

Haus began to think of the times before and how his brother and he would stay up past midnight talking about this and that. It all fell apart when Strauss found out about his brother’s habitual outings to the alleyway whereupon he discovered Haus’ cage full of cats. They were flayed, burned and gutted. Near the cage, on the ground was bird seed. Birds such as pigeons, rock doves, sparrows and quail ate gleefully almost oblivious to the bloody massacre scene that lay before them. This event caused the schism between the brothers that eventually metastasized to Haus’ heart causing a stupendous weight of sorrow and grief. Soon after this event, Strauss became engaged to his then girlfriend and a year later Strauss III was born. He hadn’t seen his brother in years and longed for him.

As Haus lay in bed after breakfast, waiting for nightfall, he recalled how the pigeons would run from the cats never able to enjoy a meal in peace. He turned his head, alleviating the pain but for one brief moment. He recalled how the children in the city would chase away the birds, laughing while doing so, and how they’d beg for a cat to let them pet it. He exhaled deeply and continued to listen to the day outside his window. He recalled one day when he saw a man installing spikes on a storefront’s marquee. He recalled the blood splatter on the alleyway floor followed by a screech — Gould playing Bach.
“Care for a walk with me, Haus-y?” Aunt Greta said in a light tone, knocking while she opened the door as if her tonal change would make up for her intrusion. “A walk — where to?” “Just around the block, for a bit, never hurt anyone, right?” “Let me get my clothes on,” “Oh, just grab your coat!” she reasoned. He threw on his coat and hat and they ventured out into the noisy afternoon mayhem.

The two walked and said little. They didn’t speak as much as they surveyed the day to day life that unfolded around of them. They stopped by La Petite, a cafe which had the best croissants and breakfast sandwiches. Aunt Greta purchased four almond croissants, two for their walk and two for an evening snack at the flat. They left the cafe and continued walking, still without word. Here and there, a cough or a sneeze, maybe a laugh or a sigh, but no actual vocalizations of worth. They happened upon a crosswalk and both turned to the other with a smile. “How is your head?” Aunt Greta asked, biting into her croissant as she await the anticipated lengthy response of her nephew. “The pain gets worse when I lay or walk. It is best when I am either sitting upright or at a standstill,” he replied. “You’re like your mother. She would always bear the pain without complaint or the yearn for pity,” “am I?”, “Yes, and she’d be upset about this,” she said, as they both crossed the street. “Oh, why is that, Aunt Greta?”, “She wanted her sons to be open. She wanted her sons to let their pain be known, she — I always told her, your sons will be like you the older they get, and she didn’t believe me. You suffer in solitude — it is sad.” Approaching a culdesac which held a park, they stood watching a stone fountain that was adorned with fluttering doves and knats. Some couples and some children sat around the fountain on quilts relaxing and taking in the day or dreading the night. “Your brother knows about your cancer. It is why he is coming,” Aunt Greta said, finishing her croissant and crumbling the pastry paper in her hand, “he wants to reconcile what you’ve both had.” Haus took a piece of his croissant and crushed it between his fingers and tossed it toward the pigeons, “there is no reconciliation for who he thinks I am.”

The week passed and it was now a Tuesday. Haus sat in the

 

[Deleted member 51465]

Brag thread

 

[Vermilioncore]

the fuck is this :

The Pigeon
BY

FICTION, SHORT STORY
Haus had been staring out of the window when he noticed a tattered, dirty pigeon pacing around the sidewalk avoiding the footsteps of passerbys. From the window he could see parked cars and people on their bicycles colliding against the pedestrians and their unassuming glances. His flat was small, homely, and many surfaces collected dust despite the weekly cleanings ordered by the landlord. In the corner of his flat was a statuette of a dove given to him by his older brother Strauss who had moved out of Nottingham four years ago to live in an estate with his fiancé and baby. How did the statue not collect dust? Haus passed it off as a simple coincidence despite having multiple dreams of being bludgeoned with the statue by a burglar.

”Haus, bread and butter or hot cakes with syrup?” his aunt, whom shared the flat with him asked. “Hot cakes please and thank you, Aunt Greta,” he said, departing from the window and walking over to his wardrobe cabinet. “Strauss should be coming in the next week, eh?” she asked, going into the kitchen and turning nobs on the stove top. Haus could not help picture his brother exactly as how he last saw him; perfectly content and with a gleeful sneer while holding the hands of his gorgeous wife and infantile son. Nothing could worry him but the thought of losing those close to him, Haus thought, and he, nothing of joy but the loss of loneliness. “Yes, he should be coming.”

Haus sat on his bed eating breakfast as the world outside his window started and stopped. Lights flickered and and neon signs buzzed. Voices bellowed and cars sounded their horns angrily. It was a world that did not have time for the slow and the lame. His head throbbed and his eyes ached to shut and stay closed, but Haus continued to survey the world from his little window as if he was on the lookout for someone in particular despite not even knowing the names of those in the neighboring flat. He swallowed the last bite of his breakfast and set his dish on his night stand. Almost immediately upon setting down the dish, it was picked up by Aunt Greta as if she was standing by in anticipation of collecting it. Her apron was messy and she looked as if she had been working in a restaurant kitchen despite barely starting her house work an hour ago.

Advertisement

Haus began to think of the times before and how his brother and he would stay up past midnight talking about this and that. It all fell apart when Strauss found out about his brother’s habitual outings to the alleyway whereupon he discovered Haus’ cage full of cats. They were flayed, burned and gutted. Near the cage, on the ground was bird seed. Birds such as pigeons, rock doves, sparrows and quail ate gleefully almost oblivious to the bloody massacre scene that lay before them. This event caused the schism between the brothers that eventually metastasized to Haus’ heart causing a stupendous weight of sorrow and grief. Soon after this event, Strauss became engaged to his then girlfriend and a year later Strauss III was born. He hadn’t seen his brother in years and longed for him.

As Haus lay in bed after breakfast, waiting for nightfall, he recalled how the pigeons would run from the cats never able to enjoy a meal in peace. He turned his head, alleviating the pain but for one brief moment. He recalled how the children in the city would chase away the birds, laughing while doing so, and how they’d beg for a cat to let them pet it. He exhaled deeply and continued to listen to the day outside his window. He recalled one day when he saw a man installing spikes on a storefront’s marquee. He recalled the blood splatter on the alleyway floor followed by a screech — Gould playing Bach.
“Care for a walk with me, Haus-y?” Aunt Greta said in a light tone, knocking while she opened the door as if her tonal change would make up for her intrusion. “A walk — where to?” “Just around the block, for a bit, never hurt anyone, right?” “Let me get my clothes on,” “Oh, just grab your coat!” she reasoned. He threw on his coat and hat and they ventured out into the noisy afternoon mayhem.

The two walked and said little. They didn’t speak as much as they surveyed the day to day life that unfolded around of them. They stopped by La Petite, a cafe which had the best croissants and breakfast sandwiches. Aunt Greta purchased four almond croissants, two for their walk and two for an evening snack at the flat. They left the cafe and continued walking, still without word. Here and there, a cough or a sneeze, maybe a laugh or a sigh, but no actual vocalizations of worth. They happened upon a crosswalk and both turned to the other with a smile. “How is your head?” Aunt Greta asked, biting into her croissant as she await the anticipated lengthy response of her nephew. “The pain gets worse when I lay or walk. It is best when I am either sitting upright or at a standstill,” he replied. “You’re like your mother. She would always bear the pain without complaint or the yearn for pity,” “am I?”, “Yes, and she’d be upset about this,” she said, as they both crossed the street. “Oh, why is that, Aunt Greta?”, “She wanted her sons to be open. She wanted her sons to let their pain be known, she — I always told her, your sons will be like you the older they get, and she didn’t believe me. You suffer in solitude — it is sad.” Approaching a culdesac which held a park, they stood watching a stone fountain that was adorned with fluttering doves and knats. Some couples and some children sat around the fountain on quilts relaxing and taking in the day or dreading the night. “Your brother knows about your cancer. It is why he is coming,” Aunt Greta said, finishing her croissant and crumbling the pastry paper in her hand, “he wants to reconcile what you’ve both had.” Haus took a piece of his croissant and crushed it between his fingers and tossed it toward the pigeons, “there is no reconciliation for who he thinks I am.”

The week passed and it was now a Tuesday. Haus sat in the

An inferior writing

 

[Vermilioncore]

Brag thread

Why bud

 

[yeeyeeslayer]

An inferior writing

why did you link it just out of curiosity

 

[nullandvoid]

I’m not cool or anything.

Yeah I get pussy but I act all giddy and silly like I’m gay or smthn and instead of going clubbing or doing drugs, my girl and I just do puzzles or watch cartoons together. Is that bad or good?

If you and her enjoy it than what's the problem? Doing drugs is gonna screw your youth up.

 

[Vermilioncore]

why did you link it just out of curiosity

Because it’s my latest short story. Check out my other stories and poems at www.theinferiorwritings.Wordpress.com

Commment, like and smash that subscribe button for more content

 

[iam good boy]

the fuck is this :

The Pigeon
BY

FICTION, SHORT STORY
Haus had been staring out of the window when he noticed a tattered, dirty pigeon pacing around the sidewalk avoiding the footsteps of passerbys. From the window he could see parked cars and people on their bicycles colliding against the pedestrians and their unassuming glances. His flat was small, homely, and many surfaces collected dust despite the weekly cleanings ordered by the landlord. In the corner of his flat was a statuette of a dove given to him by his older brother Strauss who had moved out of Nottingham four years ago to live in an estate with his fiancé and baby. How did the statue not collect dust? Haus passed it off as a simple coincidence despite having multiple dreams of being bludgeoned with the statue by a burglar.

”Haus, bread and butter or hot cakes with syrup?” his aunt, whom shared the flat with him asked. “Hot cakes please and thank you, Aunt Greta,” he said, departing from the window and walking over to his wardrobe cabinet. “Strauss should be coming in the next week, eh?” she asked, going into the kitchen and turning nobs on the stove top. Haus could not help picture his brother exactly as how he last saw him; perfectly content and with a gleeful sneer while holding the hands of his gorgeous wife and infantile son. Nothing could worry him but the thought of losing those close to him, Haus thought, and he, nothing of joy but the loss of loneliness. “Yes, he should be coming.”

Haus sat on his bed eating breakfast as the world outside his window started and stopped. Lights flickered and and neon signs buzzed. Voices bellowed and cars sounded their horns angrily. It was a world that did not have time for the slow and the lame. His head throbbed and his eyes ached to shut and stay closed, but Haus continued to survey the world from his little window as if he was on the lookout for someone in particular despite not even knowing the names of those in the neighboring flat. He swallowed the last bite of his breakfast and set his dish on his night stand. Almost immediately upon setting down the dish, it was picked up by Aunt Greta as if she was standing by in anticipation of collecting it. Her apron was messy and she looked as if she had been working in a restaurant kitchen despite barely starting her house work an hour ago.

Advertisement

Haus began to think of the times before and how his brother and he would stay up past midnight talking about this and that. It all fell apart when Strauss found out about his brother’s habitual outings to the alleyway whereupon he discovered Haus’ cage full of cats. They were flayed, burned and gutted. Near the cage, on the ground was bird seed. Birds such as pigeons, rock doves, sparrows and quail ate gleefully almost oblivious to the bloody massacre scene that lay before them. This event caused the schism between the brothers that eventually metastasized to Haus’ heart causing a stupendous weight of sorrow and grief. Soon after this event, Strauss became engaged to his then girlfriend and a year later Strauss III was born. He hadn’t seen his brother in years and longed for him.

As Haus lay in bed after breakfast, waiting for nightfall, he recalled how the pigeons would run from the cats never able to enjoy a meal in peace. He turned his head, alleviating the pain but for one brief moment. He recalled how the children in the city would chase away the birds, laughing while doing so, and how they’d beg for a cat to let them pet it. He exhaled deeply and continued to listen to the day outside his window. He recalled one day when he saw a man installing spikes on a storefront’s marquee. He recalled the blood splatter on the alleyway floor followed by a screech — Gould playing Bach.
“Care for a walk with me, Haus-y?” Aunt Greta said in a light tone, knocking while she opened the door as if her tonal change would make up for her intrusion. “A walk — where to?” “Just around the block, for a bit, never hurt anyone, right?” “Let me get my clothes on,” “Oh, just grab your coat!” she reasoned. He threw on his coat and hat and they ventured out into the noisy afternoon mayhem.

The two walked and said little. They didn’t speak as much as they surveyed the day to day life that unfolded around of them. They stopped by La Petite, a cafe which had the best croissants and breakfast sandwiches. Aunt Greta purchased four almond croissants, two for their walk and two for an evening snack at the flat. They left the cafe and continued walking, still without word. Here and there, a cough or a sneeze, maybe a laugh or a sigh, but no actual vocalizations of worth. They happened upon a crosswalk and both turned to the other with a smile. “How is your head?” Aunt Greta asked, biting into her croissant as she await the anticipated lengthy response of her nephew. “The pain gets worse when I lay or walk. It is best when I am either sitting upright or at a standstill,” he replied. “You’re like your mother. She would always bear the pain without complaint or the yearn for pity,” “am I?”, “Yes, and she’d be upset about this,” she said, as they both crossed the street. “Oh, why is that, Aunt Greta?”, “She wanted her sons to be open. She wanted her sons to let their pain be known, she — I always told her, your sons will be like you the older they get, and she didn’t believe me. You suffer in solitude — it is sad.” Approaching a culdesac which held a park, they stood watching a stone fountain that was adorned with fluttering doves and knats. Some couples and some children sat around the fountain on quilts relaxing and taking in the day or dreading the night. “Your brother knows about your cancer. It is why he is coming,” Aunt Greta said, finishing her croissant and crumbling the pastry paper in her hand, “he wants to reconcile what you’ve both had.” Haus took a piece of his croissant and crushed it between his fingers and tossed it toward the pigeons, “there is no reconciliation for who he thinks I am.”

The week passed and it was now a Tuesday. Haus sat in the

Hahahaha I'm laughing

 

[iam good boy]

Because it’s my latest short story. Check out my other stories and poems at www.theinferiorwritings.Wordpress.com

Commment, like and smash that subscribe button for more content

Hahahaha I'm laughing

 

[nullandvoid]

If you and her enjoy it than what's the problem? Doing drugs is gonna screw your youth up.

Why'd you jfl reaction bhai?

 

[Deleted member 51465]

Why bud

Sexhaver with No effort + girlfriend haver

 

[Manletmachine]

Nah the only pussy you get is the ones you be setting on fire with your dad’s weirdo friend

 

[Vermilioncore]

Nah the only pussy you get is the ones you be setting on fire with your dad’s weirdo friend

Nah I don’t set shit on fire lil bro that was all him

 

[future_darktriad000]

I’m not cool or anything.

Yeah I get pussy but I act all giddy and silly like I’m gay or smthn and instead of going clubbing or doing drugs, my girl and I just do puzzles or watch cartoons together. Is that bad or good?

Just be yourself brah and do what makes u happy. Either way you still get pussy, so where’s the problem?