28 September, 2011

My second short story, second draft.

My Diary.

Day 1. This is the serious journal of a silly girl named Lenore or Elsinore or Clarity or something. Who is full of a specific variety of measely-weasely selfish and miserable ways.

Sweet-hearted. Small-minded. Yogurt-eating. Gun-toting. And totally kind to many small animals.

Towards all she felt benevolence or envy. A very happy-go-lucky viper of woman-kind. Other than that, she was delightful!

Friendly and outgoing. Helpful and obliging!

As long as you never. Ever. Cross her.

With a twinkle in her eye she'd stab you. But not in the back. You don't have to watch your back.

There won't be enough time for you to turn and run.

Wanted. Dead or Alive.

Day 2. Still not dead. Might as well go kill something, and eat it. Raw food is totally better for me!

Day 3. I wonder if that boy likes me! He is so cute!

Day 4. Oops. I hope there is another boy out there somewhere.

Day 5. Ugh. I feel terrible. I probably should not have swallowed! That boy made me fat.

Day 6. Still alive! Aren't I lucky? Maybe I can make some shoes out of this stuff that's lying around my chopping block.

Day 7. I invented fire. Owie.

Day 8. Hey, a bunch of stuff tastes better if you change it with the fire!

Day 9. I haven't seen a new boy in a couple of days now. I wonder if my fancy new shoes taste good.

Day 10. Note to self: Shoes taste better cooked. But work better as a trap for the unwary. Barefoot and pregnant my ass!

Day 13. Still lonely, what is wrong with me.

Day 16. Hey, the new guy is eating something I've never tried! I WANT IT.

Day 17. Yams. Who knew?

Day 18. I kind of wonder what the new guy tastes like. He's so much better than everything else. But I think I'd kind of miss him.

Day 39. Do my feet smell like yams? Because these shoes look good enough to EAT.

Day 42. Barefoot and pregnant. Oops.

This story is dedicated to the bloggess, sex workers everywhere, and all the other classy ladies of the world. You know who you are. Even if I don't. Yet.

PS: I do not regularly have a knife with me. Just saying.

PPS: Wil Wheaton, like all men everywhere, is lucky to be alive. And he totally deserves a cupcake.

No comments:

Post a Comment