--- (althekiller) wrote in amesburycore,
---
althekiller
amesburycore

is it a story or is it a song? i think it's a thought gone terribly wrong

aka my creative writing for this week

There once was a man who couldn’t stop bleeding. His job was at a bakery where in the morning he worked on bread, kneading. He was very afraid of getting bumped or shoved. When he could, he tried to escape to his aeroplane, in the sky, far above, jostle and justle. He would swoop in and out of the clouds, soaring through the sky, and zooming towards the ground. Rupert, that’s his name which his mother gave him, needed no one else to be around to have fun. He wasn’t blonde or brunette, he had no hair, sometimes that fact he would forget. Wander into the barbershop and ask for a trim. The barber would laugh and he would rumble, and wax Rupert’s head for free after all of his effort and trouble. It was a common joke around the house, no one needed a mirror or a looking glass, just looked at Rupert’s head and you could see the clock down the hall, or the picture in the frame on the wall. Rupert hid from his family for that reason and because of thus, he didn’t like to talk much. So he would walk to the top of the skyscraper, flags billowing in the wind, and think of those clouds in the sky, and his aeroplane which he kept in his head when ever he need to visit his friends. They were those that lived up in the sky, beyond all those hungry eyes and human desire. He lived in those moments away from it all, above the skyscrapers and other edifices, bridges and even sandcastles with turrets small and their builders were children with hopes so tall. These escalades could only go on so long because he would be pulled back down, screaming and tearing back to the dirt where he would eventually rest for the rest. He knew that once he was there, with the rest, whether his hair had grown back, combed or in a mess, whether he was neatly done in a tie and jacket or a slob poorly dress, he would not be missed. Except for those in the clouds, where only he was allowed on those days so mystical and sweet, where gravity lost it’s grip on his feet. He is there now.
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