Created In-Club by Ross Meyer
In the mind of…A Snow Shovel
I am being used like a prostitute for my services, but I don’t get paid so I’m more like her prosthetic arm. They grab by my hand and shove my flat end, the barbers’ hand into the frozen fluff that turns metallic build cold and runs a shiver down my pole. Endlessly rising and talking, retrieving and throwing the snow, I’m starting to get sick. I think I’m pregnant.
Byron Haiku
Incestuous man
Life ruining tortured soul
Magnificent writer
The Terror (in which we had to use our own name in a short prose piece)
Outside the village outside the water, lies a cave so desolate it is futile to bother. With talons sharp as wit, and a body perfectly fit, legendary myths tell of him. His howl at the moon forced the villagers to migrate until sunlight, when his heart will melt like a preteen watching Twilight. Eventually, in the back of his head, well, as the story said. A fowl beast rotten as eggs without the dairy, his name is Ross and I hear he’s pretty scary.
THANK YOU, ROSS!
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