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Rated: 18+ · Short Story · Contest Entry · #2193583
A story aboout a thing painted with flowers and about why someone would bother...
Picture of a thing.

Wow? Are we supposed to say, “Wow?”

Okay then: Wow!

We’re supposed to write about it. I can do that. I can write about anything. {I had written “I can write about Anyfuckingthing” but I took it out.} Why?

You tell me. You, who are about to judge me.


You know who you are.

I took it out for you. You might not like the word fuck stuck in between other words, or even set alone by itself naked.

I don’t know you and I…

Never mind. I said too much already.

I’m going to keep some mysetery. Yeah, I spelled that wrong and I am going to leave it spelled wrong because.

You figure it out.

Maybe I’m deep.

Maybe you are shallow. Ever think of that?

No, no.

I’m an artist. We do arty things like paint flowers on things.

No no no no no. Nothing wrong with artey. {Did it on purpose}

You are you and you decide what is good and what is well and right and what is wrong. Or, at least, what makes a piece of writing WHIN. (Did it on purpose…) We can get away with anything.

We the ARTY.

So, I have no idea what that thing is you took a picture of… I noticed it had some paintings painted on it, flowers and what, clouds? Maybe. DragonFlys***? Okay, so now I am looking at a thing with flowers painted on it and I can only think that whatever the fuck that thing is I like it better definitely with the flowers and shit (clouds? DragonFlys?***) painted on it. You maybe might have thought to put an orange down next to it. Okay… For scale. An orange for scale. Think about it.

You know, for next time.

“What rhymes with Orange.”


It absolutely does not. I don’t care how arty you think you are…

Nice fucking flowers paint job on a thing.

The Spaniard would be proud.***

--330 Words--

*** The way I spell DragonFlys
Live with it.

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