Written by Henman
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Saturday, 4 July 2009

image for Stories from my head.

A young man in his early teens is at a local store. He's holding up a can of pre-cooked sausages at eyes length and straining to read the fine print, obviously with some difficulty. We'll call him Tom.

Across the isle is a woman in her late 40s or early 50s. She's not got much time left and knows it. A half-smoked ciggerette hangs losely between her pale fingers. We'll call her Lucy.

A little boy about 5feet away from the cadavar that is Lucy screams bloody murder. He strayed too far from his mother and knows it.

Neither Tom nor Lucy take any notice of him.

I'm sitting lazily at the cashiers counter, pretending i was an author writing a story about the individuals on the isle infront of me. My name tag says Bary.

A loud nokia ringtone chimes across the isle. It's Toms phone.

Tom reluctantly fondles through his pocket and after going through the 2 back pockets, his breast and side pockets, realises the phone he been in his hand all this time. What an idiot. As he speaks quietly into the phone, he returns the can of sausages to the shelf and vanishes further down the isle, out of sight.

The rejected sausage can sits just on the brim of the shelf. In Toms hurry, he hadn't placed it properly. As the can tumbles towards the floor, the faint swooshing of the pickled sausages could almost be heard. The can is now on the floor and rolling towards the bawling kid.

The obnoxious kid was still rolling all over the floor when the sausage can struck him clean at the crown of his head. The crying stopped.

Lucy had had enough out the crying kid. What kind of parent left a kid lying around. What kind of woman smokes around kids i thought. As lucy nears the kid it seems his tears have formed a mini puddle. I can see this puddle, but the cloud of ciggerette smoke around Lucy obstructs her vision.

Thump!

Lucy was on the floor. She had slipped on the boys tears and toppled into the surrounding shelves, striking her skull on the edge of a ciggerette box.

Lucy was sprawled on the floor like roadkill as blood oozed from the gaping wound in her head.

The boy was still crying.

Lucy was dying.

My name was still Bary

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The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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