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Write a creative piece ... About Sandra

Father

My father was as hard headed as anyone could get. You could knock at his coruscating shell and never get a reply. His rich mop of dark hair was flecked with shades of grey, and even at times, green. One wonders whether this was due to the lack of sanitising facilities, a corollary of living on the streets. But perhaps, the more likely explanation would be that he was, after all, a turtle. The seaweed green tinge which occupies some patches of his head was hereditary.

His name was Sandra. Sandra was, and still is, even in death, a womaniser. His favorite hangout would have been King’s Cross, where he languorously strolled at night, hoping to pick up some pulchritudinous prostitutes. This, was where he achieved spiritual transcendence.

During the day, Sandra would make full use of his status as an unemployed individual. He lazed at the beach like one would, if one was a turtle. He liked the feeling of the grainy sand, crushed against the underside of his scaly body. Warm … although, he wouldn’t have known. Turtles are cold blooded.

He would stay all day at the beach. His haven of bikini embellished women, frolicking against the seemingly effervescent sea. The water sparkled in shades of blue, or green, depending on its mood. It was the perfect place to reflect on his noneventful life.

Because of his commonplace status in society, the turtle did not always get the treatment he deserves. Most nights, Sandra was thrown out of the most clandestine of nightclubs, for swooping even below their level. He would snivel in the underwear of the “exotic” dancers with his scaly and less than erotic snout, without paying them.

The road at four in the morning was teeming with cockroaches. He has lived almost sixty years of is life and so far, everything has gone wrong for him in this world of proconceived notions.

Out on the cold and clammy streets, Sandra laid on the gravel floor. Half drunk and motionless, waiting for a saviour, or a sign to rescue him from a predetermined death.

The shadows were dancing with the flickering lights. And then, it happened.

The moon shone a ghastly red, not unlike the red that he saw inside the ruby-clad underwear a few hours ago. He heard what he thought was a wolf howling in the background. No, not the type that sends shivers down your spine. Nothing as cliché as that. What Sandra heard, was a rambunctious squeal, and no sooner than that, he took a whiff of an all familiar scent.

HIS FART.

THE END

...although still in progress

Posted by Ky, the one who stayed up til 4am writing this piece of shit.