Weekly Photo Challenge: Nostalgic

“How pleasant it is to receive the day in this manner,” cried my father one morning, whilst he was conveying me to work, and when the threadbare van was rattling to a jerky standstill along Hillview Avenue, as I wove five fingers through my raven, lacklustre, and intricately knotted hair, to detangle without success.

To me it emerged that there was no discording upon such a meticulous observation, one which I should have otherwise sensed naught about had my interlocutor rather mentioned something else in which I see no likelihood of partaking. For when I inhaled abundantly from the open windows, so as to prompt a whiff of bougainvilleas goodness to waft through my nostrils and windpipe and into my lungs, it promised well, of many gleeful prognostics of a fruitful Wednesday.

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In A World On Fire

Against resisting the seismic exhaustion longer, I curled up in the fetal position, when Dad’s car whizzed along the expressway towards home at nine o’clock that night, as offending rays of red, orange, and green, illuminated by the streetlights and traffic lights, danced a reel behind my closed eyelids.

“Our daughter, my dear, is most spent,” Mum noted, alongside the less than sedative rendition of Titanium which had pulsated through the stereo with more than usual intensity, as must have rendered her laconic observation faint and muffled.

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Worlds Apart

A stride about Jalan Riang transpired swiftly on Thursday, when luncheon was merely over, in the following manner: I had hotfooted to Wimbly Lu, with more than usual ecstasy, as must have rendered the four ladies, who had at first only ambled along the pavements, in a very breathless state by the time we seated ourselves in the coffeehouse.

This brutal subjection, in which many professions of ill humour and mental anguish may well be arose, soon dissipated, however, when we had the pleasure of masticating brownies and cakes and sundries, which were delightful, though by no means capital.

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Weekly Photo Challenge: Future Tense

My brain could formulate no sound opinion. To have felt all the force of indignation, and wallowed in every ounce of immense resentment and aggravation and wrath and exasperation, one must know not what to think.

“I would not have heard of that idea on the general occasion,” murmured my boisterous disposition unsolicitedly, as it often would, though the deed was not to be had. With impatient activity did I—mentally—shot it a sidelong glance before its half whisper was put aside and forgotten eventually.

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