Here's a piece of writing I've been working on for those who (like me) despise reading literature pieces but rather enjoy a good journal reading:


Novelty of a clover:

Time passed my home like black cats had on the paths and paved alleyways of my life. I named each in the hopes of befriending them and one day parading said friends merrily before my enemies, simultaneously distributing bags of mirror shards and festive ladder hats. The spectacle and probable photo opportunity would allow me an almost certain happy death. It was this thought that prompted my detailed 32 page novel, titled “Will” to which I jotted down specified equipment and conscription requirements for the parade effectually/preferably two and a half days foregoing my own predetermined expiry.
Aware that those who were named to obtain my possessions would in the most likely of cases receive my Bad Luck in due course, I added at the feet of my pages such instructions as-

“To those who receive a wooden box describing a person named ‘B.luck’, Bluck is not to be taken out of his box for any circumstance. In fact should a circumstance you find deserving of plain disregard to this blatant statement present itself, he thoroughly encourages you to consult Pandora’s funeral supervisor for further advice.”

-and-

“In fact, even if you should find yourself being held down by a large Nepal souvenir lodged in your toes, 82 feet under the south Pacific sea, whereby your only means of surviving for a staggering 2 minutes longer (during which time you come up with and astonishingly genius plan of escape) is the trapped oxygen inside this box, I can tell you now it really isn’t worth it.”

As I mentioned earlier, Black Cats figuratively speaking of Bad Luck, had fundamentally dispersed my entire life from its own furry digits.