The Great Sea Quellin and Other One Chapter Average Stories
Samson, and the Way He Moved
It was a Monday night, the breeze was alight, it was ten o' clock. A breath in and sin was pushed out. Samson was out there, calm. He could be a psychopath, and he was calm. He could be an introvert, and he was calm. Whomever he was, he was Samson in a parking lot.
There was a far trip back from the house, and Samson had cried in his car. Mother loss, how she still told him to floss, and whatever kind of health she was in. White, obese, and fifty-five. Mother of the world, she was lonely and he only thought of her sometimes. You only miss them until you're gone.
However, Samson knows that when he is gone, he can only think of work, and so work takes over.
...
He was in his room, in his apartment, in the building that is full of people working. When he woke up, he went to his desk. He started to work.
There entire time, Samson could only think about what he had done wrong. There was only time for him to think about that single moment that he regretted, that one where he pushed someone to the edge.
He was in the right, but he was also scared. He blamed all of his problems on this one moment. His boss hating him, his old friends leaving him, the scars on his body, the dismissal from his colleagues, and the frightened way he found himself when he was alone in public.
However, it is safe to say that Samson got his work done.
...
That weekend, Samson went to the loud park with his friends. He had four. This was Samson's birthday celebration, because though his birthday was this month and a few weeks ago, there was no party this year. One of them had brought their frisbee, and the five of them carelessly tossed around the thing like there was nothing in the air and nothing to be done. Samson made a high jump for the disc and couldn't catch it on time, so the thing flew behind him. He ran to get it near this old man sitting on a bench tossing bread at the pigeons.
A pigeon pooped on the frisbee and Samson wiped his face with his hand in disbelief, but also to wipe the sweat off his face. He was so damn unlucky.
They all went for a swim in the park river, there was a fake beach there created by the water swiftly making its way through the rounds. The water was cool and washed off the excrement of the frisbee. Samson couldn't be happier to have a beer with his friends on the beach and relax and forget about work.
Samson's friends were like his old ones, but colorful. Samson cooked for them that night, and they were grateful, because Samson would end up cooking for them every weekend for the rest of the summer.
There was a far trip back from the house, and Samson had cried in his car. Mother loss, how she still told him to floss, and whatever kind of health she was in. White, obese, and fifty-five. Mother of the world, she was lonely and he only thought of her sometimes. You only miss them until you're gone.
However, Samson knows that when he is gone, he can only think of work, and so work takes over.
...
He was in his room, in his apartment, in the building that is full of people working. When he woke up, he went to his desk. He started to work.
There entire time, Samson could only think about what he had done wrong. There was only time for him to think about that single moment that he regretted, that one where he pushed someone to the edge.
He was in the right, but he was also scared. He blamed all of his problems on this one moment. His boss hating him, his old friends leaving him, the scars on his body, the dismissal from his colleagues, and the frightened way he found himself when he was alone in public.
However, it is safe to say that Samson got his work done.
...
That weekend, Samson went to the loud park with his friends. He had four. This was Samson's birthday celebration, because though his birthday was this month and a few weeks ago, there was no party this year. One of them had brought their frisbee, and the five of them carelessly tossed around the thing like there was nothing in the air and nothing to be done. Samson made a high jump for the disc and couldn't catch it on time, so the thing flew behind him. He ran to get it near this old man sitting on a bench tossing bread at the pigeons.
A pigeon pooped on the frisbee and Samson wiped his face with his hand in disbelief, but also to wipe the sweat off his face. He was so damn unlucky.
They all went for a swim in the park river, there was a fake beach there created by the water swiftly making its way through the rounds. The water was cool and washed off the excrement of the frisbee. Samson couldn't be happier to have a beer with his friends on the beach and relax and forget about work.
Samson's friends were like his old ones, but colorful. Samson cooked for them that night, and they were grateful, because Samson would end up cooking for them every weekend for the rest of the summer.