creativewritingpieces

=People can post writing pieces, then have them commented on by others. Make sure to leave a "comments:" part at the end.=  Phil Vincaletti was fetching a jar of peanut butter from his hidden peanut butter storage unit in his pantry wall. The selection Phil was retrieving from his secret hole was a 2007 Jiff Extra Crunchy to be used for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on wheat. If you happened to know Phil Vincaletti, you’d be able to guess that Phil had either just sealed a new business deal or had won a racquetball match against his lifelong foe/friend (well he was really his foe but he pretended to be friends with him) Peter Bordon. You’d know that because Phil was a very conservative man who liked to save the good things for good times. Like that day. So Phil pried the door to his peanut butter recess in the wall open when out of the blue, he died. From severe head trauma, actually. Right to the temple, even. Approximately eight seconds after Phil had passed on, a female figure who had watched the whole thing go down from the laundry basket slowly and very fluidly pulled herself out of the container of dirty garments. Slowly she crept over to the man who not long ago was nonchalantly making a sandwich. A gloved hand slid onto Phil’s wrist. After a moment or two, the woman knocked twice on the clothes washing machine. A man peeked out of the machine, then pulled himself out. “Is he dead?” The man asked the question trivially, because he knew the answer. “Yes. Either dead or a magician who belongs with an $8 million dollar a year contract in Vegas.” “I think it’s the first one, Veronica.” “Whatever. Let’s get out of here.” The scene darkens, leaving behind a mere shadow.

A lightness erupts from the left hand corner, permitting us to resume the story. But instead of the pantry of Phil Vincaletti, the setting is an austere and deathly boring spot. The waiting room at Dr. Surdey’s office. Dr. Surdey was an esteemed physician, specializing in the transplants of vital organs. The man who was waiting to be summoned in was a man. His hair was short and wiry, like bristles were poking out to the world, greeting all who approached. His nose, was a beak. Not an actual beak, but it might pass for one if it was perhaps painted. It was lower than usual, ending slightly less than a centimeter before his upper lip began, and was at least four and a half centimeters long, from tip to cheek. The man’s eyes, too, were of ornithological nature. Squinty, almost like the man was peering into the sun all the time, and couldn’t avert his eyes. And his name was Peter Bordon. Son of Sylvia and Charles Bordon, both deceased for several years, dead of a bizarre train accident, leading Peter to an acute case of siderodromophobia (the fear of trains). “The doctor will see you know, Pete.” A nurse had popped out of a doorway, alerting Peter to the fact that his doctor was now able to see him and discuss with him the importance of a new liver and how crucial it was to his survival. By Jake Smith

Comments: //This is very interesting. Who wrote it? Remember to take credit. And...all you writers out there, visit my teacher page for ideas about submitting work beyond Legenda, the wiki, and HMS! Ms. Agell//