There once was a waiter called Brent
Who made customers quite malcontent
He dropped whole trays of food
And was terribly rude
But they still tipped him twenty percent
About the Creator
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More stories from Victoria Pombeiro and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Early Train
8am, Sunday June 23rd A loud whistling noise wakes Amanda with a jolt. She sits up too quickly and feels the blood rush to her head and start throbbing against her temples. Where the hell is she? The room is small and dimly lit, with two cushioned red benches facing each other across a cheap-looking folding table. Amanda gropes around for her phone, but the seat either side of her is empty. Shit, where’s her bag? It’s got all her ID in it, not to mention the last few euros she didn’t spend at the bar last night. She searches under the benches, groping around on her hands and knees, but finding nothing except a spotlessly clean blue carpet. There’s a sliding glass door the other side of the bench, leading into an equally dimly lit corridor. Amanda pulls the handle. The door doesn’t move. She pulls the handle harder, but the door stays firmly shut.
By Victoria Pombeiro3 years ago in Fiction
Affection and Healing for Yourself
During the night of the last quarter moon, I gathered my ritual supplies. I carefully handled the chunk of black tourmaline that would protect me from your overall negative and narcissistic energy. I carefully walked the house with my stick of selenite in hand, asking the universe to cleanse our working space.
By Alisha Wilkins ✒️🦋🖋️4 days ago in Fiction
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