Ladies and gentlemen... the WrongPlanet writing showcase

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A Letter to The Young NT Men and Women Who Like to Harass Us Who Are Different

By Cockney Rebel


To all of you Young, Mainstreem NTs who think you know me,

If you really knew me, you would realise that a vulnerable person could be tougher than you, when she needs to be. If you really knew me, you would know that I'm living on my own, without a live-in Caretaker. You would know that I cook my own meals with ease, do my own chores with time to spare, and pay my own bills with no troubles, at all. If you really knew me, than you would be blown away by the fact that my voice sounds very English, for a 32 year old who was born in Canada to a Third Generation Canadian Couple. If you really knew me, you would se my perfect posture, every single day. If you really knew me, you would know that I like Half-cab Double Decker Buses that were built between 1936 and 1968. You would know that the Routemaster is my favourite Bus out of the many Half-cab Buses. You would actually know what a Routemaster is. If you really knew me, you would know that I like to walk around, to all the places that I like to go. If you really knew me, you would know that my favourite colours are the colours of the Union Flag. If you really knew me, you would know what a Union Flag is. If you really knew me, you would see how quick and bright I am. If you really knew me, you would know that I listen to the performers from a Rock Era, known as The British Invasion. You would know that The British Invasion is an Era, and not a Rock Group. If you really knew me, you would know that my IQ is 113, and that score is somewhere on the cusp, between average and above average Intelligence. You would know that I'm not Mentally Challenged. You would not presume that I'm Mentally Challenged. If you really knew me, you would see me in a better light, and that's my bottom line.

Cockney

Haha, nice Cockney, I liked it!

"P.S. This message will self destruct in your face around about... NOW!"

I can't write anything short enough to copypaste anymore. If I ever actually could.

This might not be what you're asking for, but this is the first 149 pages of a novel I wrote last year: http://www.lulu.com/browse/preview.php?fCID=204679

Lonely Bus, Lonely Cockney
By CockneyRebel

It was a blistering hot summer's day, deep in The Heart of Texas. While the cowboys and cowgirls were out, riding their horses and shooting their guns, up into the air, there were two very similar characters, who really shouldn't have been in that very hot part of Texas. They were very similar, indeed.

This Hobby Store is called Yankee Doodle Wheels and Hobbies. It appeared to be like any American toy store, from the outside. However, there was a slight, Un-American twinge inside the store. There were General Lees and Rot-Rods jumping ramps, as the owner took the last toy, out of the last box. The toy was a long way, from home, and she was quite the Lady. She was a PRV Routemaster with the rosey cheeks. The rambuncious southern trucks and cars stood around, waiting for the bus to talk. The Tonka dump truck, whom was the most rambuncious of all, looked at the Routemaster and said, "Lovely London Lady! How would you like to get in the sack with me"?! In her rich Cockney accent, the bus shouted, "Leave me alone"! The four-wheeled versions of the cowboys and cowgirls made fun of Rootie's accent, as they were jumping ramps and doing stunts, going, "Yee-haw"! Rootie rolled into a corner very slowly, and she started to cry. Truck Tex sped up to Rootie, and asked "What's wrong"? Rootie whined in her Routemaster style, "You southern folk are all the same...sniff...you're all a bunch of animals".

'Hey Little One' by Glen Campbell plays in the background.

There was a Hostel that looked like any Hostel in Texas. It looked like a barn, but there was a slight Un-American twinge inside the building. CockneyRebel was on the Internet, looking at Routemasters, as she forgot to bring her favourite one with her, when she left for The Heart of Texas. Billy Bob walked up to Cockney and asked, "What's that you're looking at"? Cockney answered, in her rich Cockney accent, "This is a Routemaster"! Billy Bob asked, "What's that? A penis"!?! Cockney logged off the Internet and said, "You southern US folk are all the same! YOU'RE SUCH BLOODY ANIMALS"! !! The cowboys and cowgirls were cheering, dancing and shooting their guns out the front windows, as they made fun of Cockney's accent.

'Hey Little One' by Glen Campbell plays in the background, again.

CockneyRebel left the Hostel for good, and she decided to stop by at Yankee Doodle's Wheels and Hobbies. She was acting all cool, pretending to put on a Hippie vibe. Her left hand started to tingle, profusely. She looked straight ahead and saw a model of one of the PRV Routemasters that she likes so much, with the rosey cheeks. She scooped Rootie into her hands, than she uncontrollably kneeled down and kissed the dirty floor, that she walked on. Cockney payed for her friend, packed her into her suitcase, and took her back to British Columbia with her. Cockney and Rootie were in ecstacy, on their Greyhound back to Langley.

'London Skies' by Jamie Cullum plays in the background.

This is my little short piece that I wrote in 11 minutes. My friend gave me one word to write something off of, "Christ," and this is what I came up with.

Jesus Christ is a barber in Brooklyn. Every day he wakes up to the sound of two cats copulating on the floor beneath him in his run down 20-story housing project. He gets out of bed, showers with water at below 20 degrees, running the risk of hypothermia each time he decides to. He then dries off, gets a cup of Taster's Choice coffee and exits the door. He then stands pensively outside his door on his welcome mat before realizing he's still naked. He goes back inside and gets dressed in his work uniform and heads over to work.

Jesus Christ rides a red Mongoose mountain bike seventeen blocks south to where he works, a small barbershop sandwiched between a pet shop and a chinese restaurant. When he opens the door, the bell above it rings, signaling his entrance. Each day he makes early morning preparations before any customers arrive. And each day he's disappointed because none ever do. This renders all of the day's efforts futile; sanitizing the combs, cleaning the razors, organizing the magazine rack and balancing the cash drawer. He passes time by reading Cosmopolitan and Women's Wear Daily and alternately playing lightsaber battles with his reflection using a straight razor.

Jesus Christ spends alot of money each week on bandages.

Jesus Christ doesn't appreciate the great irony life has dealt him; he is in fact the world's greatest barber. He can sculpt hair like Leonardo himself would make a painting, with perfect symmetry on each side of the head and even length all around. The only problem is that he himself cannot cut his hair or have it cut; his hair will simply defy the laws of physics and "override" a pair of scissors or razor attempting to cut it. This causes him to have extremely long and unkempt hair, and it is obvious that no person wants to have their hair cut by a man who makes Jerry Rubin look like Patrick Stewart.

Jesus Christ is puzzled. Each night he leaves work wondering how he continues to draw no business in his barbershop. He supports himself by selling Chick Tracts to old Jewish women who are too rheumatic to read anymore. Each night he goes home, riding his red Mongoose bicycle seventeen blocks north to his twenty story housing project. Each night he returns through his door, becomes naked, and falls asleep to the sound of cats copulating.

Very nice writing.I really enjoy the absurdity and clear prose and attention to detail.Keeping writing....

“Where are we going?”
“We are going to Glindlwock to meet a wizard. His name is Cyrin ”
“Cyrin…I thought wizards were just myths. That’s what me school teacher say to me: ‘Wizards is just fake.’
“Your teacher thinks that grindles are fake and they masquerade all day on Penive Street.”
“I should probly stop listening to her opinions…”
His father ducked under a low hanging tree branch.
“So, why didn’t I haveta go to school toda?”
“This wizard, Cyrin, ‘e’s interested in meeting you.”
“What?”
“Don’t encourage Cyrin, Dal, he-”
His dad stopped walking and listened closely. His dad put a finger up to his lips and Dal shook his head slowly.
“Listen.” His father whispered.
Dal looked around nervously and ever alert. He had seen that look his father’s eyes many times before. In particularly: the day his mother was taken away.
“Oh…no…oh, my…” His father whispered to himself and twitched.
“s**t…damn, damn…son, do you remember-” His father grabbed Dal’s arm and started at a quick walk. “Do you remember the stories I told you as a child?”
Dal stopped dead in his tracks and his father turned around staring at his shocked son.
“You…you-you-you s-s-s.” His father picked him up, cradling him in his arms and began to run as fast as possible.
They weren’t stories but were more like warnings.

this is part of a story that i randomly work on...i can't seem to find the beginning it may be on the old computer.

Empty swings
Bells on bikes with potential to still ring
Empty freezie pops lay in a pile
Ant piles untarnished, unpoked
These childhood memories are but a lonesome memory now
Known only to the child who once saw the world through innocent eyes

and this is just some poem i've been working on

Accidently posted this as topic, sorry.

I caught a body comin through the rye
I said, "the people see the mountain and they want to fly

They reach the end but never stop
and they fall right off the mountain top

I've seen some fall who begin to fly
I've seen some fall, hit ground and die

Some put phoney wings onto their back
They try to put on a splendid act

But when comes time to fall or fly
They phoneys are the ones that always die

I try to make sure good souls don't die
'Cause I am The Catcher in the Rye"

Inspired by "The Catcher in the Rye", by J.D. Salanger

I've Got To Keep Walking

I've got to keep walking
Away from my past
Towards my future
Away from my problems
Towards a solution

By CockneyRebel

I am what they call war,
I am what they call love.
I am what they call wisdom.
I am what they call stupidity.
I am what they call hate,
I am what they call charity,
I am what they call free...



I am human.

Do you like it?

hmm...i could see that as a world wide thing. each person would could add a line to the poem. ex:

i am what they call strange

I am what they call silly.



Yin Omelet

The source of my yielding
was self-doubt and pity.
When the mixture was right,
I was told it was pretty.

Just checking

Oops!! !! I hit the wrong thread Pleasedelete this and the two following posts in this thread.

Oops! Please delete!