Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Struggle . by Pen OnFire (the false prince TXT) 📖
- Author: Pen OnFire
Book online «Struggle . by Pen OnFire (the false prince TXT) 📖». Author Pen OnFire
Drip! Drip! Drip! The soft drumming of raindrops fills my ears as I toss around in bed aimlessly. I hate the rain. It reminds me of all the things I dislike about myself. The first being my ugly name: Rayne Marie Brown. As if my worthless ass mother couldnt have come up with something more creative, more beautiful. Maybe Tiana, Mariah, perhaps even Bria but no she named me after rain and didnt even have the common sense to spell it correctly. Nights like this I curse my mother in my head, she had to be as dumb as Grandpop Frank says she was. "Yer mama wuz a no good ass whore." His daily revelation before taking a swig of whiskey, "Went off and got 'erself killed & left me wit a black ass baby ta raise."
Grandpop Frank hated my mother. My mother Gina was his youngest, his babygirl. Yet she was his biggest disappointment. Gina was breathtakingly beautiful with skin the color of honey and eyes so big and brown that with one bat of her long black eyelashes, the whole world kneeled at her feet. I can't remember how many times I stared at the tattered old photograph I have of her, the only one Grandpa Frank didnt manage to get rid of, envious of my mother's beauty. Countless times I wondered why I hadnt inherited that pretty honey skin and fine culy hair. I've come to the conclusion that I took after my father, though I have no clue who he is. On hot summer days, I would strip naked and stand in front of my full length mirror taking in the image before me. My smooth brown skin would glisten with sweat, a product of the scorching South Carolina summer. My eyes, as brown and beautiful as my mother's would twinkle as I took in my supple young figure. Yes, my eyes are my best feature and they are my mother's eyes. I hate her and love her all at once. Love her because she was mine and hated her for not being here. For leaving me in this harsh enviroment with a caretaker that she had to have known would hate me as much as he hated her.
Grandpa Frank claims my mother acted strangely the whole time she was pregnant with me. Said she refused to leave the house and even delivered me on the cold hardwood floor of the livingroom with a gnarled midwife. Soon after having me she went out one day and was never heard from again. "Wuz in sum shit she aint have no business." Was the only explanation I received for her absence.
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Publication Date: 06-09-2013
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