Throw or Be Thrown : How To Throw Rubbish into a Bin

Rubbish come in all sizes and shapes as do their former owners. It can be quite daunting for a big high school child to throw paper into the bin, especially given the circumstance that the teacher is in full swing of delivering the message home.  The scenario plays along the lines of “ the teacher gives student material to paste into their book, the student accomplishes the task with fervent energy and then teacher forgets to allow for a class adjournment to throw the waste into the waste paper basket … Most students manage fairly well to hold in the mounting pressure to toss the paper into the bin while the teacher is talking. The pressure mounts to a climax until all the students are on the edge of their chairs, knuckles white from gripping the table in order to restrain themselves and eyes glistening not form the teacher’s powerful message but from the agonizing paces of the clock behind the teacher.

To avoid the torture brought about by the teacher’s mere slip of the mind can be quite simple, especially for a big fellow. Firstly, one needs to identify the victim that needs to be liberated from your desk and into the bin where they belong. Once the paper is identified, the most important, crucial, life-threatening step is initiated. The step that stands between you being thrown out of the class or the paper being successfully thrown into the bin is determining the size of the paper to be thrown away. For big fellows this not something to worry about as large volumes of paper can be smothered in between their thighs, suffocated within their barrel thick hand and occasionally crunched in their mouth without the teacher hearing more than a muffled sound.

For miniscule people however, this step must under no circumstances be taken lightly as these people run the risk of being publicly shamed when the teacher kicks them out of her classroom for “disrupting” the class. Such people must always have a jacket or two at their disposal.  These items of clothing, along with scarves in winter, server the same function as silencers in hand held guns.

For a perfect throw you must make sure that the crunched up paper mirrors a sphere with as many jaggered edges as possible. The razor edges slice though the air allowing the ball of paper to move at light speed towards the bin.

When the grand finale has arrived and the teacher is blaring out the most important statement of the lesson such that she is lost in the trance of her message, the throw can begin.

Arc your back, take in as few breaths as possible and no matter what you do, do not blink as it could rapture the teacher’s hypnotic state.  As the paper is sprung from your hands, simultaneously produce a loud preposterous sneeze or cough so as to draw attention from the prisoner fleeing your hand. The teacher will either glare at you for barbaric-seeming behavior or may offer a sarcastic pleasantry. Either way once the paper is freed from your desk your misery shall not return lest more work needs pasting in your book …




To text or … not.

Fingers twitching, I hold my phone
He is but a touch away,

Yet such will the distance be in the tone

Of his voice, itching for my presence in a way.

In way, I wish I could believe.

This feeling ,like my heartbeat, is all too familiar.

It’s a play performance where, in a swish, a moment we receive.

The ceiling stands still and we become a memorabilia.

But do I miss him?-his personality a raging fire

With his flaws, dismissable like a drop in the ocean.

Or is it to hiss at him that fuels my desire

To open all doors, allowing our hearts to be miscible in rhythmic motion.

My fingers tire of their charade 

of bouncing and tossing from one key to the next.

The message they wire scream at me like a parade!

It goes without announcing or fussing that I still wished him to remain an ex.



Saw a bird

I saw a bird today

It uttered words of the hope of the King.

Also of turmoil and of dismay.

I listened, hoping on what next it would bring


Kings like David,

It foretold of their glory.

Of his perfect story,

To be marred by sins too avid.


It also spoke of King Solomon,

The wisest man who will ever traverse the earth.

His question was but one that will be common,

T’was for his wisdom not to dearth.


He talked of the King of kings, sitting on the throne.

Of his splendour and mercy and majesty.

The sacrifice for my life’s amnesty,

For me not to be a sin’s drone.


He spoke more still, of the King who made the kings.

With eyes casting shadows into the distance

Its beak moved with ferocity as its words escaped like fire rings,

That would consume future hearts, leaving behind a dark substance.


“When?” I began to ask.

I guessed the question to be a heavy task.

For the bird fluttered away,

Telling me not the day, nor the hour of Judgement day.



















Tapping her foot on the hair…

Tapping her foot on the hair-covered ground she tried not to bite of his head. “I’ll show you”, he breathed. As naive as a three-year old she accepted this notion and proceeded to await his promise to come to pass. the focus of her eyes faded off into the distance as she rotated the ring on her ring finger. Her thoughts swum backwards through the years- a fairly short swim- to when it all begun.

He had stood there beside her as the moonlight waltzed witlessly to an unheard orchestra on the glassy surface of his gelled back hair. The moon stood high that night, surrounded by a fleet of puffy clouds that basked in its stolen light. The moon, however, was focusing all its attention on him, seeming somehow to worship and even bow down to him. Oblivious of how he looked, his words bounced out of his mouth like basketballs on a court but landed like feathered cushions in the air, somehow drifted their way to her heart. The heart he had stolen.

The clock chimed. The image that had been conjured up by her mind disappeared with a click, like a television pulled out of it’s socket.

Letting out a sigh, she reached for a magazine and began flipping through it aimlessly like a vagabond on the street. She grimaced at what was keeping him occupied, shooting lethal daggers at that being. “Surely getting a beard trimmed FOR YOU can’t take that long”, she spat under her breath. Beneath her stone cold expression the anger seethed and simmered like a volcano that was tired of being dormant.

As yet another page whizzed by, her eyes were enticed by its deep dark unfathomable color. Upon reeling back, her face drew into itself creating neat folds of skin above her hazel tinted eyes. The man in the pin stripe legal blue suit, gavel in hand accompanied by a beaming smile drowned her mercilessly in her memory of that night.

He had worn a similar suit that hugged him snugly, enough for her to see the prolific features of the rainy days in the gym. His hair that day reassembled the ocean on a calm summer day as he ran his hand through it and it emerged leaving not a hair out of its place. Her eyes caught the shimmer of the impeccable Rolex watch he always wore, and continued to follow it until it brushed fleetingly past his left pocket that seemed to bulge oddly that day.  He raised his hand up in mid-air, palm facing the ceiling,  and his eyes locked with hers for but a waning moment. His eyes, full of vitality yet a mirror to a world of mystery, danced at the corners. He fell to one knee as the world around – like water whirling its way down the drain- seemed to vanish into thin air.

Yet again, the world like a pin popped her reminiscing bubble.

He was almost done, maybe then she could see who she really needed to see.  Her hopes escalated sky-high as soon as she saw the barber retract his hair-hungry device. It was like a pin to a red balloon when the razor relapsed back the subject’s face like the mere affinity for hair was too great to overcome. Her emotions now flared like the fire that flares from a mother dragon’s mouth. She proceeded in her futile attempts to tame that roaring feeling inside by she tried to read the next line in the magazine – that she should have been engrossed in – as she “patiently” waited. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.  Her feet had caught onto the ferocious ambiance created by that MAN! She crossed one leg over the other…… TAP……….TAP…………………TAP.  Managing to at least drop their tempo, she sighed exasperatedly.

She had no choice but to wait patiently on that … that! After all he was the only one who knew where to find her husband. Her entire body slumped, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, after this realization.




The Pauper’s Dress

She dance – the Paupers dance;

In a whirlwind of colour,  hypnotising her victims.

She spins and twirls;

Her dress matching her, move for move.



The crowd bursts into cheers.

They sing, shout, and follow her in her wake.

They are zombies heading to a slaughter house;

The gallow will be their garland.



She is halfway through her turn,

Like a ballerina, she pauses…

For a second… she contemplates suicide.

The crowd goes on cheering.



Her turn is almost complete,

The crowd is silenced.

She  faces them head on.

All the while her feet are an enigma,

Moving to the sound of silence.



Coaxing her head sideways… she smiles the devil’s smile;

Reveling in every bit of the ash-stricken faces dedicated to her.

“Who are you ?” What do you want from us ?

The questions reverberated from lips marred with fear.



She smile widely.

The could not see it.

She smiled her widest.

They saw nothing.



“W-h-h-ho are you? ”

She began to twirl again,A7LrPHxCQAESnTN

In a torrent of anguish- dark, cold, forbidden.

Stopping, she faced the trembling crowd;

Her faceless face beckoned them to ask again.

Like a broken record, she dared them to ask the questions nobody ever asked.



Just as their mouths opened,

Their eyes opened.

And they saw themselves

Twirling in the Pauper’s dress.