My name is Qwerty Uiop. I live in a box. The box my home is made of five squares of bricks. The northward square commonly known as a wall holds a frosted window lined with cockroaches. It has a square of caterpillar cocoons in the middle. The curtains are half finished- the silkworms have yet to finish their work, slow aren’t they? I sit on the wooden chair, splinters poking out from everywhere possible that it is amazing that in the mouse years I have lived in this box, I have never once needed to take out a splint from my skin. All my furniture was and is the like.
In the mouse years I have lived in this box, I have departed my home at exactly 7 every Saturday to go to the market to get food. It is a tradition. I help the shopkeeper to persuade people to buy more of their things and I get some food and living supplies in return. A cheery bunch the people, persons who buy things.
When I return several hours later, I place sheets of pressed paper on the rectangular table and remove a box of paints and set of paint brushes.
i'm thinking of continuing this piece. hmm...
and so teacher, missus wee tells us to write a bad piece of work,
I am a cockroach in a tall boy’s hair and I attempt to crawl into his butt crack. In a house ten miles away, an old man is pouring water, Mr Nickelson, his house is rusty and old, well just like him, he is old, but I am young and alive until the tall boy sits down where I will be crushed and dead while Mr Nickelson lives on? This is incredulous not to mention ridiculous. In matters of sausages and eggs, I will be nothing but a flattened grotesque crunchy piece of bug meat while Mr Nickelson in Street 11 of Howdrewell Drive carries on living his –oh please don’t make me say it, old life eating ham and cheese.
missus wee's interpreted advice at the end? To write badly is to not think and just write, type, the works.