The Floormate

 

The tarantula had whisked away to some hidden enclave inside the terrarium, probably tending to an exanimate cricket, maybe a fly. The floormate — or mental case — as most others called him, held one stone almost the size of his palm within his hand. He was stroking its smooth surface.

 

“I’ve been wondering,” I said. “Why didn’t your parents help you move in?”

“They think I’m gay.”

“Are you?”





About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)