Story cover for Caught - FINISHED by indyrune
Caught - FINISHED
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    Oras 1h 21m
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    Mga Boto 23
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  • WpHistory
    Oras 1h 21m
Kumpleto, Unang na-publish Apr 10, 2015
A young girl is found lying dead on my street. People are getting scared. And my only parent left is blamed. My dad was found later by a dust bin...drunk. He has never touched a drink in his life. But then again strange things are happening. And most of them are connected to me.
*
"daddy." I said, rather scared as I advanced on the drunken man. He swirled around, giggling. "hello darling!"
*
This is my first book. I apologise for any spelling mistakes. Feel free to help me improve on things. I hope you enjoy the story about a girl who has been surrounded by murder most of her life.
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A fucking mess of poems dead stories

70 parte Kumpleto Mature

FINISHED AND COMPLEATED. Just poems, I suppose. Or maybe a scrapbook of scars. A chaotic collage of half-born stories, abandoned plots, and feelings too loud to ignore. This isn't a novel. It's a graveyard of unwritten books- stitched together with ink and impulse. A little trauma here, a little heartbreak there. Addiction. Bad parents. Dangerous love. The usual mess. I never claimed to be a poet, but pain has a way of teaching rhythm. And when the stories in my head refused to become chapters, they became verses instead. My father? A ghost in flesh. A man who cradled needles more tenderly than he ever held me. He is an addict. A lover of oblivion. And I, the daughter left behind in the smoke of his escape. Does that make me a girl with "daddy issues"? Or just a girl still learning how not to bleed from wounds she didn't choose? This book is for the overthinkers, the almost-authors, the ones who feel too much and write too little- until the words finally spill out like blood on the page. Welcome to the ride. There's no exit. But there's poetry in the wreckage. Author's Note I didn't set out to write a book. I set out to survive my own mind. This is what happens when you have too many stories, too many ghosts, and not enough discipline to finish a single novel. So instead, I wrote poems- or something like them. Fragments. Feelings. Flashbacks. A scrapbook of the soul. Some of these pieces are fiction. Some are memory. Some are just what happens when you stare at the ceiling too long and let your thoughts rot into poetry. If you've ever had a thousand ideas and no idea where to start- if you've ever felt too broken to write but too full not to- this is for you. Thanks for riding with me. There's no map. No neat ending. Just the wreckage, and the words we make from it.