Shannon O'Hara
Stories (2/0)
Seven hours in the sky.
I turned around from the plane door to wave at my Mother again. She was wearing her favourite blue polka dot dress with an orange turban tied around her hairless head. She was crying as she waved from behind the sunlit pane of glass. I blew one final kiss before I boarded the plane and sat down, placing the box she had given me on the empty chair next to me.
By Shannon O'Hara3 years ago in Fiction
Number twelve
1 Pear. It is a plentiful word. So many variations. Without the ‘r’ you are left with pea. Write it down and you think of a squishy little vegetable. Loved by some, hated by many. Say it, and you think of a wee. Then you have the word left without the ‘p’ - ear. Most of us have two. Some work. Some don’t. Mine don’t hear like they used to. Come to think of it, my ears don’t really work anymore and I struggle to ‘pea’ and, just to add another layer of confusion, my name is Bee.
By Shannon O'Hara3 years ago in Psyche