Samson



This was an exercise I did in my Wednesday Workshop with Emilie Collyer to see a season as a person and write about it in a short amount of time. See if you can pick the season.

Samson woke late and slowly from under his thick doona and after rolling over three times and burying his head under his head under his three pillows, he stretched a very long wide stretch and yawned a very long yawn. His eyelids still felt very heavy as his rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands and then he gave his beard a nice big scratch. It really was time to get up. Samson climbed out of his double bed, which was just a little too small for him, and sat on the edge with his feet on the old dusty rug he had inherited. He took in another big yawn and slowly stood up to greet the day in his dingy dusty old room. It was now 7.45am and his alarm had gone off at 6.30am, however, he didn't have the energy, or couldn't be bothered rushing into work, especially after the day he had yesterday.

Samson was a short man with dark hair and a very unkempt beard. He had always kept to himself at work, and thought that he had always gotten his job done, eventually. He didn't like to talk a lot, and always wore extra clothes to work because he believed the office was too cold. When he brought up the issue, it had quickly blown up into a stowrm, and Samson had really let loose with his fury. Now there was a real mess to clean up, and he didn't want to go in there to do it. He was hoping that it would be cleaned up for him.

He quietly shuffled his way down his dark hallway to his kitchen to make his breakfast to begin his day. He must face the storm he had created.

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