ZED ALABASTER has lost count of how many Bibles he's sent every month from his relatives. He's also lost count of how many punches and insults has been thrown at him. All because he liked the feeling of running his lips over his lipstick coated lips. All because he liked the feel of a guy's lips pressed against his.
ROBYN WARKOFF has lost count of how many times she's been told that art is not "her thing" and that she should stop wearing loose shirts and basketball shorts. She has also lost count of how many times her face has appeared on newspapers as the "troubled one". All because she liked how smooth her paintbrush felt on canvas. All because she didn't know how to be a girl.
DOMINIC WARKOFF has lost count of how many times business magazines and suits have been thrown at him. He has also lost count of how many times he's been called the "wrong child" by reporters. All because he liked the smell of pepper and slat waft by his nostrils as he cooked. All because his eyes were accustomed to only three colours.
HARPER WARKOFF has lost count of how many times he's been to the hospital and how many times his dad used to throw away his astrology books and place books about law in front of him. He's also lost count of how many times he has appeared on newspapers as the "unlucky mute". All because he felt that silence spoke louder than actual words. All because he preferred learning about stars, constellation . . . the fucking sky rather than law.
So, sit back because the story is about the four of them. For once, it's just about them.
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the following story contains:
• swearing
• violence
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YOU ARE READING
We The Misfits
Short StoryIn which, you have: • A monochromatic chef ("You forgot to mention hot.") • A confused artist ("I'm like the fucking Picasso in the group.") • A mute astronomer ("...") • A fragile homosexual ("With great makeup sense!") ...
