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Array
(
[sid] => 118071
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => PRODIGAL SON
[time] => 2006-04-10 09:46:23
[hometext] => JUST ANOTHER WRONG NUMBER.
[bodytext] => In a creepy gloomy cubicle, stood the scandalous scary chieftain haggling over a shady deal, gawking over him were a few huge hooligans armed and perilous a scene par none but to hell. Just then rang a tinkling telephone bell from far corner of the cell hidden beneath a dusty dell. Rickety fidgety frightened voice cracked at the other side. “Papa, your own prodigal son heeded not to your veteran voice headed out in vain pursuit to conquer the world of glitter but slithered down the gutter - what word can I mutter, felon that I am - bowed like a shamed jester. A word of forgiveness shall cleanse my evil conscience, to conclude this world’s journey in peace.” Tears oozed out from those pained eyes of the chieftain – his own life’s reflection; he murmured. “Cry not my son, blenders are men’s boulders of obstacle, and those cross them wisely by grasping them to blend in for a life’s gain shall prevail. This old man awaits for you, holding the vision to rest my mortal self on your sturdy shoulders to discharge my last dragging breath, your old man awaits for you.” Puzzled huge hooligans, whispered; “Mighty years have passed by; we together rolled and crawled in this crime filled filth never did we see your beloved son - but this?” “Wonder not my fellow comrades, he is neither my son nor I ‘m his father, a mislead son’s missed number, I only saved a dieing member; my boy, it was only a wrong number, it was only a wrong number” (FRANCO) [comments] => 1 [counter] => 177 [topic] => 31 [informant] => FRANCO [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => StoryPoetry )
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