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Who I am (standard:Psychological fiction, 1376 words)
Author: Lev821Added: Mar 25 2008Views/Reads: 2477/1202Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A student waiting for Mr Right. A pensioner wishing he could go back in time. Their connection can have very serious consequences.

My name is Sharon Hazel. I am 25 years old, student of fashion design at
Tameside college. I am five feet two inches, and whilst I am no 
glamorous model I do consider myself to be at least halfway attractive. 
I enjoy rhythm and blues music, and once a week attend a line-dancing 
class. I like romantic comedy films, but I also like the occasional 
horror. I don't read books, but I do intend to sometime, although I 
read magazines, girlie ones of course, and gossip mags. I live with my 
boyfriend of six months, Martin Fraser, a student of business finance 
and investment in the same college, and he's wetter than soaking 
sponge. A reedy individual in an almost handsome kind of way. It is to 
my almost shame that it was me who pursued him. There was no problem 
landing him of course, but a woman likes man's man, who can be coarse, 
rough, uncouth, yet be loving and tender as well. Even out at night, 
should we run into trouble, I am sure it would be him hiding behind me, 
but, until Mr Right comes along, I shall persist. He can do the loving 
and tender part to a certain degree. He likes to call me ‘my love', 
which is fine. I quite like it, but not all the time. It can be quite 
embarrassing sometimes, especially when out in public, say perhaps in a 
take-away, where he would say ‘I'll have the egg fried rice, what'll 
you have my love?' or when we've been browsing around shops, he'll pick 
something up, like a book or a DVD, and say: ‘I think I may purchase 
this my love'. Honestly, I could slap him, but if I did, he would 
probably collapse in a blubbering heap. 

I think recently, he has been in danger of asking me to marry him. As we
passed by a jewellers one time he stopped and looked in the window at 
the engagement rings, purely to point out their designs which he 
mentioned may help me in my studies. Another time we passed by a church 
where a marriage was taking place. The guests were outside, milling 
around, and a horse drawn carriage carrying the bride was slowly 
approaching. You should have seen his face, beaming as though it was 
his sister's wedding, and he hasn't got a sister. If he does ask me 
soon, I'm sure I'm going to say no. It will upset him, but has to be 
done I suppose, for now at least. Perhaps it's to give Mr Right more 
time to walk through the door and whisk me away. Until then, well, 
that's me, that's who I am. 

My name is Oliver Grayson, I am seventy-two years old, and a widower of
four years. I have three sons and a daughter, all of whom live away. So 
basically, I have a lot of spare time, and associate myself with the 
local photography society, and urban farm, where I volunteer as a 
gardener. For most of my life, I was in the army. The royal marines. I 
was a specialist in vehicle mechanics, which was basically a job for 
life, but circumstances change. At the age of fifty-five I became 
surplus to requirements as new blood came through, and despite 
dedication and experience, I was asked to leave. It's perfectly 
understandable. I can see it from their point of view, and bear no ill 
feelings towards them. It's what happens. I just had to accept it. So 
out into civvy street I came, and what a strange place it is. Even 
after all these years submerged in it, I don't think I've ever gotten 
used to it. See, I suppose you could say I'm from the old school. Some 
of my views and opinions are, in a way, Victorian. In my day, or in my 
time, or basically, when I was young, things were so much different, 
where they used to sell jugs of tea in kiosks on the beach, where women 
started wearing something called a ‘bikini'. I can honestly say I was 
shocked. Nowadays, girls walk around with barely a stitch on, and it's 
normal. It's a daily occurrence. This world is moving so fast these 
days, I can barely keep up. Actually, I don't think I can keep up. All 
this technol, technolgy, or however you say it, is leaving us old folk 
behind. I thought a mouse was a small mammal, not a computer thingy, 
and a program was something you watched on television, not a computer 
thingy. With violent crime all over the place, and smutty filth on TV 
all the time, and ipods and Xboxes, and satnavs, I don't recognise the 
world anymore. If I could just return to the fifties, or sixties, I'll 
be happy. Well, that's me, that's who I am. 

My name is Douglas Mitchell. I am a psychiatrist at a hospital
institute, and I am responsible for four patients. We have 16 patients 
altogether who are basically, not fit for inclusion in society. 
Although it wouldn't surprise me if this government in one of its 
ridiculous cost-cutting measures, opened the doors and let them out. 
That'd be just what they would be inclined to do, and it makes me 
wonder who it really is with the mental problems, and who belongs 
where, but I digress. I am inclined occasionally to rant about councils 
and governments and beaurocrats, mainly because they irritate me so 

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