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- Thread starter slobake
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Don't let the little tyke intimidate you. If he comments on your computer skills tell him that DOS was a better OS. Refuse to explain what you are talking about.
George
Where have you gone?
We cannot hear you anymore
You cannot tell us your stories
But we will remember
There you are, Georgie boy
Under the flowers
Your weak heart was the weakness in us all
Sleep and leave the stories to us
Untold as they may be
We will hear them through experience
We will never forget you
Where have you gone?
We cannot hear you anymore
You cannot tell us your stories
But we will remember
There you are, Georgie boy
Under the flowers
Your weak heart was the weakness in us all
Sleep and leave the stories to us
Untold as they may be
We will hear them through experience
We will never forget you
And then the crash happened.
I was standing in my kitchen one night when I heard my wife pull into the driveway and then open the door and come in. I was standing there with a bottle of whiskey in my hand and a confused look on my face because she never left without me. She said, "It's all gone." I didn't know what she meant at the time. I told her to go to sleep and get some rest.
I then walked into my "story room" where I concoct most of this bull**** and proceded to drink and make up stuff.
Soon it occured to me that I smelled something like rotting meat and that it was not just my imagination, so I went back into the kitchen to find the source - which must have been left-out food from the previous night - in order to bag it up and put it in the outside trash container. But what I found was a shock to me because my wife was dead on the floor. In an intense fit of crying and calling out her name like a madman, I remembered. And I forgot.
I put her in my car and driving through my tears I could barely see the lines on the road, but I kept driving.
I kept driving.
I know of a place where secrets die. Where all of us go, but only those who know who they are. Who am I? This road never ends. I keep driving and it's just endless yellow dots and gravel and asphalt. I want to die. Where is it? I loved you too much, my sweety. What happened to you? Who did this? How did this happen?
I saw myself floating, drowning in a bottle of whiskey. I stopped the car and got out. There I was. Dead. Floating in a bottle of whiskey. And all her dolls in her old bedroom screamed like wraiths as I drowned. Furious that she was gone. Furious that I did this. She is gone forever and they won't stop screaming even as I drown. I got back in the car.
But as I was driving, I noticed an intense light in my eyes and struggled to get away from it because it seemed so loud. I swerved as much as I could, but the screaming would not stop.
Then it hit me that the screaming was coming from my wife and that I had drifted off and the car was
But it was too late
And then the crash happened.
I was standing in my kitchen one night when I heard my wife pull into the driveway and then open the door and come in. I was standing there with a bottle of whiskey in my hand and a confused look on my face because she never left without me. She said, "It's all gone." I didn't know what she meant at the time. I told her to go to sleep and get some rest.
I then walked into my "story room" where I concoct most of this bull**** and proceded to drink and make up stuff.
Soon it occured to me that I smelled something like rotting meat and that it was not just my imagination, so I went back into the kitchen to find the source - which must have been left-out food from the previous night - in order to bag it up and put it in the outside trash container. But what I found was a shock to me because my wife was dead on the floor. In an intense fit of crying and calling out her name like a madman, I remembered. And I forgot.
I put her in my car and driving through my tears I could barely see the lines on the road, but I kept driving.
I kept driving.
I know of a place where secrets die. Where all of us go, but only those who know who they are. Who am I? This road never ends. I keep driving and it's just endless yellow dots and gravel and asphalt. I want to die. Where is it? I loved you too much, my sweety. What happened to you? Who did this? How did this happen?
I saw myself floating, drowning in a bottle of whiskey. I stopped the car and got out. There I was. Dead. Floating in a bottle of whiskey. And all her dolls in her old bedroom screamed like wraiths as I drowned. Furious that she was gone. Furious that I did this. She is gone forever and they won't stop screaming even as I drown. I got back in the car.
But as I was driving, I noticed an intense light in my eyes and struggled to get away from it because it seemed so loud. I swerved as much as I could, but the screaming would not stop.
Then it hit me that the screaming was coming from my wife and that I had drifted off and the car was
But it was too late
And then the crash happened.
I begin tucking him into bed and he tells me, “Daddy check for monsters under my bed.” I look underneath for his amusement and see him, another him, under the bed, staring back at me quivering and whispering, “Daddy there’s somebody on my bed.”
Ha, no kids. I found that online, its from some contest on reddit where youre supposed to come up with the scariest story using only two sentences. Or something.
Is it odd that I feel an overwhelming sense of pride when my daughter says "I farted Daddy, excuse me"?
Fatherhood is such a privilege.
Fatherhood is such a privilege.
Fleeing from the heat of pulsing red agony he ran to the cave of cold black despair. He was safe. No one could touch him there. He took a long draught of the dark bitterness and choked as it poisoned his spirit. It was terrible but at least it was familiar.
Rusty leaned back into the dusty seat and listened to the rumble of the engine as it echoed off the surrounding hills. A pair of raccoons scampered out of the way as the car rolled down the narrow road. Duane eased down on the brakes and Diana reached for the dashboard to brace against a sudden stop that never came. Duane knew he had to start talking fast before his inquisitive granddaughter hit him with a barrage of questions.
He glanced back at Rusty and Eleanor in the mirror. The shy youngster had his arm around the bulldog as she drooled on his legs. He liked Rusty, but could see the fear of rejection that gripped the thin, pale drifter. How had such a young man been beaten down so much? He knew Rusty would need lots of love and patience.
Rusty noticed Duanes glance in the mirror and wondered what the grizzled old preacher was thinking about him. He scratched Eleanors wide skull, closed his eyes and drank in a long slow breath. The cool breeze felt good as it streamed through the window and filled his lungs. Rusty smiled at a sudden memory. He was riding with his sister down by the beach on a bright summer day. He remembered feeling the cool ocean breeze as it caressed his skin. A car full of teenage boys pulled up next to them at a stoplight and they all stared at the two fair-skinned redheads in the convertible. One of the boys pointed at Rusty and said something to the others. They all stared at Rusty and started laughing. Rusty remembered feeling like his body was trying to turn itself inside out. He felt small and weird as if he was strange and everyone else was normal. His sister smiled and gently brushed back his hair. Dont worry about them, Rusty. If you dont care what they think about you they cant hurt you. Besides, if you dont stop worrying I am just going to tickle you until you stop. Rachel grabbed him and started tickling his ribcage. The traffic light turned green and she right on kept tickling. Rusty remembered the horns honking behind them as he gasped for air, he was laughing so hard he couldnt even talk. Finally, Rachel stopped tickling long enough for him to catch his breath and tell her he didnt care what anyone thought, as long as they were together.
The sound of Dianas voice jerked him back to the present. Grandpa, would you please tell us where you were.
He glanced back at Rusty and Eleanor in the mirror. The shy youngster had his arm around the bulldog as she drooled on his legs. He liked Rusty, but could see the fear of rejection that gripped the thin, pale drifter. How had such a young man been beaten down so much? He knew Rusty would need lots of love and patience.
Rusty noticed Duanes glance in the mirror and wondered what the grizzled old preacher was thinking about him. He scratched Eleanors wide skull, closed his eyes and drank in a long slow breath. The cool breeze felt good as it streamed through the window and filled his lungs. Rusty smiled at a sudden memory. He was riding with his sister down by the beach on a bright summer day. He remembered feeling the cool ocean breeze as it caressed his skin. A car full of teenage boys pulled up next to them at a stoplight and they all stared at the two fair-skinned redheads in the convertible. One of the boys pointed at Rusty and said something to the others. They all stared at Rusty and started laughing. Rusty remembered feeling like his body was trying to turn itself inside out. He felt small and weird as if he was strange and everyone else was normal. His sister smiled and gently brushed back his hair. Dont worry about them, Rusty. If you dont care what they think about you they cant hurt you. Besides, if you dont stop worrying I am just going to tickle you until you stop. Rachel grabbed him and started tickling his ribcage. The traffic light turned green and she right on kept tickling. Rusty remembered the horns honking behind them as he gasped for air, he was laughing so hard he couldnt even talk. Finally, Rachel stopped tickling long enough for him to catch his breath and tell her he didnt care what anyone thought, as long as they were together.
The sound of Dianas voice jerked him back to the present. Grandpa, would you please tell us where you were.
I'm fine. The other guy is in a bit of a mess though. I just hope he doesn't send his mates round.
It's a pretty badly written summary of a short story I have worked up in my head about a fictional drunk driving car crash. I meant to flesh it out better, but I typed it when I was drunk. Go figure.
I'll work on a better version if you want to read an actual story by a sucky non writer.
