“Father‚ is it going to hurt the rabbit?” He let out a short laughter‚ finished with a smirk and a smile offering me to polish the .303 that he was wiping. “Come on son‚ if you have a mind as weak as that‚ you won’t make it past a private.” *** Taking a sip from the warm scented cup‚ the cross dangled down loosely from my neck. The cup is set back onto the table‚ with my preheated warm hands grasping the wooden symbol. “Dismiss us with your blessing.” *** My father with his face slightly pale
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Prolugue I’m Charlette‚ but most people call me Charle. This is my story. The story about a girl‚ just a girl. No magically fairies or wizards‚ no queens or kings and nothing different from the world you live in now‚ yet some people might find this fassinating for reasons unknown. I’m a normal girl‚ well as normal as a 14 year old girl gets. My brown eyes and brown hair blend with a crowd and my average height and weight don’t stand out. I don’t really work to hard with my grades‚ so they are
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tendencies‚ and outcomes. Hate consumes you and that is all you really think about. It controls how you feel‚ it controls your decisions and it controls your actions. Hate ruins your life. It makes you do things you would not otherwise do. It obliterates your happiness‚ and any light you could see. Hate is an awful thing for someone to meet and I wish I never had. I want to tell you the story of how I met hate‚ and how I somehow managed to power through it. It all started a long time ago‚ when I was about
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Slice Pank Redivider One story Tishman-other Carve Forge Townie Derrick wakes up. The hangover clings to his skull‚ his heart‚ which seems like it’s barely working this morning as he rolls off of Tim’s couch and searches wildly around the living room for that glass of water he could have sworn he filled‚ set beside his sleeping place for when he woke up. This common‚ quick sense‚ even when he’s shitfaced‚ kicks in sometimes and he almost feels good about himself. But if he doesn’t quench that
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"-if you -I’m just assuming cause it happens a lot- just gave me your hand to shake and I didn’t and now you’re contemplating whether you should kill me or murder me for making it awkward. I did not see it‚ since you know‚ I’m
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picture all in my head‚ like I was watching a movie. Then she began repeating the story she had just told me‚ and I realized that she was merely talking to herself. Although this discovery disenchanted me at first‚ I soon realized that‚ although the woman was talking to herself‚ she still had so many fantastic stories stored in her mind. The residents of the home all had some life flittering in them and numerous stories to share; they just need someone to listen to them. After my experience at the home
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Howardsville‚ a quaint little city‚ nestled in the foothills of the Putney Mountains located forty miles southwest of Charleston‚ West Virginia‚ had its own dark history. Having lived his entire life in the two–story house on the outskirts of town‚ Ernest Cassidy was familiar with the myths‚ legends‚ and lies about his city and was always quick to defend it. The mysteries began years earlier when Dr. Ronald Hackney; a surgeon at General Hospital in Charleston came up missing. One morning‚ he didn’t
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Growing up on an island surrounded by water‚ it was hard to resist the temptations of the ocean. I was vicariously watching the older crew who were pretty gregarious bodyboarders ‚ but as me and my friends grew older we got dexterous with bodyboarding. Our little crew was always trying to one up each other‚ we were pretty ostentatious when it came to that kind of stuff. We would always go out on the optimal days for bodyboarding‚ but some days we would just go out to facetious time. We would also
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to the racist nature of the Europeans who colonized Canada. The main character in the story‚ Big Tom‚ appears physically and mentally worn out by his life. At the beginning of the story‚ the reader gets a sense of bitterness with how he perceives his life. Despite living in poverty‚ he appears to be a caring father. The reader senses Big Tom grappling with his Native identity when he tells his infant son a story: “his voice slid awkwardly through the ageless folktale of his people”. It is as if Big
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could turn to confront your assailant‚ he landed a mighty blow from behind... Striking you on the back of your head with what you assumed to be a large club... Naturally this was sufficient to dispatch you‚ and send you here... It is as I remembered... Now son‚ had you enemies in
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