|Holidays To Remember (standard:horror, 25120 words)|
|Author: Reid Laurence||Added: Jan 19 2010||Views/Reads: 1904/2755||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Why is it we can't all lean back and enjoy ourselves over the holidays? Sometimes, tension and bad memories just tend to overwhelm...|
Holidays to Remember “In the end, we'll all convene ‘twas too much parmesan that did us ‘een but at the start and day to day We've only this and that to say... Upon my grave I do bequeath this much beloved bottle 'neath my shaking, sweating hand as sheath and all this cheesy blend release the parmesan inside I hide but grant to you if you'll abide and allow me here to turn this thread of words and like some cheesy bread can sprinkle them but oft in vain proliferate this cheap refrain. And in the end we'll all convene 'twas too much parmesan that did us 'een. Too much parmesan that did us 'een.” Introduction He looked through the fine cross-hairs of his rifle scope which formed the reticle - or superimposed image inside - and slowly scanned the midsections of trees and thick green brush for the enemy. Searching for the type of motion not caused by the natural presence of nature and dismissing things like wind; small animals, or acorns falling from tall, proud oaks... that part of the universe incognizant of the crime of war going on all around them as they grew, but were sometimes felled by weapons so terrible, that those that were natures survivors - like the men who survived - did so with missing limbs or worse still, became like rotting wood, and in a savaged state... and to the core. In his enthusiasm to kill - compelled by all of us at home - he has located and fixed his eight-times rifle scope and pulled the trigger once again, and felled a man like a hapless piece of nature...sapping the strength and will to live through the sheer brute force of one bullet of staid course, through the base of the cerebellum and connection of spinal cord called the medulla oblongata, or in sniper terms, ‘the apricot'. But then, when we're lucky, we come home... “Honey that sure smells good... you can smell your cook'in a mile away.” “Isn't Thanksgiving great? Did you have any luck out there?” “Just a rabbit,” remarked the tall, thin hunter who by nature was not as much interested in what he ate, as in the hunt itself. Having been home from the Second World War now for some twenty-five years, building close knit family ties that stretched for miles across proud American statehood. And on winter holidays, these ties converged in peace and with good will, as in a spiritual pilgrimage to some greatly revered destination and origin would imply. “You know what'll happen if Rusty gets to it,” answered his wife, opening the door of the oven to check on the turkey she was so involved in bringing to a state of perfection for her adored family. “Oh, I left it in the shed,” he replied, having nearly forgotten about it. And as the family retriever came to him to say hello and to smell whatever engaging scent the rabbit had left behind, he calmly walked to his ruggedly furnished study, and leaned his M1903-A4 rifle – a useful relic of war he'd acquired - against the wall beside a window. He then turned to check on the rest of the long range guns in his collection. A group he'd gathered for the purpose of hunting rabbit, deer and turkey which inhabited the grounds of their forty acre farm, and he kept them neatly and safely hanging on a wall-rack beside a very inviting looking fireplace. “Well, wash up and change your clothes,” urged his attractive, brunette spouse. “The kids will be here soon and I need your help in the kitchen.” “Sure honey, just give me a minute,” he said in return. Unlocking the rack on the wall to pull the rifles out one by one and examine them for residue and unwanted deposits. But as more then just a few minutes had come and gone, leaving in their passing a shallow and questioning space Click here to read the rest of this story (2142 more lines)
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