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Holidays To Remember (standard:horror, 25120 words)
Author: Reid LaurenceAdded: Jan 19 2010Views/Reads: 1737/2641Story 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 


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