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Writing Mitch's Random Story Thread


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[size=1]You come here to the cemetary every night. You don't let up. It's like you live for death.

Often, I stand over you, put my arm so tightly around you. Try to embrace you. Love you like we used to.

"I love you," is often what I whisper in your ear, my lips moving smoothly away and out from each other. But all you do is stare on, a little cloud caught in your eye. Your dark hair just standing where it's at.

Often, I tell you of your wife you had. I whisper more into your ear as the breeze blows it to only your ears. Her name was Dinah, I tell you. "She died from a heart attack, when you were out working, remember?" I'll ask.

And you just continue to stare. Your eyes. Cold. Lost and wandering.

I hug you even closer. I continue to whisper in your ear, but you still only stare at her grave. And stare off into the distance, not even caring about what you have left there sitting in that tombstone.

Sometimes I scream at you. I get all angry and mad. I scream to God. Wondering, I pray to God. I ask him to fix you. But you are broken.

And so that is God's will. But I go sternly against it; it's not right. I want you to be my Grandpa. I want you to be that man that smiled like a son of a gun, and loved life for each and every breath. I want you to be you.

But you're broken. Like a wind-up toy that grows more creaky and labored in its age, you have caught that same disease. You only live to die. You only stare around this graveyard as I hug you and stare into your empty eyes.

[i]To be continued later, I guess.[/i][/size]
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