Bad Apple

Crime of Life, December 25, 2009 at 08h00
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There was a Christmas when I was 15 where I spent the entire day writing an mIRC script. I stopped only to eat, and then immediately afterwards, while my family ate in the dining room, I sat in the corner — paper sprawled out — by myself. Understand that this script was a glorious thing. It would bypass the school’s firewall and allow students to enter a private chat room. This was all against administration policies, of course, but my script worked perfectly. Its only flaw was that I couldn’t figure out how to not get it traced back to me. See, I learned that lesson months earlier, and I’d even been banned ¬†from the computer lab. But hey, that’s a story for another time. Now that I’m older (and some might say more mature) I understand that the holidays are being with the people you love.


Remembering

Crime of Life, November 11, 2009 at 11h41
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I was young when my grandfather died. He was a veteran of the second world war. This is what I remember.

Mom was crying, dad was holding her. My aunts and uncles, cousins and grandma, they were all there, but I didn’t want to look around. When grandpa was sick, we visited him a lot in the hospital. I never wanted to go. The smell bothered me. But mom said it was important, so we all went together. When I saw him in the casket, I remember he looked the same as he did in the hospital, only asleep. For a while after this I was afraid of going to sleep. Continued…


In The Great War…

Briefs of Fiction, November 11, 2008 at 12h00
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Father talked about the Great War only once, when I was eight. He caught me out in the woods poking at a dog with my Red Racer pellet gun. I didn’t kill it, but he wouldn’t listen. He yelled at me about not respecting life. About death. Father had never raised his voice at me but this one time, when he told me of having to shoot blindly into the fog and finding later a child laying in the street. Of looking into your brother’s eyes as he begs you to end his pain. Of all the blood and guilt and misery that happens when you pull the trigger. I couldn’t bear to look anywhere but my feet. When he left, I buried the dog as well as I could, and I left the Red Racer down with it. I have never killed anything in my lifetime, and I thank my father for doing what he did so that I would never have to.