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This is My Story.
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Posted by: Crono1000
My father is driving me on a long, straight road. There’s nothing to see but pine trees and a bright, blue sky. He’s talking, telling me about important lessons of life, but I’m not listening. I drift upwards out of the car, floating near the top of the trees. I wonder how I got out without breaking the roof, but I see the car swerving in the distance now. I hope she’ll be alright. I fall slowly back to the road and begin walking. I have a staff because, frankly, this is my story. A beautiful woman, dressed in a black tank top with a white check mark and short black jogging shorts, is jogging towards me. She has long brown hair and firm tanned legs that glisten with sweat in the sun. I name her “Nike.” I think she smiles at me as she passes. I keep walking, and a car finally appears from behind me. It doesn’t slow down, indeed it’s speeding, and drives through me as I drift into the passenger seat. The driver begins to talk to me about his life. I recline, bored by his story. I stare at a light on the ceiling of the car. His words drown in a sea of sound inside my own head. I cross my arms outstretched behind my neck, and the thought appears in my head “I think that chick took my staff.” I look to see the time in the car. The clock says “7:32.” I stare back up to the light on the ceiling. That’s not right. It’s 3 am. I know it. I look back at the clock. It now says “12:02.” I know it’s lying to me, and it knows it’s caught. As if trying to backpedal, it tries to conjure a different time, but it seems to stumble on it’s own indecisive lies and only produces randomly lit bulbs, some producing numbers and some just gibberish.
I look to the man driving and say “You’re a zombie, aren’t you?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“This is my story.”
He begins to tell me that he sells knives, and tells me about all the kinds of knives that he sells. Again I ignore him, but his car is clunky and difficult to drive. He looks at me from the passenger seat, reclining comfortably, and slowly develops a menacing snarl on his face. He lunges at me, revealing sharp, unkempt nails and yellow fangs.
I’m walking on the road again. I’m dressed in a white suit and a white top hat to match, holding a briefcase full of knives. Nike jogs towards me once again. She has bags under her eyes and her skin is leathery. She stops jogging as she approaches. I look her in the eyes. “Would you like to buy some knives?”
This is my story.
Posted by: BigDyl
True Story
Posted by: min0 lee
That weed must have been good.
Posted by: Little Wing
Posted by: topolo
Gay story
Posted by: Mudge
Stephany King hard at work.
Posted by: NEW_IN_THE_GAME
Damn angel dust.
Posted by: maniclion
Sweet these 10mg Norco's and valium make everything I read weird. Or maybe that story was weird, I need to get my back fixed these drugs are getting on top of me like a $90 hooker with bad breath and chapped nipples.
Posted by: Tough Old Man
True Tale
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This is My Story.
