HauntingHe wasn’t supposed to die, it was just a game. But it didn’t end how it was supposed to.
A simple dare gone wrong. But he never came back up.
We were supposed to jump off the rocks, lots of people had done it before. But we were supposed to get a running start. That’s the thing, no one has ever jumped that far out.
The water turned a dark crimson mere seconds later. He’s not coming back.
The realization hit like being slammed into a brick wall. The body, where’s the body?
Nothing came back up.
It was on the news later, a diver found the missing boy’s body, impaled underwater. He drowned before he bled out. He could have been saved.
They wouldn’t leave the story alone, the investigation went on for too long. The guilt never goes away.
It could have been me. How were we supposed to know that would happen?
Normal life wasn’t “normal” anymore. Looks of sympathy, judg
The Relevance of PotatoesPotato. That’s all it takes. Just hold a potato up to the end of the barrel and fire. That’s it.
I was lucky, I learned that trick my first time. Not everyone does though; some are too quick and jump for the opportunity right away. The sound is so loud it’d wake everyone and they’re caught within minutes. But the potato kept me safe for one more round. Hard to believe I’d ever say that in my life, but hey, whatever floats the boat right?
They train us from Day 1. Aim, shoot, repeat. Aim, shoot, repeat. They damn nearly drill it into our heads. The precision of it has to be perfect. We can’t miss the target, misfires are elimination material. Everything has to be perfect. Up close or distant, it doesn’t matter. We have to be perfect in any situation. They teach us the basics, but things like the potato? That’s part of our test. We have to prove that our minds are as skilled as our coordination and precision. They can only instill so
No one likes Monday, right?
Well, no one likes this Monday either. He's that old man down the street that no one ever wants to visit. Even all the little girl scouts avoid his house like the plague.
Old Man Monday is so clearly depicted by the way he throws his front door open to yell at the neighbors, the way he looks so disheveled with his greasy, graying, too long hair standing on end as if he'd just woken from a year of unrestful hibernation. Monday is so perfectly described in the way he snaps at anyone brave enough to approach him. He's so easily defined by that feeling of relief you get when you've managed to pass him by without conflict.
He's not a horrible man I suppose, but he's not a pleasant person to spend a few minutes chitchatting with. He's not that neighbor that most people would illustrate with bright colors and smiles.
Even his house looked grumpy. He lived in an old, decrepit home. Shutters were in dire need of a new paint job, a few of the steps up to