BHW - CreepyPasta - NoSleep
- Thread starter BlogPro
- Start date
- Apr 23, 2012
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@Sherbert Hoover - So! So sorry.. Damned notifications didn't go off for this thread for some reason.
Lovely, lovely stuff man! I like how there was a sense of chaos in the writing from the get go, leaving a lot to the imagination. The buildup was pretty decent as well, of course, we can overlook that this was written in haste and in a way that would accommodate the entire story in one mid-size patch.
You know, this reminds me of another story I read a while ago. Written from a first person perspective, it calls the viewers attention to the conscience of a psychic. Someone who has the ability to predict deaths and is known around town for the same. It goes on to describe, how people come to her and she tells them about how they'll die. Some fall off a building, others are met with a car crash. Towards the end, it takes us to the part where all the deaths are unnatural. And finally concludes with psychic excusing herself, because she has to go push someone off of a building. A pretty decent write-up that was. And this regales a similar concept from a third-person perspective.
Great stuff. Need moaar!
@alwaysinvisible You and I are a lot alike. I collect pens too. But then, I collect them to sign stuff. Mainly because my handwriting is horrible, even doctors rebuke me for that.
Definitely edit this. And if you're writing as good, you definitely should start self-publishing.
Out of all the benefits of being the KDP program, one of them is that it establishes a firm base for you as an author and helps you get noticed by several publishing houses.
That is the whole thing about stories. It leaves a lot to your imagination. I narrated a set of events that happened at a particular time to an individual from his own perspective. Everything else is left to you.
Lovely, lovely stuff man! I like how there was a sense of chaos in the writing from the get go, leaving a lot to the imagination. The buildup was pretty decent as well, of course, we can overlook that this was written in haste and in a way that would accommodate the entire story in one mid-size patch.
You know, this reminds me of another story I read a while ago. Written from a first person perspective, it calls the viewers attention to the conscience of a psychic. Someone who has the ability to predict deaths and is known around town for the same. It goes on to describe, how people come to her and she tells them about how they'll die. Some fall off a building, others are met with a car crash. Towards the end, it takes us to the part where all the deaths are unnatural. And finally concludes with psychic excusing herself, because she has to go push someone off of a building. A pretty decent write-up that was. And this regales a similar concept from a third-person perspective.
Great stuff. Need moaar!
@alwaysinvisible You and I are a lot alike. I collect pens too. But then, I collect them to sign stuff. Mainly because my handwriting is horrible, even doctors rebuke me for that.
Definitely edit this. And if you're writing as good, you definitely should start self-publishing.
Out of all the benefits of being the KDP program, one of them is that it establishes a firm base for you as an author and helps you get noticed by several publishing houses.
That is the whole thing about stories. It leaves a lot to your imagination. I narrated a set of events that happened at a particular time to an individual from his own perspective. Everything else is left to you.
tetonana1010
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- Jul 27, 2016
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Great Job continue please
- Apr 23, 2012
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2014 was my first attempt. I failed miserably since I stopped at 5k words. Almost gave up on being a story-teller. Fortunately, I didn't.
2015 was my second attempt. But I could only get upto 24k words, since it coincided with a largish marketing campaign we had going for a client that took up all my time. Partly, also because I hit a major writer's block around the middle of the month. It wasn't until March this year that I finally managed to finish the book, had to introduce a couple of sub-plots to make sense of the main story frame. It sits at 110k words right now. Still unpublished, though.
2016 is going to be my third, best and most honest attempt yet. I am actually pumped to be participating this time. I have a free flow of ideas at the moment. And if I can keep this momentum till November, hitting 50k for the NaNoWriMo shouldn't be hard.
What about you? Have you participated?
Reaver
Elite Member
- Aug 6, 2015
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Every year since 2010 I think. My account may be older than that.
I never finish either, although I always finish CampNaNo. I think last year was the first year I actually finished NaNo within November. I was so excited. And then I was just...not.
Didn't stop me from doing it again. Ste told me I should be happy that I even wrote a novel. A lot of people can't even write a sentence.
Which is true.
Anyway I usually do it with my sister. It'd be nice if we had enough participants on the forum. We could get a little support group going.
I never finish either, although I always finish CampNaNo. I think last year was the first year I actually finished NaNo within November. I was so excited. And then I was just...not.
Didn't stop me from doing it again. Ste told me I should be happy that I even wrote a novel. A lot of people can't even write a sentence.
Which is true.
Anyway I usually do it with my sister. It'd be nice if we had enough participants on the forum. We could get a little support group going.
- Apr 23, 2012
- 2,875
- 5,895
That would be wonderful actually. I'll dig up my account there, see if I still know what email I used.
Had almost decided on giving up on NaNoWriMo and had convinced myself that time-constrained writing jobs were really not my cup of tea. Until I set myself up for the Kindle challenge.
Oh! And I just finished reading a fiction by a relatively new author, that deals with the historic lineage of Julius Caesar and Rome and their expeditions along with a few legends and imaginary charcters being thrown in the mix. I didn't like it, but I finished it. So here's a little rant.
<rant>
I have been reading shitty books forever. Stories with absolutely no research, no "real" material. Just a bunch of gossip that the writer literally could've knocked out of the park in one sitting. I like getting inspired from elements. My stories include real-world examples both from current affairs and history. For instance, the Brexit or the Mossack-Fonseca breach by the ICIJ - I write about everything.
Before I write a story, I read up on it extensively. There are dots that are begging to be connected with a little creative liberty and I stand up and do that. But these days, people simply have decided to not bother.
Historical fiction seems to be disappearing. And whatever little is left, is in the hands of these godawful writers at these big name studios who're out there to twilight-ize everything that moves. No one is bothering to research. Every story has an FBI agent who goes after a ring of smugglers, a member of the Chinese triad, a Mossad assassin - but then the actual story lacks any substance whatsoever.
And don't even get me started on those over-researched and fluffed up pointlessly.
"I have too much data from the history books, so let me just fill this one up with 200 characters with rather unpronounceable names and no real need in the story. Oh! And you know what... there was a ridge, behind it was a small opening on the wall, to the left was a small hole where the moonlight shone in, in the ground were stones or were they diamonds, nah they were pebbles... as I moved closer the hole widened and it was dark and there was a light and it blinked and the walls has some sort of a velvet texture and the air smelled damp and I could hear water flowing.... let me ramble on like this setting the scene for 20 paragraphs while none of it really matter to the story."
You're writing a book. Not a movie screenplay. Leave something to my imagination FFS. Set a scene and move the fuck on.
</rant>
Sorry about that! Oh.. and since we're on topic. Either you or @Sherbert Hoover or any other writer reading this, ever wishes to write fiction. I really really recommend that you start watching The BlackList. It is one of my favorite things on TV ever and James Spader as Raymond Reddington is top notch. But that is not the reason why I recommend adding it to your watchlist - I do so because it is an epitome of exemplary writing. The writers have a knack to convert real world issues into three lined setntences that make more sense than anything fathomable.
I mean James Spader could read the telephone directory to me and I'd sit there mesmerized - but these quotes are something else. Makes me want to sit with the writers, share a few beers with them and tell them that their contribution has made such an impact on me, there's no way I could ever repay them.
At the risk of derailing my own thread, I am just going to post certain Raymond Reddington quotes and you can make a judgment for yourselves.
P.S - New story coming in tomorrow.
Sherb
Ban reason = Abuse of Mods
- Dec 26, 2010
- 1,968
- 18,140
CRASH
Movies and television shows make car accidents out to be some kind of dramatic event. It is, don't get me wrong. But the actual during part of a car accident is almost silent. It's eerie. The drama starts afterwards, if you make it out. I found this out the hard way.
An abandoned airport runway is the scene of this crime, nestled within rolling mountain valleys carved into the world by millions of years of wind and water. I was in a tank: A 1969 Mercedes-Benz 300SEL 6.3. Be still my heart. With a 6.3 liter eight-cylinder pair of legs, it was the fastest four-door vehicle in the world when it sped off the production line. Mine was an old piece of shit, paint faded and cracked, wheels beginning to grow an end-of-life rust patina, leather interior marred with sun-kissed crevices. But I was in heaven.
I was 18 years old, and had the fastest car in school. The chicks loved it. I felt like a sophisticated Brit, which was quite the feat in my tiny seaside town in Georgia. A late bloomer, I had lost my virginity to Katherine Walden just last week in the spacious backseat. It felt like we were in a bed. At least that's what she said afterwards. She had the biggest tits in school, and knew what to do with them. Idling at the far end of the dark runway, I looked back at the seats that made me a man with a smile of longing.
3,800 pounds. That's how much this 47-year old German marvel weighed. I thought of the workers who put this together, how they are likely all old and retired now, reminiscing of when this car was beautiful, shiny, and polished. Time had long weathered her, but the engine still ran smooth as butter, thanks to Gramps and his vast mechanical knowledge. 3,800 pounds, but could still hit zero to sixty in 6.3 seconds. 6.3 liters, 6.3 seconds. What a coincidence. According to a Wikipedia page I had pulled up the evening before, it could hit 100 miles per hour in a little over 14 seconds, and do a quarter mile in about the same amount of time.
I was no professional driver, but I had a mile and a half of runway to work with. I wanted to hit 120 miles an hour. That was my goal. Don't think, just do it. I set my phone on its holster, pointed at the runway ahead, and hit record. Silently, I pressed down on the pedal and started slow, just like with Katherine. One second, two, three, four, five, and I was already at 45. The gravitational force pushed me back into the soft black leather.
Six, seven, eight, nine, ten seconds. 80 miles an hour. I was flying. The trees were blurs. The car began to vibrate slightly. I didn't care. I was 18, I was in a tank, and I was recording this goddammit. Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen seconds. 100 miles per hour. I started to feel sick, but kept pushing. At thirty seconds I hit my goal. 120 miles an hour. I had never been that fast on four wheels before. It felt like I was breaking a land speed record, and the engine screamed from the open windows. The wind roared in my ears and I found myself emitting a guttural, animalistic yell. The stories I would have to tell tomorrow morning in class. Katherine was going to want to drag me to the-
A missing chunk of concrete passed under the Pirelli tires and the Tank lost control. I corrected just in time to hit another rough patch on the other side of the car. The pedals sunk underneath my feet and I heard a crack and a loud, loud pop, like a firework exploding in the seat next to me. One more rough patch on the same side, and I was careening sideways. The Tank had slowed a bit when I got sideways, but I might has well have been going the speed of sound.
The world turned as the two-ton monster went airborne, and then time stopped.
There is no noise in a massive car accident. No time to scream, no time for the car to scream it's metal scream. Nothing. Just silence. And your life doesn't pass before your eyes. That's a fucking lie. No thoughts, no sounds, nothing. Just the silent, dormant sound of a horrible, horrible mistake. All I had time to do was turn my head to the left enough to see the runway out my window, then the world upside down, then the sky, and then the world was right side up again. And then a single though. I'm flipping through the air.
Fuck.
And then chunks of the old runway were inside the car, shooting around the cabin as the car flipped over and over and over. My hand flailed out the drivers' side window as I passed above the concrete again, and three fingers disappeared in a pink mist of blood and skin and bone. The windshield cracked, cracked, spiderwebbed, and shattered, glass flying into my face and bouncing off the sunglasses that proceeded to fly away from my eyes and into the passenger seat. And it was all silent, so silent.
I turned my head to the right as the axles snapped and the roof caved in. The airbag wasn't fucking deploying. Why wasn't the airbag fucking deploying? The seatbelt crushed my ribcage and the left side of my head slammed into the steering wheel, hitting hard enough to crack the old leather juggernaut in two. Then everything went white.
Suddenly I was on the factory line, placing the propeller hood ornament on a car that, 47 years later, would be completely destroyed by a reckless kid who didn't bother checking the runway for potholes. I was in the hospital with my parents, seeing things through the eyes of the obstetrician as he welcomed into the world a child who would barely see his eighteenth birthday. I was in chemistry as Katherine whispered "Why don't you show me how the seats work later?" as I crossed my legs to contain my erection. She had brushed her hand against my pants, purposefully, and I was putty in her hands. Is this death?
And then I was back in the world, back in the accident, sliding upside down across the concrete, making a permanent mark for generations to come to bring their kids and see where old Quinn fucking killed himself. Oh poor Mr. and Mrs. Iacocca, if only they given their son a bicycle instead, they'd be at graduation watching their son cross the stage, instead of bawling at his grave. Oh poor Katherine, she could have been in the car with him! After all, she had gone around school talking to the other girls about how huge my completely-average dick was. I had given her a toothy grin, and she had given me a wink. And now here I am, sliced to shreds in the Tank. I never told anyone I was coming out here. Did I?
The car eventually came to a stop after what felt like a fucking year. And I was still alive. There was no pain, save for a dull throbbing in my left hand where I would soon find out I could give a thumbs up and flip the bird, but that was all, folks. There was no pain in my leg, and I couldn't help but notice that one of my legs was completely crushed by the crumpled dashboard, sun-kissed leather stained with glistening black peppered with glass and chunks of concrete. The other leg looked fine, save for bright white bone poking out of the faded knee of my jeans. Seeing that is what started the pain.
I let out the same scream I had screamed after hitting 120, but at a far higher pitch. I tried to lean forward, but couldn't move my neck. My right arm was facing the wrong direction, snapped at the elbow, but my left hand was free, just like that song. My mangled left hand went up, up, up, and reached back. The damn headrest had snapped off, leaving sharp, jagged aluminum posts for the back of my neck to fling back into. There was no telling how far in the post had gone. Was it in my brain?
Another scream, and then more silence from my throat. The only sounds were the creaking of the Tank, sitting on the runway, popped wheels slowly spinning upside-down like she was running in place from her fate. My dark red shirt was soaked. My shirt was white. My vision was blurred, my senses fucked every which way. I smelled blood and gasoline and burning. It smelled just like the motorcycle wreck my father and I had come across when I was young. Dad was a hero that day, saving the life of the motorcycle driver and the passenger, both of whom had been skinned alive by Johnson Street. Dad wasn't here to help me today.
Is something on fire? I couldn't see much. The passenger window was nonexistent, crumpled closed by my own stupidity. Out the windshield was nothing but the hood, metal rolled up like a sleeping bag. Out the driver's window, shredded runway. I quickly turned my head with a gasp, and the aluminum post that had punctured my neck shifted. And then nothing.
The news report said that my body had hung upside down for three hours while the Tank burned, welding us together in a final death embrace. A classmate of mine, Kurt, had happened across the burnt, twisted metal sculpture that was the Tank and I the following evening. He had driven his Jeep to the runway to fuck Emma Thomas out in nature like she always wanted. Emma was hoping that Kurt would have a huge dick like Katherine said mine was. Kurt was hoping that she wouldn't find out he was thinking about the same. Their plans were ruined by the monument to my carelessness.
The next morning there was an assembly in the auditorium. There was crying, there was reminiscing. I was never that popular, but apparently sticking my cock in Katherine and jizzing on her Double-D's the week before made me a cool kid. She sat under the pull-out auditorium bleachers, mascara smeared across her face, silently sobbing as she stared at her phone. It was a message from me. Meet me at the runway, we can disappear into the sunset together.
One of us did.
Movies and television shows make car accidents out to be some kind of dramatic event. It is, don't get me wrong. But the actual during part of a car accident is almost silent. It's eerie. The drama starts afterwards, if you make it out. I found this out the hard way.
An abandoned airport runway is the scene of this crime, nestled within rolling mountain valleys carved into the world by millions of years of wind and water. I was in a tank: A 1969 Mercedes-Benz 300SEL 6.3. Be still my heart. With a 6.3 liter eight-cylinder pair of legs, it was the fastest four-door vehicle in the world when it sped off the production line. Mine was an old piece of shit, paint faded and cracked, wheels beginning to grow an end-of-life rust patina, leather interior marred with sun-kissed crevices. But I was in heaven.
I was 18 years old, and had the fastest car in school. The chicks loved it. I felt like a sophisticated Brit, which was quite the feat in my tiny seaside town in Georgia. A late bloomer, I had lost my virginity to Katherine Walden just last week in the spacious backseat. It felt like we were in a bed. At least that's what she said afterwards. She had the biggest tits in school, and knew what to do with them. Idling at the far end of the dark runway, I looked back at the seats that made me a man with a smile of longing.
3,800 pounds. That's how much this 47-year old German marvel weighed. I thought of the workers who put this together, how they are likely all old and retired now, reminiscing of when this car was beautiful, shiny, and polished. Time had long weathered her, but the engine still ran smooth as butter, thanks to Gramps and his vast mechanical knowledge. 3,800 pounds, but could still hit zero to sixty in 6.3 seconds. 6.3 liters, 6.3 seconds. What a coincidence. According to a Wikipedia page I had pulled up the evening before, it could hit 100 miles per hour in a little over 14 seconds, and do a quarter mile in about the same amount of time.
I was no professional driver, but I had a mile and a half of runway to work with. I wanted to hit 120 miles an hour. That was my goal. Don't think, just do it. I set my phone on its holster, pointed at the runway ahead, and hit record. Silently, I pressed down on the pedal and started slow, just like with Katherine. One second, two, three, four, five, and I was already at 45. The gravitational force pushed me back into the soft black leather.
Six, seven, eight, nine, ten seconds. 80 miles an hour. I was flying. The trees were blurs. The car began to vibrate slightly. I didn't care. I was 18, I was in a tank, and I was recording this goddammit. Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen seconds. 100 miles per hour. I started to feel sick, but kept pushing. At thirty seconds I hit my goal. 120 miles an hour. I had never been that fast on four wheels before. It felt like I was breaking a land speed record, and the engine screamed from the open windows. The wind roared in my ears and I found myself emitting a guttural, animalistic yell. The stories I would have to tell tomorrow morning in class. Katherine was going to want to drag me to the-
A missing chunk of concrete passed under the Pirelli tires and the Tank lost control. I corrected just in time to hit another rough patch on the other side of the car. The pedals sunk underneath my feet and I heard a crack and a loud, loud pop, like a firework exploding in the seat next to me. One more rough patch on the same side, and I was careening sideways. The Tank had slowed a bit when I got sideways, but I might has well have been going the speed of sound.
The world turned as the two-ton monster went airborne, and then time stopped.
There is no noise in a massive car accident. No time to scream, no time for the car to scream it's metal scream. Nothing. Just silence. And your life doesn't pass before your eyes. That's a fucking lie. No thoughts, no sounds, nothing. Just the silent, dormant sound of a horrible, horrible mistake. All I had time to do was turn my head to the left enough to see the runway out my window, then the world upside down, then the sky, and then the world was right side up again. And then a single though. I'm flipping through the air.
Fuck.
And then chunks of the old runway were inside the car, shooting around the cabin as the car flipped over and over and over. My hand flailed out the drivers' side window as I passed above the concrete again, and three fingers disappeared in a pink mist of blood and skin and bone. The windshield cracked, cracked, spiderwebbed, and shattered, glass flying into my face and bouncing off the sunglasses that proceeded to fly away from my eyes and into the passenger seat. And it was all silent, so silent.
I turned my head to the right as the axles snapped and the roof caved in. The airbag wasn't fucking deploying. Why wasn't the airbag fucking deploying? The seatbelt crushed my ribcage and the left side of my head slammed into the steering wheel, hitting hard enough to crack the old leather juggernaut in two. Then everything went white.
Suddenly I was on the factory line, placing the propeller hood ornament on a car that, 47 years later, would be completely destroyed by a reckless kid who didn't bother checking the runway for potholes. I was in the hospital with my parents, seeing things through the eyes of the obstetrician as he welcomed into the world a child who would barely see his eighteenth birthday. I was in chemistry as Katherine whispered "Why don't you show me how the seats work later?" as I crossed my legs to contain my erection. She had brushed her hand against my pants, purposefully, and I was putty in her hands. Is this death?
And then I was back in the world, back in the accident, sliding upside down across the concrete, making a permanent mark for generations to come to bring their kids and see where old Quinn fucking killed himself. Oh poor Mr. and Mrs. Iacocca, if only they given their son a bicycle instead, they'd be at graduation watching their son cross the stage, instead of bawling at his grave. Oh poor Katherine, she could have been in the car with him! After all, she had gone around school talking to the other girls about how huge my completely-average dick was. I had given her a toothy grin, and she had given me a wink. And now here I am, sliced to shreds in the Tank. I never told anyone I was coming out here. Did I?
The car eventually came to a stop after what felt like a fucking year. And I was still alive. There was no pain, save for a dull throbbing in my left hand where I would soon find out I could give a thumbs up and flip the bird, but that was all, folks. There was no pain in my leg, and I couldn't help but notice that one of my legs was completely crushed by the crumpled dashboard, sun-kissed leather stained with glistening black peppered with glass and chunks of concrete. The other leg looked fine, save for bright white bone poking out of the faded knee of my jeans. Seeing that is what started the pain.
I let out the same scream I had screamed after hitting 120, but at a far higher pitch. I tried to lean forward, but couldn't move my neck. My right arm was facing the wrong direction, snapped at the elbow, but my left hand was free, just like that song. My mangled left hand went up, up, up, and reached back. The damn headrest had snapped off, leaving sharp, jagged aluminum posts for the back of my neck to fling back into. There was no telling how far in the post had gone. Was it in my brain?
Another scream, and then more silence from my throat. The only sounds were the creaking of the Tank, sitting on the runway, popped wheels slowly spinning upside-down like she was running in place from her fate. My dark red shirt was soaked. My shirt was white. My vision was blurred, my senses fucked every which way. I smelled blood and gasoline and burning. It smelled just like the motorcycle wreck my father and I had come across when I was young. Dad was a hero that day, saving the life of the motorcycle driver and the passenger, both of whom had been skinned alive by Johnson Street. Dad wasn't here to help me today.
Is something on fire? I couldn't see much. The passenger window was nonexistent, crumpled closed by my own stupidity. Out the windshield was nothing but the hood, metal rolled up like a sleeping bag. Out the driver's window, shredded runway. I quickly turned my head with a gasp, and the aluminum post that had punctured my neck shifted. And then nothing.
The news report said that my body had hung upside down for three hours while the Tank burned, welding us together in a final death embrace. A classmate of mine, Kurt, had happened across the burnt, twisted metal sculpture that was the Tank and I the following evening. He had driven his Jeep to the runway to fuck Emma Thomas out in nature like she always wanted. Emma was hoping that Kurt would have a huge dick like Katherine said mine was. Kurt was hoping that she wouldn't find out he was thinking about the same. Their plans were ruined by the monument to my carelessness.
The next morning there was an assembly in the auditorium. There was crying, there was reminiscing. I was never that popular, but apparently sticking my cock in Katherine and jizzing on her Double-D's the week before made me a cool kid. She sat under the pull-out auditorium bleachers, mascara smeared across her face, silently sobbing as she stared at her phone. It was a message from me. Meet me at the runway, we can disappear into the sunset together.
One of us did.
Last edited:
Reaver
Elite Member
- Aug 6, 2015
- 1,898
- 5,794
I loved it man. That was morbid as fuck.
My sister did a series of short stories she complied together in a book for CampNaNo this month. Maybe you should do that. Just write like 10 or 20 short stories, put them together in a book and publish them on Kindle.
The theme of the short stories could be "typical teenage behavior." Because, let's face it: that is typical teenage behavior.
That's actually how one of my friends died about 15 years ago. Except he was on a motorcycle doing almost 100 and he hit a pole.
Edit: Also had an ex commit suicide like this. He was driving 100+ in some rain and ran right into a tree.
I always kind of wondered what it's like being in a crash like that. Guess that's kind of morbid too.
Sherb
Ban reason = Abuse of Mods
- Dec 26, 2010
- 1,968
- 18,140
Damn, that sucks
A kid I went to high school with was taking his she-friend to senior prom and took a back road. That road was popular in the backwoods where I grew up because if you hit the curve just right at a good speed you would go airborne. I never did it, but knew a lot of people who did and said it was quite the rush.
This all happened nine years ago, damn I'm aging fast. I took this super hot junior girl to the same prom. Literally the hottest girl in school by far. I thought so. So many others thought so. This girls is now my wife, but that's besides the point
This kid I mentioned in the previous paragraph took the girl the long way to prom via the back road. From what I hear, he mis-steered at the jump and slammed sideways into a large tree at the curve. Hit hard on the passenger side.He was banged up but managed to crawl from the crash and drag the girl out. This was January 2008, so it was pretty cold. She died in his arms on the side of the road before the ambulances could show up.
My wife was pretty torn up. We had been dating for about two months, and she had broken up with her previous boyfriend six months before that to be with this same guy, but he wasn't as into it as she was. She would have been the passenger in that car that day had he been interested.
It was a pretty big scandal for a while. He had to go to a very public trial for vehicular manslaughter and had to do hundreds of hours of community service and lost his license for a long-ass time. We were buds in middle school before high school caused us to drift apart, so every now and then when I would see him picking up trash on the side of the road I would pick him up and bring him home.
The girl who died still has a Facebook account. I just checked it out for the first time in a good seven years. People still post typical can't-believe-it's-been-so-long posts, less and less every year. The guy just got married a few months back. I hope he can someday get over it all. My wife hasn't talked about him since high school graduation.
Sherb
Ban reason = Abuse of Mods
- Dec 26, 2010
- 1,968
- 18,140
Whoa there, wrong thread buddy.
Reaver
Elite Member
- Aug 6, 2015
- 1,898
- 5,794
That's pretty sad.
Most of the time teenagers just do things without thinking about the consequences of their actions. I know it's just them being silly and inexperienced. They aren't being malicious. They just want to have fun or whatever it is they're setting out to do.
And a lot of times it only takes one event like the ones we're talking about to screw up their lives.
I can't imagine what it's like knowing that you killed someone, even if it's an accident. And maybe her classmates don't remember her, but he does, and her parents do.
Also, I love the way you talk about your wife. Lol that's adorable.
Most of the time teenagers just do things without thinking about the consequences of their actions. I know it's just them being silly and inexperienced. They aren't being malicious. They just want to have fun or whatever it is they're setting out to do.
And a lot of times it only takes one event like the ones we're talking about to screw up their lives.
I can't imagine what it's like knowing that you killed someone, even if it's an accident. And maybe her classmates don't remember her, but he does, and her parents do.
Also, I love the way you talk about your wife. Lol that's adorable.
Damn, that sucks
A kid I went to high school with was taking his she-friend to senior prom and took a back road. That road was popular in the backwoods where I grew up because if you hit the curve just right at a good speed you would go airborne. I never did it, but knew a lot of people who did and said it was quite the rush.
This all happened nine years ago, damn I'm aging fast. I took this super hot junior girl to the same prom. Literally the hottest girl in school by far. I thought so. So many others thought so. This girls is now my wife, but that's besides the point
He was banged up but managed to crawl from the crash and drag the girl out. This was January 2008, so it was pretty cold. She died in his arms on the side of the road before the ambulances could show up.
My wife was pretty torn up. We had been dating for about two months, and she had broken up with her previous boyfriend six months before that to be with this same guy, but he wasn't as into it as she was. She would have been the passenger in that car that day had he been interested.
It was a pretty big scandal for a while. He had to go to a very public trial for vehicular manslaughter and had to do hundreds of hours of community service and lost his license for a long-ass time. We were buds in middle school before high school caused us to drift apart, so every now and then when I would see him picking up trash on the side of the road I would pick him up and bring him home.
The girl who died still has a Facebook account. I just checked it out for the first time in a good seven years. People still post typical can't-believe-it's-been-so-long posts, less and less every year. The guy just got married a few months back. I hope he can someday get over it all. My wife hasn't talked about him since high school graduation.
- Apr 23, 2012
- 2,875
- 5,895
That story is brilliant! I love the description of the accident. I could sense every inch of it. This is fiction. It's stuff like this that makes you want to sit back and read more of it. A lot more of it.
I'd be really thrilled to see someone with your writing calibre go the self-publishing route. And I am willing to root for you and @alwaysinvisible while you guys do that. It should be a fun project to take up really.
Also, the story hits home a bit more than usual. Had a friend go through a separation from her husband. When she served her divorce papers, dude took it surprisingly well. Until he arrived at her doorstep a few weeks later, asking for one final "dinner" and some other soap opera drama.
She felt bad, thinking maybe he's mending his ways. They got into the car and he went batshit crazy while driving. Ignoring speed limits, swerving in and out of traffic lanes etc. At first she thought nothing of it, but then he said something to her about how he is doing what she wanted, ending all of it. Then he started driving even faster and went on to do so until they crashed into a tree. Fortunately, the airbags deployed and my friend escaped with minor injuries. The crazy husband lost his arm in the whole fiasco.
The whole thing was a major complicated affair after that. She being scared of her life for like a year after that.
Also, lost a friend to speed, when his car overturned on the expressway. He was showing off his new pimped out engine to his friends. No one survived.
It's crazy how these stories can invoke emotions.
I guess it's fine for teenagers to go crazy once in a while. The whole YOLO fad doesn't help either. But sometimes they go too far and that is when they're completely aware of it. The other day I saw a video of some guy performing somersaults at the edge of a really high building. I mean, come on. Even the sharpest and the most experienced shooters miss their targets sometimes?
Reaver
Elite Member
- Aug 6, 2015
- 1,898
- 5,794
That YOLO thing is just stupid IMO. You only live once, so shouldn't you try to live as long as you can? I understand enjoying life, and even doing something thrilling, but there's a difference between that and a complete disregard for your own life. Like that guy who shot himself in the face. That's just nuts.
I'll post my next piece of fiction either tonight or tomorrow.
I'll post my next piece of fiction either tonight or tomorrow.
- Apr 23, 2012
- 2,875
- 5,895
Exactly. I've never understood the whole concept. And I know several teenagers who don't either. They're perfectly happy living like normal people. Going on an adventurous trip once in a while is fine. But some people...
I knew a guy who decided to finish 2 bottles of whisky as a challenge while at a party at one of my neighbor's house. He barely finished the second and we had to rush him to the emergency room to get the idiot's stomach pumped. I wasn't even invited to the party, but they came rushing for me since no one at the party was in the condition to drive. Who the fuck does that?
Reaver
Elite Member
- Aug 6, 2015
- 1,898
- 5,794
Apparently they do.
Hope none of those people bred. We don't need more of them in the gene pool.
- Apr 23, 2012
- 2,875
- 5,895
Them and the Flat earthers. God! I hate those people.
Reaver
Elite Member
- Aug 6, 2015
- 1,898
- 5,794
Omg we haven't updated this in ages lol.
Thought I'd post something that I found while I was working on a current project of mine. This is the beginning of a story that's a twisted version of The Wizard of Oz. Dorthy is an escort, the Tin Man is a soulless creature, the Lion is a calculating murderer and the Scarecrow is...I'm not really sure how to describe the Scarecrow. I know you wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley.
These are the first 2000 words or so.
Under a spoiler tag because I like it like that.
Thought I'd post something that I found while I was working on a current project of mine. This is the beginning of a story that's a twisted version of The Wizard of Oz. Dorthy is an escort, the Tin Man is a soulless creature, the Lion is a calculating murderer and the Scarecrow is...I'm not really sure how to describe the Scarecrow. I know you wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley.
These are the first 2000 words or so.
Under a spoiler tag because I like it like that.
Dorothy wasn't a good person.
She did what she had to do to get by. What she had to do was not what she wanted to do, and this resulted in her being rather bitter about her lot in life.
This was the case with most of humanity, but Dorothy was especially bitter. She was too young, too pretty to be so bitter. She had made herself pretty artificially: professional hair dye, makeup, crazy Hollywood diets. But the source didn’t matter. She was still pretty.
Her red hair was every shade of blood and volcanic lava possible, her skin forever sun-kissed. Her eyes seemed irridescent but were actually hazel. They changed color depending on her mood or what she wore. She would choose outfits that would make her eyes some freaky color, giving them a feline or serpentine appearance. But for any man interested in what she was offering, seeing her for the first time was like being in the presence of a goddess. She was akin a living, breathing phoenix.
Dorothy was an escort, a high end escort. The normal assumption is that with all that money came riches, pleasures and class, but in actuality, with all that money came an infinitesimal parade of creeps. Of course they always requested her at least once. She was so pretty! Who could resist?
She knew the rules. Officially she didn't sleep with clients. Unofficially she had no choice. Living in New York was expensive, and her clients paid more to do extra stuff on the side with her. She wished it was as simple as sex. And she wished she was just doing it just to do it. But Aunt Em needed the money to pay the mortgage on her farm and take care of Uncle Henry, and so Dorothy kept just enough to scrape by and gave the rest to them. It was the least she could do. They were the only family she had. It was the only reason she suffered the humiliation of the degrading life of being an escort.
But she weathered it stoically. Inside she seethed and writhed, but on the outside she was so cool and calm it was as if she had no emotions at all. She would get home and cry her eyes out, but out in public and on the job she was just a sassy girl who liked fine things and knew how to match her client's rich, expensive tastes.
It was one of those clients that got her into the worst situation of her life.
He had promised her nothing more than dinner and a movie, with a stop at a "friend's place." That was usually the term for someone who wanted to share or watch, and internally she thought about stabbing him through the eye with her nails. On the outside, though, she merely smiled. She didn't say a word, not even when they arrived at a warehouse. She hoped it didn't get unbearably weird, but she had taken self-defense classes, just in case.
She stepped out of the car like a proper lady, her heels sinking into the muck of the gravel outside. And that was the last time she saw New York. Someone put a cloth soaked with chloroform over her mouth, and when she woke up, she was in a cage, locked up like an animal.
That was three days ago.
So far, all she'd learned was this: she was being sold as a slave.
She didn't know where she was, or who her captors were. She was fed once a day through a tray like a hamster. She didn't see anything outside of her cage, except for other girls like her. They were younger, of various classes of attractiveness, and scared. They didn't speak. It was like they were afraid to. So Dorothy followed the rules, didn't speak, didn't misbehave, and tried to keep herself and her area as clean as she could. She waited patiently for contact with someone so she could find out exactly what the fuck was going on. She didn't cry, and she didn't panic. She simply waited and kept herself busy by reciting fairy tales to herself very quietly, just so she wouldn't go crazy.
On the fourth day, she got a break, though it wasn't exactly the one that she wanted.
"Tin Man's a'comin!" a voice called out as a door in the wall opened.
Dorothy cocked her head to the side and peered through her cage curiously. Who, or what, the fuck was the Tin Man?
Dorothy got her answer when the so-called Tin Man entered the chamber.
At first glance, he appeared completely undeserving of his unusual moniker, as he looked practically human. He stood tall, almost towering like a giant, although his height wasn't completely unusual. His upper body, while not powerful, appeared strong enough to carry heavy loads, and such an observation wasn't entirely unfounded: slung against his back was what appeared to be a powerful double-sided axe. He walked slowly yet nimbly, his head turning effortlessly as he moved. His face was thick and stoic, a blank expression upon his features. Nothing ordinary about his mouth, his nose, his ears, or anything like that, but his eyes...his eyes appeared hollow and soulless, almost as if they were made of...tin. Perhaps this was why he was called the Tin Man?
He was dressed in rugged outdoors clothing, as if he had just come in from working outside. The grime and soot one would get from woodcutting was smeared all over his clothes and skin, which wasn't really worth noting. However, one thing was worth noting, and that was the head of his axe: it was stained partially with a noticeable crimson substance, which could only be...blood. His blood? Or someone else's...?
The Tin Man walked briskly down the isle in the room, peering at all the cages he passed, his blank eyes studying every girl he saw. When he looked at a girl, the poor lass flinched and shied away from him, unable to look at his face without fretting. Every time this happened, the man simply turned away and walked on, moving on to the next cage. This happened over and over again until eventually he arrived at Dorothy's cage.
Peering into the cage, the Tin Man studied Dorothy's body and face, peering into her eyes with that soulless gaze. Unlike with the other girls, however, he lingered on her, as if finding something in her that he didn't see in the other girls. Nothing in his expression changed as he looked at her, though there was some noticeable curiosity in how he studied her.
Eventually, after a few moments, he raised his hand and snapped his fingers: his snap rang with a soft metallic vibration, as if his human-looking fingers were made of metal. "Her." That was all he said. That was apparently all he needed to say.
Moments later, the door opened again, this time admitting a new entity. Like the Tin Man, it was human in shape, but unlike the robotic-like man, this newcomer was not as human in appearance. He was short and squat, like a midget with a hideous growth problem across its body. Muscles bulged in an ugly manner from its arms and legs, and its back was hunched over painfully. Its face was not spared from the deformities, as one of its eyes was sealed shut beneath a fold of skin and its mouth was twisted into a permanent snarl. The ugly creature shuffled its way to Dorothy's cage, knocking on the bars almost excitedly.
"Lucky you, missie," it chuckled almost cruelly, flexing its deformed fingers. "You've been a'selected as the Tin Man's new pet."
Pet?
Oh no. Hell no.
She was no one's pet. She almost scowled at the thought, but then immediately marshalled herself. If she left there with him, she'd finally get to see where she was. Maybe she could even figure out how to escape and get to a police station so she could get some help.
The Tin Man was so strange looking. Dorothy crawled out of her cage and stood up, wincing as her stiff limbs were used to hold her body up for the first time in days. Her iridescent eyes peered at her new "master", trying to discern his...well him in general. Was he a...what was he? She was almost tempted to touch him and find out, but she didn't want to give him any ideas.
That ugly thing that let her out though...ugh. He really needed plastic surgery.
She stretched her long limbs luxuriously, trying to work out the kinks in her joints from being folded up in that cage for so long. She was a little off balance but it wasn't like she forgot how to walk. She'd play along for now.
Hopefully she'd get a shower soon, because she did not smell nice. At all.
The Tin Man said nothing as the Munchkin unlocked the cage that Dorothy was inside and opened the door, giving the girl the chance to step outside and stretch her weary, strained limbs. She did so without making a break for it, which was good, because there was no place for her to escape to. One or two girls would occasionally try to run once free of their cages, but they wouldn't get very far. The Munchkins, as hideous as they appeared, were also incredibly fast and were also very unforgiving to escapees...in every sense of the word. And even if the girls escaped the Munchkins...well, it wasn't like the rest of Oz would welcome them with open arms.
He noticed Dorothy peering up at him, those iridescent eyes of hers shifting colors with every slight movement she made. Those eyes had initially drawn him into giving her a longer look than the others, and her relative calmness to her current situation also made him hopeful that she would be...different than the others. At the very least, she wasn't screaming at him frantically right now. She was obedient...for now, at least. That was good. It made things easier.
"This way," he said directly and simply, motioning his head toward the door. "Follow me and stay close." He then started walking before he abruptly stopped again.
"A word of warning," he added without looking at her. "Do not try to run. If you run, things will not end very well for you." As he finished speaking, the door opened, casting a bit of a glint on the red blood that stained his axe, as if warning Dorothy of the fate that would befall her if she dared disobey his orders.
The Munchkin didn't move from where he stood as the Tin Man relayed his message to his new "pet," though he did groan and mumble to himself as he looked up Dorothy's lithe and slender body, licking his twisted mouth with his sickening tongue. A couple of the other girls seemed to shudder softly at the sounds he made, as if they were aware of things that Dorothy hadn't had the misfortune to witness. Now that she "belonged" to the Tin Man, she didn't have to.
With his warnings finished, the Tin Man continued walking, pushing open the door and leading Dorothy into another room. There was nothing of interest inside, aside from a few other just-as-disgusting Munchkins shuffling around aimlessly. The Tin Man ignored them and continued to lead his "pet" toward another door, which he pushed open without thought. Outside, the sun blinded them both for a brief second...
...and Dorothy quickly discovered that she was not in Kansas anymore.
The sky was colored a sickening shade of gray, one that never appeared on an earthly sky. Clouds as black as midnight dotted the atmosphere and flexed with a menacing air as if they were somehow alive. The land itself was no better, as it was covered in a grass as sickly green as rancid vomit. There were no houses, no trees, no anything to be seen for several miles, just a vast, empty scenery that looked like the middle of fucking nowhere. The only thing that stood out in the hollow landscape was a long road carved into the ground that stretched in opposite directions, and even this road was peculiar in that it was coated in a pale yellow reminiscent of urine. Even if Dorothy had been planning on running against the Tin Man's orders, there was nowhere for her to run to.
The Tin Man, predictably, didn't seem affected by the scenery. He simply uttered, without prompt or ceremony, "Welcome to Oz."
She did what she had to do to get by. What she had to do was not what she wanted to do, and this resulted in her being rather bitter about her lot in life.
This was the case with most of humanity, but Dorothy was especially bitter. She was too young, too pretty to be so bitter. She had made herself pretty artificially: professional hair dye, makeup, crazy Hollywood diets. But the source didn’t matter. She was still pretty.
Her red hair was every shade of blood and volcanic lava possible, her skin forever sun-kissed. Her eyes seemed irridescent but were actually hazel. They changed color depending on her mood or what she wore. She would choose outfits that would make her eyes some freaky color, giving them a feline or serpentine appearance. But for any man interested in what she was offering, seeing her for the first time was like being in the presence of a goddess. She was akin a living, breathing phoenix.
Dorothy was an escort, a high end escort. The normal assumption is that with all that money came riches, pleasures and class, but in actuality, with all that money came an infinitesimal parade of creeps. Of course they always requested her at least once. She was so pretty! Who could resist?
She knew the rules. Officially she didn't sleep with clients. Unofficially she had no choice. Living in New York was expensive, and her clients paid more to do extra stuff on the side with her. She wished it was as simple as sex. And she wished she was just doing it just to do it. But Aunt Em needed the money to pay the mortgage on her farm and take care of Uncle Henry, and so Dorothy kept just enough to scrape by and gave the rest to them. It was the least she could do. They were the only family she had. It was the only reason she suffered the humiliation of the degrading life of being an escort.
But she weathered it stoically. Inside she seethed and writhed, but on the outside she was so cool and calm it was as if she had no emotions at all. She would get home and cry her eyes out, but out in public and on the job she was just a sassy girl who liked fine things and knew how to match her client's rich, expensive tastes.
It was one of those clients that got her into the worst situation of her life.
He had promised her nothing more than dinner and a movie, with a stop at a "friend's place." That was usually the term for someone who wanted to share or watch, and internally she thought about stabbing him through the eye with her nails. On the outside, though, she merely smiled. She didn't say a word, not even when they arrived at a warehouse. She hoped it didn't get unbearably weird, but she had taken self-defense classes, just in case.
She stepped out of the car like a proper lady, her heels sinking into the muck of the gravel outside. And that was the last time she saw New York. Someone put a cloth soaked with chloroform over her mouth, and when she woke up, she was in a cage, locked up like an animal.
That was three days ago.
So far, all she'd learned was this: she was being sold as a slave.
She didn't know where she was, or who her captors were. She was fed once a day through a tray like a hamster. She didn't see anything outside of her cage, except for other girls like her. They were younger, of various classes of attractiveness, and scared. They didn't speak. It was like they were afraid to. So Dorothy followed the rules, didn't speak, didn't misbehave, and tried to keep herself and her area as clean as she could. She waited patiently for contact with someone so she could find out exactly what the fuck was going on. She didn't cry, and she didn't panic. She simply waited and kept herself busy by reciting fairy tales to herself very quietly, just so she wouldn't go crazy.
On the fourth day, she got a break, though it wasn't exactly the one that she wanted.
"Tin Man's a'comin!" a voice called out as a door in the wall opened.
Dorothy cocked her head to the side and peered through her cage curiously. Who, or what, the fuck was the Tin Man?
Dorothy got her answer when the so-called Tin Man entered the chamber.
At first glance, he appeared completely undeserving of his unusual moniker, as he looked practically human. He stood tall, almost towering like a giant, although his height wasn't completely unusual. His upper body, while not powerful, appeared strong enough to carry heavy loads, and such an observation wasn't entirely unfounded: slung against his back was what appeared to be a powerful double-sided axe. He walked slowly yet nimbly, his head turning effortlessly as he moved. His face was thick and stoic, a blank expression upon his features. Nothing ordinary about his mouth, his nose, his ears, or anything like that, but his eyes...his eyes appeared hollow and soulless, almost as if they were made of...tin. Perhaps this was why he was called the Tin Man?
He was dressed in rugged outdoors clothing, as if he had just come in from working outside. The grime and soot one would get from woodcutting was smeared all over his clothes and skin, which wasn't really worth noting. However, one thing was worth noting, and that was the head of his axe: it was stained partially with a noticeable crimson substance, which could only be...blood. His blood? Or someone else's...?
The Tin Man walked briskly down the isle in the room, peering at all the cages he passed, his blank eyes studying every girl he saw. When he looked at a girl, the poor lass flinched and shied away from him, unable to look at his face without fretting. Every time this happened, the man simply turned away and walked on, moving on to the next cage. This happened over and over again until eventually he arrived at Dorothy's cage.
Peering into the cage, the Tin Man studied Dorothy's body and face, peering into her eyes with that soulless gaze. Unlike with the other girls, however, he lingered on her, as if finding something in her that he didn't see in the other girls. Nothing in his expression changed as he looked at her, though there was some noticeable curiosity in how he studied her.
Eventually, after a few moments, he raised his hand and snapped his fingers: his snap rang with a soft metallic vibration, as if his human-looking fingers were made of metal. "Her." That was all he said. That was apparently all he needed to say.
Moments later, the door opened again, this time admitting a new entity. Like the Tin Man, it was human in shape, but unlike the robotic-like man, this newcomer was not as human in appearance. He was short and squat, like a midget with a hideous growth problem across its body. Muscles bulged in an ugly manner from its arms and legs, and its back was hunched over painfully. Its face was not spared from the deformities, as one of its eyes was sealed shut beneath a fold of skin and its mouth was twisted into a permanent snarl. The ugly creature shuffled its way to Dorothy's cage, knocking on the bars almost excitedly.
"Lucky you, missie," it chuckled almost cruelly, flexing its deformed fingers. "You've been a'selected as the Tin Man's new pet."
Pet?
Oh no. Hell no.
She was no one's pet. She almost scowled at the thought, but then immediately marshalled herself. If she left there with him, she'd finally get to see where she was. Maybe she could even figure out how to escape and get to a police station so she could get some help.
The Tin Man was so strange looking. Dorothy crawled out of her cage and stood up, wincing as her stiff limbs were used to hold her body up for the first time in days. Her iridescent eyes peered at her new "master", trying to discern his...well him in general. Was he a...what was he? She was almost tempted to touch him and find out, but she didn't want to give him any ideas.
That ugly thing that let her out though...ugh. He really needed plastic surgery.
She stretched her long limbs luxuriously, trying to work out the kinks in her joints from being folded up in that cage for so long. She was a little off balance but it wasn't like she forgot how to walk. She'd play along for now.
Hopefully she'd get a shower soon, because she did not smell nice. At all.
The Tin Man said nothing as the Munchkin unlocked the cage that Dorothy was inside and opened the door, giving the girl the chance to step outside and stretch her weary, strained limbs. She did so without making a break for it, which was good, because there was no place for her to escape to. One or two girls would occasionally try to run once free of their cages, but they wouldn't get very far. The Munchkins, as hideous as they appeared, were also incredibly fast and were also very unforgiving to escapees...in every sense of the word. And even if the girls escaped the Munchkins...well, it wasn't like the rest of Oz would welcome them with open arms.
He noticed Dorothy peering up at him, those iridescent eyes of hers shifting colors with every slight movement she made. Those eyes had initially drawn him into giving her a longer look than the others, and her relative calmness to her current situation also made him hopeful that she would be...different than the others. At the very least, she wasn't screaming at him frantically right now. She was obedient...for now, at least. That was good. It made things easier.
"This way," he said directly and simply, motioning his head toward the door. "Follow me and stay close." He then started walking before he abruptly stopped again.
"A word of warning," he added without looking at her. "Do not try to run. If you run, things will not end very well for you." As he finished speaking, the door opened, casting a bit of a glint on the red blood that stained his axe, as if warning Dorothy of the fate that would befall her if she dared disobey his orders.
The Munchkin didn't move from where he stood as the Tin Man relayed his message to his new "pet," though he did groan and mumble to himself as he looked up Dorothy's lithe and slender body, licking his twisted mouth with his sickening tongue. A couple of the other girls seemed to shudder softly at the sounds he made, as if they were aware of things that Dorothy hadn't had the misfortune to witness. Now that she "belonged" to the Tin Man, she didn't have to.
With his warnings finished, the Tin Man continued walking, pushing open the door and leading Dorothy into another room. There was nothing of interest inside, aside from a few other just-as-disgusting Munchkins shuffling around aimlessly. The Tin Man ignored them and continued to lead his "pet" toward another door, which he pushed open without thought. Outside, the sun blinded them both for a brief second...
...and Dorothy quickly discovered that she was not in Kansas anymore.
The sky was colored a sickening shade of gray, one that never appeared on an earthly sky. Clouds as black as midnight dotted the atmosphere and flexed with a menacing air as if they were somehow alive. The land itself was no better, as it was covered in a grass as sickly green as rancid vomit. There were no houses, no trees, no anything to be seen for several miles, just a vast, empty scenery that looked like the middle of fucking nowhere. The only thing that stood out in the hollow landscape was a long road carved into the ground that stretched in opposite directions, and even this road was peculiar in that it was coated in a pale yellow reminiscent of urine. Even if Dorothy had been planning on running against the Tin Man's orders, there was nowhere for her to run to.
The Tin Man, predictably, didn't seem affected by the scenery. He simply uttered, without prompt or ceremony, "Welcome to Oz."
- Apr 23, 2012
- 2,875
- 5,895
This thread is in a bad need of an update.
@Sherbert Hoover @Reaver
Let's all whip up something this week?
@Sherbert Hoover @Reaver
Let's all whip up something this week?