So, it's been quite a while, blogger. How have you been?
I was talking to my friend Heather on skype last night, and we talked about how tumblr is making us lazy bloggers. Which sucks, because I want my blog to be a way to force me to write, and tumblr is kind of failing that criteria. So, I'll be updating this blog from time to time, just for those two or three million of my fans that want to know.
Oh, and I just joined this really cool thing called hitRECord. You should check it out. Her is a little something I wrote in ten minutes under this cool little prompt thing on the sight, and I think I might expand this into a longer short story.
Peppermint
Letters from my grandfather always smelled of peppermint and decay, just like his house. Looking through the faded, worn out scraps of paper, I can tell just by how shaky his signature is when the letter was written. Is the t still sharp and crisp? I must have been about four years old, and my parents would have helped me sound out the bigger words. Can you not really tell if his name ends in a w or a u or an n or an m, or maybe any other letter? I was sixteen when I received that one.
Grandaddy never talked to me like I was a child, but the letters we exchanged did start off fairly simplistic. By the last of them we had talked about death and life, the beauty to be found in the sun, stars, and a cute girl's ass, and even talked about religion and politics. Despite this, it was the last letter I received from him that made me feel like a man.
"Shit, son. The world is full of god-damned shit. But there is one thing that always smells like roses, and that is the good man who is willing to shovel that damned shit until he finds dirt. I fancy myself a shit shoveler, and I think you are one, too."
The visitation before his funeral was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. Leaning over his still form, I kissed his forehead, and smelled peppermint.
I was talking to my friend Heather on skype last night, and we talked about how tumblr is making us lazy bloggers. Which sucks, because I want my blog to be a way to force me to write, and tumblr is kind of failing that criteria. So, I'll be updating this blog from time to time, just for those two or three million of my fans that want to know.
Oh, and I just joined this really cool thing called hitRECord. You should check it out. Her is a little something I wrote in ten minutes under this cool little prompt thing on the sight, and I think I might expand this into a longer short story.
Peppermint
Letters from my grandfather always smelled of peppermint and decay, just like his house. Looking through the faded, worn out scraps of paper, I can tell just by how shaky his signature is when the letter was written. Is the t still sharp and crisp? I must have been about four years old, and my parents would have helped me sound out the bigger words. Can you not really tell if his name ends in a w or a u or an n or an m, or maybe any other letter? I was sixteen when I received that one.
Grandaddy never talked to me like I was a child, but the letters we exchanged did start off fairly simplistic. By the last of them we had talked about death and life, the beauty to be found in the sun, stars, and a cute girl's ass, and even talked about religion and politics. Despite this, it was the last letter I received from him that made me feel like a man.
"Shit, son. The world is full of god-damned shit. But there is one thing that always smells like roses, and that is the good man who is willing to shovel that damned shit until he finds dirt. I fancy myself a shit shoveler, and I think you are one, too."
The visitation before his funeral was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. Leaning over his still form, I kissed his forehead, and smelled peppermint.
"I wish life was not so short,' he thought. 'Languages take such a time, and so do all the things one wants to know about." - J.R.R. Tolkien
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