One day I was sitting on a forum, bored, and so I started writing a story. I don’t claim to be a good writer, so take it as it is.
ONE
Sharon Jonson was sitting in her car, the windows tight, sobbing. It looked kind of comical, since the car, a battered sedan, was actually up on blocks. A tire leaned against the front panel, and the contents of Darren’s tool kit were spread across the cement drive.
I tapped on the window and Sharon looked at me, her eyes filled with tears. I indicated that she roll the window down, but she didn’t seem to understand at first. I tapped again and she shook her head from side to side, hard. It was then she lifted the revolver she’d had in her lap and blew her brains all over the interior.
Stunned, I staggered backward, and tripped over the stupid garden gnome someone had given them for Christmas a few years back. I quickly stood and tried the phone again but got nothing. In frustration and confusion, I dropped it on the grass and stood there like a fool, staring at what was left of Sharon Jonson of 43 Wakes Drive.
Darren coughed and I looked to the house, startled out of my stupor. He stood slumped in the doorway of their home, a vacant look to his face and covered in blood.
“Jonson! Darren, are you alright? Are you hurt?” I asked.
I headed over to him, around the car and the damndest thing happened; He growled at me and lunged. Read the rest of this entry »
