регистрация / вход

Creative Story Lonely Essay Research Paper Creative

Creative Story: Lonely Essay, Research Paper Creative Story: Lonely It was a quiet night. No cars driving by, honking their horns. No sounds of little kids yelling. No dogs barking. Just peaceful and quiet. A

Creative Story: Lonely Essay, Research Paper

Creative Story: Lonely

It was a quiet night. No cars driving by, honking their horns. No

sounds of little kids yelling. No dogs barking. Just peaceful and quiet. A

gentle breeze blew with an occasional smell of spring in it. The air was just

right, cool and fresh. Keith sat on his favorite porch rocking chair. He was

just relaxing and gathering his thoughts. He liked to think. He liked to think.

He thought about his dreams, he thought about his life and how it was going.

He thought about his dog and how it used to be a playful puppy full of energy.

It sure grew up fast. Keith thought about a girl he once fell in love with. He

should probably get married before he turned thirty. Who knows maybe he’ll

never get married.

As Keith sat there, now thinking about his new, red truck, he noticed

his shoe was untied. He stretched down to retie it and saw a small card beside

his foot. Funny, he hadn’t noticed it there before. Maybe it blew up in the

breeze. Yes that’s what happened, the wind had blown it there when he was off

in dreamland. Oh well, he thought and then he picked it up. The card had

printing on it. It simply read, “go look in your mail box”. Keith gave out a

small chuckle and thought about his mailbox. Was someone joking around with

him? It was probably that pesky neighbor boy, James. He was always coming up

with something new and unusual to try out on his neighbors. “What the hell”,

Keith said aloud. He then stood up and walked over to his mailbox and opened

it up. “Yep, another card”, he said. The same small, black print on it too.

Except this card said something just a little different.

As Keith ran to his back yard where his dog house was, all he could

think of was what the card had said in his mailbox. “YOUR dog is DEAD”. Keith

suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. He could see blood. The dog house, which

he had just painted a nice fresh coat of white, was now covered with red,

blotchy stains. Blood everywhere. Who could have done such a deed? The golden

retriever that Keith had loved so much and raised for four years now lay dead.

There was hardly anything left of it. Its legs had been ripped completely off

and were thrown around the yard. Its head was nailed to the front of the dog

house. The body of his favorite and only pet was cut wide open and staked to the

ground like some kind of science dissection. Is this really happening, he

thought. He then leaned over and vomited up everything he had. He let it all

go, then sat and cried for his dog and all the pain it must have went through.

Keith realized that the mouth of the dog had something in it. Another damned

piece of paper. He snatched it out with anger and read it slowly. The paper

had some blood stains on it and had been wrinkled by the dogs still sharp teeth.

But it was still readable. It said, “Fools follow clues, and you are no fool”.

A few days later Keith got a call from the police which informed him

that their where no finger prints found except his own and not to worry about it.

They said it was probably some sick prank played buy some punk kids. Keith

agreed and hung up the phone. He was still shaken up buy the notes and his

deceased dog, but he was doing better. He had cleaned up the mess, burried his

dog, and hauled his dog house to a trash pile. He decided that a country drive

would do him some good. He needed to get out anyway. He also definitely needed

a wife now. He might lose his sanity if things like this kept happening to him.

He went outside and smelled the air. It smelled good. Someone was barbecuing

nearby. His mouth watered. He loved barbecued anything. Keith got in his new

truck and turned the key. The truck didn’t start. Keith frowned and thought

that usually new trucks start when they are less than a week old. That dealer

was going to here about this one. Yes sir. He didn’t like him much anyway.

The man was very loud and persuasive. He also smelled like a pine tree air

freshener.

Keith popped the hood of his truck and walked around to have a look.

Most trucks don’t start due to a dead battery or fuel flooding in the carburetor.

But this problem was different than that. On top of his new engine was another

piece of paper and where his battery had once been was the head of his dog he

had buried a few days earlier. Keith grabbed the note and ran inside. He read

it aloud and it said, “You better run far away because you only have a few

minutes before your house blows up”. Sure enough Keith smelled gas. He ran

out of the house and to the neighbor’s house. As soon as he got to the door his

house blew apart. Why was this happening to him? Who was responsible for this

madness? Why in the hell would someone go to such extreme trouble? This was

not the work of some kids gone rebel, that was for sure. He used the phone and

called the police. They arrived and took the dog head in for inspection and

examination. Again there was no fingerprints or no clues to be found.

The next day, Keith went back and replaced the battery in his truck and

drove out of town. He was still dumbfounded. He had no house and no dog. His

favorite chair was destroyed also. “What a loss”, he thought. This must all

be a bad dream and he was going to get away for a while. Keith didn’t get very

far. About half a mile just out of town, his truck quit running. He looked at

his gas gage and it was empty. It shouldn’t have been but now it was. He

started laughing. He laughed for a long while and then got out of his truck.

He walked back to town and went up to what was left of his house.

What was this? His rocking chair wasn’t destroyed after all. It was a

little burnt and crispy but it still looked functional. He sat down in it just

to think. He thought of his life and how he should get married soon. He was

going to be thirty years old next year. He thought of his dog. He loved that

thing. He thought of his note cards and how he a written those neat little

notes to himself. He thought of the police and how foolish they were for

looking for clues. He thought of the loud car dealer and the letter he was

going to write to him about the trouble his truck was giving him. He didn’t

need to tell him that he had cut his own gas line shortly after he blew up his

own house and killed his favorite dog. He thought of the cool, fresh breeze and

the smell of barbecue. He loved barbecue.

ОТКРЫТЬ САМ ДОКУМЕНТ В НОВОМ ОКНЕ

ДОБАВИТЬ КОММЕНТАРИЙ [можно без регистрации]

Ваше имя:

Комментарий