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The Comment Game: A Fictional Story by You

The night was cool and calm just like any other. I decided to go for a jog to release some stress. As I was rounding Adams Street...

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As I was rounding Adams

As I was rounding Adams street the fog grew thick, I noticed the pavement begin to break apart and grow thinner, turning to pebbles before I was on cool damp grass.

I looked up and saw a gravestone a pace away, on it engraved American nation, 1776- ...

I stumbled past the stones, each more faded as I neared the gate, and when I was out I was walking among farms and sparsely dotted pathways recently ripped from the forests, which seemed almost still alive.

Arrows whizzed past my head and I head loud unnatural shots, explosions not quite uniform in type. I ran far, into the thick recessed of the woods, and tripped into a brook.

I slept the night, half unconscious and woke to see a badger sipping cool, pure water from a stone perch, wiped the mud from my bruised face, took a drink and washed away the dried blood.

I stumbled back by my tracks and came to a wide lane with a large farm and what looked like a scene out of a colonial era play, hooped dresses, men in the wildest wigs and done up most exquisitely in 18th century attire. One had to pause and admire the effort that went into that style.

I inquired and it was the old Adams farm, and I was on it, but despite my odd out of place appearance I was welcomed in and refreshed. I came to the center of attention, in the great wide sitting room of the stately house, close to a large burning fire and the sweetest smells I ever recall smelling.

I sat across from the man, Adams, and he listened as I told him a terrible story out of my head of the next 250 years. When I had finished, he was was more frightened than me.

I woke up and remembered

I had no legs. So I closed my eyes and tried to run back home and get my prosthetic sprinting legs.

With all due respect, I will no longer be a voting prostitute for Constitution rejecting harlots.

Michael Nystrom's picture

As I was rounding Adams Street...

I realized something very strange was going on. There's no Adams street in my neighborhood. I must be in a fictional story on the Daily Paul!

It was a revelation to me, like waking up in a dream within a dream. Suddenly, I realized anything was possible. Like Neo coming out of the phonebooth at the end of the matrix, I realized I could fly.


http://youtu.be/KulgyJSt_mM

- - -

LOL! Thanks Rob. What a great idea.

To be mean is never excusable, but there is some merit in knowing that one is; the most irreparable of vices is to do evil out of stupidity. - C.B.

The back door?!

Who knocks on the back door?

Mental images of Kate's dark, silken, mint-scented hair and mischievously smiling brown eyes are quickly replaced by concern for security, as I drop the phone on the bed and, with a self-assuring glance at the AR15 accessibly leaned against the nightstand, switch the television input to Exterior Surveillance.

Scanning the channels, I see the infra-red-reflecting eyes of gray barn-cats, moving stealthily around various sides of the house to avoid the unexpected visitor, and a conservatively dressed, mid-teens American-African, fidgeting with apparent nervousness and distractedly waving his hand at a cloud of mosquitoes surrounding the poorly located flood light just outside the door.

Finding no reason for alarm, I move to the kitchen and, savoring the aroma of freshly cooked coffee and honey, carefully open the door, reflexively blocking the opening with a leg to prevent my three large, excitedly barking dogs from escaping.

until he...

until he disappeared. Was I hallucinating?

I stood there, and the rain kept coming. My clothes now drenched, I walked back to the house and called my friend Kate.

As I dialed, I heard KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK from the backdoor.

I'm a serial entrepreneur and liberty activist from Texas!

www.RevolutionCarBadges.com
www.NonNetwork.com

jrd3820's picture

As I was rounding Adams Street

It began to drizzle a little. I noticed a figure off in the distance and as it became closer I saw a man in a trench coat holding a flashlight, a newspaper from 1946, and a shovel.

He was whiter than a shade of pale.

He approached me and with a disheveled look in his eyes he asked me what year it was.

I told him it was 2014, but he didn't seem to believe me. He said he needed help and wondered if I would walk with him to his house which was a couple blocks away. I felt bad for him as he looked cold and confused and the drizzle was turning into rain so I walked with him for a while until he....

reached into his pocket and pulled out a ringing cell phone.

He looked at the cell phone and frowned.

"This isn't mine," he said, a puzzled expression on his face.

I took the phone from him and answered it. "Hello? Who is this?" I looked at the displayed number. There wasn't one.

"Herbert McCallister."

"Hi, Herbert," I said.

"What? No, not funny. Herbert McCallister. That's the name on the tombstone. Hurry."

“Although it was the middle of winter, I finally realized that, within me, summer was inextinguishable.” — Albert Camus

jrd3820's picture

Hurry....

"Hurry?" I asked.

"Hurry where?"

"Just follow me, I need your help" he said as he handed me the flashlight and newspaper.

I should have stayed home tonight I thought to myself as he broke out in a run.

But for some reason I continued following him. As I ran to keep up with him the rain started coming down harder and harder and off in the distance I could hear rolling thunder.

The sidewalks were slick and it was dark and I couldn't run fast enough and before I knew it I had fallen into a huge puddle of rain.

But this wasn't any ordinary puddle. It seemed intent on swallowing me whole. I began flailing around and yelling for help. The puddle had become so deep small waves were starting to form...

The man had stopped to come back for me, but instead of helping he stood over me with a sinister look on his face.

Instead of trying to help me like I thought he would he began laughing manically as he said.....

"Enjoy 1946, mister!"

"Don't forget to...," he continued, but the rest of his words were lost in a hazy fog. Everything turned blurry, including my thoughts. I couldn't tell left from right, up from down, or even inside from outside. I felt as if I were being folded like a piece of origami.

I lay in a puddle. I lifted my head and ate a splash of dirty water. A strange car rolled by. Like in old movies. What is this? I am supposed to not forget something. The water felt cold. Why am I laying here?

Someone was talking to me. A shadow blocked out some light. A person's silhouette was framed against the fading daylight. I groaned and lifted up on one elbow.

"Here, grab my hand, mister. There you go." A man was helping me up. I stood, holding on to him. I felt shaky. He was a short man, young, in a tailored suit, with a cane and a fedora. He had kind features, with a cheery wink to his eyes. And he was smiling at me.

"Herb's the name, mister. Herb's the name, and helping fellows out of puddles is my game," he chuckled.

“Although it was the middle of winter, I finally realized that, within me, summer was inextinguishable.” — Albert Camus

ecorob's picture

Nice story, Herb...

What's the rest of it?

its 'cos I owe ya, my young friend...
Rockin' the FREE world in Tennessee since 1957!
9/11 Truth.

I guess you'll never know

since you just fucked it up

“Although it was the middle of winter, I finally realized that, within me, summer was inextinguishable.” — Albert Camus