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January 12, 2006

D: Walker

As I strode through the purple heather and cloying bracken of the Scottish Highlands, dressed in the kilt of my clan I paused at a small pile of rocks. Cairns frequently mark the summit of a mountain, but in this case it was more likely a burial site of some walker dead long before me. I paused to offer silent condolences and spied a full bottle of whisky tucked behind the stones.

Hill walking can be thirsty work so I downed it in one.

Then I blanched and refilled it for the next stupid bastard to make the same mistake.

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Comments

Two days ago it was cannibalism, yesterday it was masturbation and today its pee-drinking... I need to find some new material.

Posted by: D at January 12, 2006 3:41 AM · Permalink

We all tend to wright from our own experiences.

Posted by: kasac at January 12, 2006 9:03 AM · Permalink

Of course that doesn’t apply to me.

Stuck here in this ‘not so assisted living’ building, I have no experiences. I live life through my grandchildren’s lives.

Actually, they don’t visit enough that I know about their lives. In my tedium I’ve created a fantasy life,a whole dream world, for each of them.

I get great joy from their lives, even as I struggle to remember I made it up.

None are cannibalistic, and my precious ones would never “M” nor drink vile discharge. But I have now added a pile of rocks, far from home, in each fantasy world.

Posted by: kasac at January 12, 2006 9:42 AM · Permalink