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Gordon Bennet: a Memoir or Something
The screeching of the radio frequencies had awoken me that night. I had forgotten to turn it off. Such sound waves were burning in my brain. News of the English Army in the war was all the rage. It sickens me. You see, I went in hiding from the Royal Forces quite some ages ago. They had been out to get me. I had faked my death that fateful day in which I had gotten shot. I had been shot. I had died in the call of duty, but not really. I am Gordon Bennet. (BOOM.) The BOOM makes everything more epic. Anyway, I had been reluctant to get out of bed; that soft, warm bed of fluff. Thoughts were racing in my mind; racing faster than the torturous radio frequencies. Eventually, I had risen from my bed to switch off the radio. The floor was ever so cold, rather frigid on my toes. Blood had swiftly drained from my head, on account of rising from my bed too quickly; I could barely gain my balance. I was quite dizzy as I stumbled towards the radio.
“*squee* The English Army fights another ba- *squee! Neeo*”
THUD.
I had passed out. The blood rush was too much for me in the dead of night.
Thoughts and dreams of long ago in yesteryear had overtaken me in my dreams. If only I could completely recall; Mary Jane had stolen my soul, oh, my soul.
There I was, in the tent with my fellow peers.
“Pass it over here, you bloke. I need another toke.”
“Alrighty then; just one more hit,” I responded. Smoke had filled my lungs as my mind numbed. Out of nowhere, the joint slipped and floated, like a feather, to the ground. Just then, my organs exploded or something.
“Bloody hell, Gordon!” My brain was gone, yet my heart was racing in my arse.
The morning light had blinded me soon after. I had woken on the floor with a massive headache. Oh—how the war had scarred me. I had gotten off the floor in search of my Lithium; it’s the only thing that keeps me near sane. I had torn open every cupboard in search of the precious salt. ‘Twas nowhere to be found; thus, I took a walk outside with my dear girly, Mary. ‘Twas raining, so it didn’t last all too long. However, I returned back home to give my dear ol’ liver an aerobic workout.
“And one *sip* two *sip* threeve *sip* … twenty-two *sip* thirty six *sip and miss*… seventy-two *misses* aw c**’mon ya girlies. You can do better than this you pansies! Eighty something-“
THUD.
Success.
- by hypochondriac attack |
- Fiction
- | Submitted on 02/05/2011 |
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- Title: Gordon Bennet: a Memoir
- Artist: hypochondriac attack
- Description: This is a fictitious memoir that I made up last week or so. It's still unfinished.
- Date: 02/05/2011
- Tags: gordon bennet memoir
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