Clarke Duke

Samsung

Z

Cathie

Music is perfect

My hot honey pesto pizza

my wife brought me a pizza and I am eating it in bed because I am a gd adult and I can 🥲

Tomorrow isn't just Thanksgiving, it's also happens to be Millie's 12th birthday & she would greatly appreciate being acknowledged in any of your holiday toasts.

Thanking you in advance, Chelsea & Mar🐫

The Ravens scored a TD on basically this same play earlier this year.

A Christmas Story They moved in the shadows. The sound of snow crunching under boots was soft at first, but steadily grew louder. The ground seemed to shake, and my dread grew with each new step. They came for my mother first. I could hear the wet, sickening thwacks as they slaughtered her. They were quick. Methodical. She never had a chance to scream. I could feel the reverberations as her body hit the floor. Next was my father. They took their time, sizing him up for a bit before setting upon him with their weapons. His body brushed against mine as he collapsed and a wave of nausea overtook me. His death was as swift as my mother's. And, though I loved him dearly, I felt no sadness. The only thing I felt was fear, because I knew I was next. It is a bit of cowardice I carry with me even now. I tried to tell myself that if I held perfectly still, they would overlook me. Perhaps they would decide enough death had happened today. Perhaps their recent killing spree would have satiated their need for more violence. I hoped one of them would say, "Enough killing today, boys," but I knew it was a fool's hope.

They stared at me. I said not a word. I could feel myself shaking, but I kept telling myself that was only because of the cold. Part of me believed it. The axes gleamed in their hands. I shuddered as the first one hit. I tried to scream but found that I couldn't. The night would witness my death, but not a soul would hear it. I heard another blow land on my body, but I don't remember feeling it. I looked down and saw a thick liquid flowing from the newly formed wounds in my body. The end was near and I tried to welcome it, but my soul refused to leave. I was a shell, watching my life leave me one viscous spurt at a time. It wasn't long before I joined my fallen parents. I was dead, yet I could still see all that was happening to me. Or maybe I wasn't dead. I have never believed in ghosts, so my knowledge of them is limited at best. Are ghosts trapped within their bodies? Can ghosts still feel everything that is happening to them? I was laying on the ground and I could not move; my limbs frozen in place. I could feel my body being dragged by gnarled hands towards a large truck and could do nothing to stop it. Though I begged it to leave, my consciousness stayed in my lifeless husk.

The truck door closed and all I saw was the darkness. I embraced it, thinking the darkness was better than watching my own body - and the bodies of my parents - softly jostling with the movements of the truck. Given those options, I'll take the darkness. I must have drifted into the void, because I don't recall being removed from the truck. I don't remember seeing my family for the last time before they were shuttled off. I wish I could have said goodbye, if only from the beyond. I don't know if they ended up as I did, but I hope they didn't. I hope their memories of this life ended the moment they were forcibly removed from it. No one should have to remember the things I witnessed. The first thing I saw when the darkness finally receded was the face of a bearded man, forcing something onto my head. "Is it straight? Is it straight?" He was yelling behind him to a figure I couldn't see. He seemed agitated, but not overly so.

I heard the voice behind him now. "A little more toward the middle. A litttttttle more...littttttle more...PERFECT." The man stepped away. He was wearing a brightly colored sweater that was a little too tight. He wasn't fat, but he was certainly a touch overweight. He pulled his sweater down to cover his exposed stomach. He looked down and to his right and asked, "Do you want to do the honors?" I followed his gaze and saw a small child. She was no older than three and appeared to be ready for bed. She was in red, fuzzy pajamas, adorned with Christmas trees and elves. Her pigtails were slightly askew, as if putting them in had been a bit of a struggle. With one hand she was rubbing her eyes. In her other hand she held a small silver ball. It had been messily painted, most likely by her own tiny fingers. The girl hung it on my already drooping branches and smiled brightly. "Merry Christmas, Daddy."

A few years ago, I wrote a short Christmas story. I keep telling myself I’ll do something with it, but I never have.
So here you go. It’s a bit…grim. I call it A Christmas Story and I’m quite proud of it.

Show me a picture on your phone that has your energy but isn’t a selfie

You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.

Mike Johnson

Am here via link on Instagram 🙌

Finally we won the match 💪🦋

What a nice view

Hey👋

Creativity

Follow to follow back

We are here 💪💪

Any one agrees with me ✋

안녕하세요. 어떻게 지내세요

Any one agrees with me ✋

Am new here but it seems to be interesting platform than x😉

See you