By Johnny Wilson
I have loved lakes my whole life and always will. My family and I all live in Tahoe and live there up near the mountains. Last summer was the most frightening summer of my life. My family and I had been hiking on a trail when all of a sudden we found a huge hole. The hole was about five feet deep and my parents weren’t very smart, so they let us explore. We hopped in and realized that it wasn’t a hole but an underground lake. We swam, the water was so warm. I lay in the water on my back, letting the water carry me, when I noticed a current drifting me away. When I had finally noticed, it was too late. My family was out of sight and I had just been thrown onto shore from a wave. I was cold, soaked, and scared. I knew I had to get out of there and get back to my parents. I decided to take off my shoes and try to dig a hole out of there. Surprisingly, it was very soft dirt and I dug a hole out in no time. When I was out I ran all the way back to my house, but my family wasn’t there. In fact when I had ran into town there was nobody there. I passed by the cemetery and found everyone there. I came over shouting to them, but nobody answered or even looked. I went over and saw my body being lowered into a grave. Then I realized it was my grave for the headstone read: "Here Lies Jered Spiter. He died in a rough river and drowned ten years ago." I then realized I had been dying for the past ten years. That's how I died.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Sixteen Minutes
By Mr. Silverson
Grady spent every single morning of the twenty-second year of his life taking sixteen minutes to complete his “8 Minute Abs” and “8 Minute Buns” videotapes back-to-back without a break. As he began his sit-ups every morning, his heart still racing from the surprise of the alarm clock, the odd details of the night’s dreams would linger in his memory: a dog that could talk, a witch, the back of an old girlfriend’s head, whatever it was, it would be gone by the time Grady had moved on to bicycle crunches.
Except one, which came in the third month.
He lies on an operating table, his body frozen with anesthesia. A doctor appears in his view, with a surgeon’s mask and a great explosion of Bozo red hair and injects him with a clear solution into his stomach and buttocks. With his eyes only, as his neck is stiff, he tries to look down at his torso. There is something growing beneath the skin, moving.
In his waking life, Grady’s body was changing as well. Bulges of muscle began to appear through the flab of his gut and his rear end looked fantastic. And he kept dreaming the dream, the colors vivid in his mind as fresh paint as he lunged in time and sweated during the dark mornings.
“Foolish,” he thought to himself as he prodded suspiciously into his abdomen while waiting for his bread to toast. “Foolish,” he thought again later, poking his new butt muscles while in line at the supermarket. The next day it took him an hour to work up the courage to insert the videotape into the VCR.
On the morning of his twenty-third birthday, Grady woke up, devoured a piece of chocolate cake and never worked out again.
Grady spent every single morning of the twenty-second year of his life taking sixteen minutes to complete his “8 Minute Abs” and “8 Minute Buns” videotapes back-to-back without a break. As he began his sit-ups every morning, his heart still racing from the surprise of the alarm clock, the odd details of the night’s dreams would linger in his memory: a dog that could talk, a witch, the back of an old girlfriend’s head, whatever it was, it would be gone by the time Grady had moved on to bicycle crunches.
Except one, which came in the third month.
He lies on an operating table, his body frozen with anesthesia. A doctor appears in his view, with a surgeon’s mask and a great explosion of Bozo red hair and injects him with a clear solution into his stomach and buttocks. With his eyes only, as his neck is stiff, he tries to look down at his torso. There is something growing beneath the skin, moving.
In his waking life, Grady’s body was changing as well. Bulges of muscle began to appear through the flab of his gut and his rear end looked fantastic. And he kept dreaming the dream, the colors vivid in his mind as fresh paint as he lunged in time and sweated during the dark mornings.
“Foolish,” he thought to himself as he prodded suspiciously into his abdomen while waiting for his bread to toast. “Foolish,” he thought again later, poking his new butt muscles while in line at the supermarket. The next day it took him an hour to work up the courage to insert the videotape into the VCR.
On the morning of his twenty-third birthday, Grady woke up, devoured a piece of chocolate cake and never worked out again.
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