The "Creative Writing" forum, which includes Retro Game Reviews, has been archived and is now read-only. You cannot post here or create a new thread or review on this forum.
I laughed it off. Another of his daft rules. In the 21st century, what need would I have for such things? Of course, he’d insisted.
“All young boys should have a penknife and a piece of string,” he’d said pulled gasps of air into his diseased lungs. I was 25. I saw him as a daft old man, senile even. A mobile phone and credit card was what I had in my pocket, and it had served me well. He pushed himself out of the seat, stood motionless for a moment, needing time to catch his breath, and moved over to me. He held the table for support, and dropped them into my pocket.
Now it’s me trying to catch my breath as I stand exhausted. But it was a day to reflect on such memories. A day on which I realised that he was right.
When I got home that day I took the string and penknife from my pocket and threw them in a drawer. I forgot about them until I got the phone call. I remember rummaging through the house searching frantically for them; a small ball of blue string and a rusty penknife. I held them in my hand and let the tears roll down my face. I still didn’t take his advice though. I put them back in the drawer and went to check whether I’d need a new suit for the funeral.
Car bumpers don’t come off easily. Well, one side did, or it wouldn’t have been a problem. Another tug on it made no bloody difference, it was still half-on, half-off, and not shifting. Of all days to be rear-ended, why today? If only I had a piece of string I could have tied the bumper back in place and driven on. I could have still made the funeral. But I let him down. I couldn’t get the other side off, and I could hardly leave it as it was, dragging along the road behind me. Hell, I could even have threatened that b*****d that hit me with the penknife - “give us a lift to the cemetery or it’s the rusty blade for you!”
Of course, the mobile phone let me down. Who could I call? My family were all at the funeral; mobile phones were all turned off or left behind. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand it was mobile phones. “Noisy old rubbish,” he used to say “if I’m out of the house, enjoying myself, why would I want someone calling me?” If he didn’t want disturbing when out of the house, he certainly wouldn’t want disturbing after he’d passed away.
I feel thoroughly rotten even if I get it off now I’m not going to make it. Whilst my grandad is being buried, I’m here on my own, trying to pull the bumper off my car, wishing I listened to him. Wishing I had nothing in this world other than a piece of string and a penknife.
“All young boys should have a penknife and a piece of string,” he’d said pulled gasps of air into his diseased lungs. I was 25. I saw him as a daft old man, senile even. A mobile phone and credit card was what I had in my pocket, and it had served me well. He pushed himself out of the seat, stood motionless for a moment, needing time to catch his breath, and moved over to me. He held the table for support, and dropped them into my pocket.
Now it’s me trying to catch my breath as I stand exhausted. But it was a day to reflect on such memories. A day on which I realised that he was right.
When I got home that day I took the string and penknife from my pocket and threw them in a drawer. I forgot about them until I got the phone call. I remember rummaging through the house searching frantically for them; a small ball of blue string and a rusty penknife. I held them in my hand and let the tears roll down my face. I still didn’t take his advice though. I put them back in the drawer and went to check whether I’d need a new suit for the funeral.
Car bumpers don’t come off easily. Well, one side did, or it wouldn’t have been a problem. Another tug on it made no bloody difference, it was still half-on, half-off, and not shifting. Of all days to be rear-ended, why today? If only I had a piece of string I could have tied the bumper back in place and driven on. I could have still made the funeral. But I let him down. I couldn’t get the other side off, and I could hardly leave it as it was, dragging along the road behind me. Hell, I could even have threatened that b*****d that hit me with the penknife - “give us a lift to the cemetery or it’s the rusty blade for you!”
Of course, the mobile phone let me down. Who could I call? My family were all at the funeral; mobile phones were all turned off or left behind. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand it was mobile phones. “Noisy old rubbish,” he used to say “if I’m out of the house, enjoying myself, why would I want someone calling me?” If he didn’t want disturbing when out of the house, he certainly wouldn’t want disturbing after he’d passed away.
I feel thoroughly rotten even if I get it off now I’m not going to make it. Whilst my grandad is being buried, I’m here on my own, trying to pull the bumper off my car, wishing I listened to him. Wishing I had nothing in this world other than a piece of string and a penknife.
Nice one but... there are taxis.
I laughed it off. Another of his daft rules. In the 21st century, what need would I have for such things? Of course, he’d insisted.
“All young boys should have a penknife and a piece of string,” he’d said pulled gasps of air into his diseased lungs. I was 25. I saw him as a daft old man, senile even. A mobile phone and credit card was what I had in my pocket, and it had served me well. He pushed himself out of the seat, stood motionless for a moment, needing time to catch his breath, and moved over to me. He held the table for support, and dropped them into my pocket.
Now it’s me trying to catch my breath as I stand exhausted. But it was a day to reflect on such memories. A day on which I realised that he was right.
When I got home that day I took the string and penknife from my pocket and threw them in a drawer. I forgot about them until I got the phone call. I remember rummaging through the house searching frantically for them; a small ball of blue string and a rusty penknife. I held them in my hand and let the tears roll down my face. I still didn’t take his advice though. I put them back in the drawer and went to check whether I’d need a new suit for the funeral.
Car bumpers don’t come off easily. Well, one side did, or it wouldn’t have been a problem. Another tug on it made no bloody difference, it was still half-on, half-off, and not shifting. Of all days to be rear-ended, why today? If only I had a piece of string I could have tied the bumper back in place and driven on. I could have still made the funeral. But I let him down. I couldn’t get the other side off, and I could hardly leave it as it was, dragging along the road behind me. Hell, I could even have threatened that b*****d that hit me with the penknife - “give us a lift to the cemetery or it’s the rusty blade for you!”
Of course, the mobile phone let me down. Who could I call? My family were all at the funeral; mobile phones were all turned off or left behind. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand it was mobile phones. “Noisy old rubbish,” he used to say “if I’m out of the house, enjoying myself, why would I want someone calling me?” If he didn’t want disturbing when out of the house, he certainly wouldn’t want disturbing after he’d passed away.
I feel thoroughly rotten even if I get it off now I’m not going to make it. Whilst my grandad is being buried, I’m here on my own, trying to pull the bumper off my car, wishing I listened to him. Wishing I had nothing in this world other than a piece of string and a penknife.
“All young boys should have a penknife and a piece of string,” he’d said pulled gasps of air into his diseased lungs. I was 25. I saw him as a daft old man, senile even. A mobile phone and credit card was what I had in my pocket, and it had served me well. He pushed himself out of the seat, stood motionless for a moment, needing time to catch his breath, and moved over to me. He held the table for support, and dropped them into my pocket.
Now it’s me trying to catch my breath as I stand exhausted. But it was a day to reflect on such memories. A day on which I realised that he was right.
When I got home that day I took the string and penknife from my pocket and threw them in a drawer. I forgot about them until I got the phone call. I remember rummaging through the house searching frantically for them; a small ball of blue string and a rusty penknife. I held them in my hand and let the tears roll down my face. I still didn’t take his advice though. I put them back in the drawer and went to check whether I’d need a new suit for the funeral.
Car bumpers don’t come off easily. Well, one side did, or it wouldn’t have been a problem. Another tug on it made no bloody difference, it was still half-on, half-off, and not shifting. Of all days to be rear-ended, why today? If only I had a piece of string I could have tied the bumper back in place and driven on. I could have still made the funeral. But I let him down. I couldn’t get the other side off, and I could hardly leave it as it was, dragging along the road behind me. Hell, I could even have threatened that b*****d that hit me with the penknife - “give us a lift to the cemetery or it’s the rusty blade for you!”
Of course, the mobile phone let me down. Who could I call? My family were all at the funeral; mobile phones were all turned off or left behind. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand it was mobile phones. “Noisy old rubbish,” he used to say “if I’m out of the house, enjoying myself, why would I want someone calling me?” If he didn’t want disturbing when out of the house, he certainly wouldn’t want disturbing after he’d passed away.
I feel thoroughly rotten even if I get it off now I’m not going to make it. Whilst my grandad is being buried, I’m here on my own, trying to pull the bumper off my car, wishing I listened to him. Wishing I had nothing in this world other than a piece of string and a penknife.