Return to the Blank Page

Stark white pages abound! In desks, in printer trays, nary a single word to mark them. Each is lifted, stared at, then returned to their place. A single typewriter sits upon the desk, a page slipped in and marginalized. But not a single drop of ink stains the page it holds.

An old man shifts through the various stacks of papers. He sighs, massaging his head with one hand as he looks at each page. He cannot organize them. Then finally, a single dusty sheet is pulled out of the mass of stacks, the first and only page with so much as a letter typed onto it. He stares at it for a time, then sets it beside the typewriter. His thoughts linger on the page as he removes the blank sheet from the typewriter, then slips his treasure within. He turns the knob on the side and returns to his chair.

He stares at each line, few as they are, before he begins to type away. He sneezes as dust is stirred from within the old keyboard, but continues to add words to the only page that isn’t blank in his whole office. He types away, and then when he is satisfied, he begins to read.

My name is Barnabus McGregor. I’m nearing the end of my life, I know, and here is my what I remember of my life.

I have lived and loved, had a family who have come and some who have gone. But names and faces fail me now. Have I eaten today? What am I even typing.

He continues to stare at those simple sentences. He feels, deep down, a sense of pride that he had finally typed, and closes his eyes. A few hours later, a knock could be heard at the door. When the call was unanswered, the door came open, and a young child, nearing the age of ten, stepped into the room. Her expression a mix of worry and wonder, for she never before had entered the room. She woke her great grandfather up from his dreamless sleep, and tell him it is time for supper.

He stands, and slowly shuffles out of the room. But she lingered, and her eyes caught sight of that single page that still hung in the typewriter. She made a mental note to return to the room once supper was done and set out.

When she returned, late in the dusk of night, holding a single flashlight in her hands, she began to give the room a further look. Each page she picked up was filled with story after story. She organized it as she went, his youth in one pile, his adult life in another. She learned of family long past, of distant relatives and even more. His life must have been amazing, she thought, as she continued to read well into the early hours of morning. Then she returned to the typewriter.

She pulled the one sheet from it, setting it aside and placing the only blank sheet left out of the whole office in its place. She typed a couple sentences in, hit return, and read it aloud to herself.

This is the story of my great grandfather, in his own words. I just worry that he has lost so much of his mind that he is unable to see the stacks upon stacks of pages filled with his story around him once he steps foot in his office.

I love you, great grandfather.

Alisha Dorothy McGregor.

(Image Source Pinterest)


Barstool Conversations Collection

​March 20th, 2016

“The drunks are gone.” She said.

“Well, not gone as in dead or missing, just out of the bar.” Don’t remember why she had to clear the air on that one. But when I look into her eyes and smell her breath, I could tell.

“Wait, what was I saying?” She looked around unsteadily, slightly swerving. She had to hold herself up with a hand on the bar top.

“I think you had a bit too much to drink there, lass.” It’s true, she wasn’t filling my cups right anymore.

“Bartender gratuity should remain in cash, not alcohol. Remember that.”

“Who said what now?” She stammered. Guess this is how the night would end.
March 21st, 2016

“Why is the rum always gone?” He stares at an empty glass he has lifted. The same glass he had for some time. Another full glass sat next to it.

“Cause you have been staring at an empty glass for an hour?” Crass as always, my favorite lass.

“Riiiight, and is that why my fingers are twitching?” His eyes are fully glazed over, no way he was driving home tonight.

“Okay, Sparrow, I think you’ve had enough for tonight.” Smart call. Now just to wait for her to fill my glass, again.

“Bah, always with the jests, wench. Le’ see you try and stop me!” He slips a large bill, probably too drunk to realize it, into her tip jar before storming off to another bartender, empty glass in hand. I slide the full one in front of me, not a single nip out of it. Rum might not be my favorite, but it’s a good second.

March 22nd, 2016

“Sit down lass, you going too fast.”

“Never is too fast when we’re this busy, my friend.” A quick smirk, slight feisty one, cross her red lips.

“Then lemme tell ya somethin.”

“Not another of your fanciful tells, I hope!”

“I’ll listen.” I chime in.

“Lass should be more like ya, stranger.”

“I’m in no hurry to get anywhere.” Was true, had all night to drown my sorrows this time.

“Aye, if only more people were to think that way these days, m’ friend. But aye, be a decade ago today that I first arrived in this gods forsaken bar. The lass was probably a wee thing back then, but the one behind the counter then was this beauty that no man could ever dream of.”

“Oh, you mean Shiela?” I had been coming here longer than he had.

“Nah, I mean her twin! Of course I mean Shiela! Gods got no manners in men these days… Where was I…”

“Talking about Shiela the first day you ever stopped here?”

“Right, right. Aye, she was a fine Lass, something this ‘ere wench could never be in her prime. She was a sweet one on me, too, if ya know what I mean.”

October 2nd, 2016

“I wonder why the room keeps spinning.” He shuffled uneasily, spilling a bit of his vodka.

“Maybe it’s because you’re drunk?” I had to open my mouth, maybe I was drunk this time.

“Thought it was that little two-step spin play, there.” The bartender spun around once or twice, a bit of delight lighting her usually grim face.

“Maybe it was, lass. But I can’t tell. How bout another drink?” 

“How bout tomorrow, last call is over.” Shut down. I always smiled at her unusual coolness.

October 9th, 2016

“You know, just gotta love the atmosphere here. It’s definitely friendly, albeit busy.” The man swayed slightly, nearly slipping on the drink he was spilling on the floor. I have been here plenty of times, and this time was definitely different.

“Have you ever been here before?” I had to ask, sipping gingerly from my glass. Had been a bitter day.

“Nope, I usually stay at my hole in the wall on the other side of town.” The lass behind the counter turned and grunted at him. “Maybe ya need to return to your hole, bud.”

“Aye, gotta love them hole in the walls. Their bartenders get drunker than the customers!” I snorted, he was wreaking with brew by this point.

“Is that true?”

“Bet your sweet ass they do, but are faster at slapping a grabber than any bouncer is to nab them.”

“I wouldn’t suggest to do so here, neither, my friend.” The lass behind the counter would knock him into next week.

Little Miss Scarlett

Scars run down his face, large and vicious. Her claws had dug deep that fated night. But his head rang thoughts of revenge, to do the same to her pretty face.

One raunchy evening, drunk as he’ll, he had called a number he got from a friend. The voice was soft, seductive. They talked for over an hour, agreeing with some monetary exchange for her ‘services’. A short term hotel room was their meeting place, her supple body his for a time. But in his stupor, he must confess, his fist had raised at a slight discrepancy in their agreed terms. Her hands were like lightning to his face.

He lost everything that month. His wife, the kids departed, his home foreclosed and his job cut from him. A year had passed, and still his anger raged. His fingers clenched the gun tight, as he watched her take in another fool. He snuck around, hiding behind bushes, as the hour dwindled down. His hand jersey up, a shot rang out. Down went the fool, but Scarlett had not stepped out.

He burst through her door, her name on his lips. She was nowhere to be seen. He grew ever more furious. From around the corner she stepped, calm as ever. Her clothes slid off, and he shut the door. First her body, he thought, as she drew closers, then her life. But when she neared, she kissed his scars gently. The anger began to fade, lust taking over. But what he didn’t see coming was a knife through his throat.

“No man will ever best Scarlett.” She smiled. Then everything faded.

Image source here:


This is a different kind of story for me. I’m not usually into this kind of macabre storytelling, more for the other types of dark storytelling. Let me know what you guys think below.

Yesteryear – Vogue Historia

“Russia was stomped by Napoleon’s might!”

“That can’t be right, Victor. All the history books say he was stomped by Russia?”

“Was it the germans, then?”

“Let me ask you, what language do we speak?”


“Then no. Russia crushed all.”

“Even the cold war?”

“Well, not really all but that wasn’t a true war.”

“Man this book was wrong, then. Thought it sounded wrong.”

“Where did you get that?”

“Some bookstore I can’t seem to find again. Why?”


“Why is it that I can’t get over this.”

I cheated first, long ago. I shouldn’t have but you were living miles away and someone came around who was closer. I was foolish then. And I admitted to that mistake. A mistake you shoved in my face for years to come.

Then you did it. We had been married now for a while. But you wanted the divorce. A divorce I never wanted. I knew what was in my heart. But you never saw that.

We fought. Constantly. Over things trivial at best and redundant at worse. I moved out, you got worse. Selfishness, greed. That boy you had then could have never amounted to what I had tried to build with you.

Then, months later, your tears falling on the floor of a courtroom. Delayed by two weeks, the hearing that would begin our divorce in earnest. Not even twenty four hours later I was the one taking you away from someone hell bent on destroying everything you had left.

We canceled the divorce ten months ago, living together once again and yet… I still can’t get over what had happened. Sometimes, just sometimes, I feel you are still going behind my back. Far too often than not, I wonder what is really going on while I’m away at work.

But it’s wrong. You had taken strides to prove to me that what I feared was happening was all in my head. Why can’t I just let go…

But I will have to, before it destroys us again…

Love You (to Death)

“She is crazy!”

I knew what he meant. She used to badger him all the time about how much she loved him. And that was day one of their relationship. David didn’t understand how attached that girl used to be to him until she finally cracked.

He tried to put her down easy. He tried every trick in the book to break it off with her until she met me. He was happy that her crazy way of loving someone was shifted from him. “Good riddance!” He would always say. I enjoyed her company so I didn’t mind stealing her away from him. That was about a year ago and I had asked him to accompany me to find the perfect anniversary gift for her.

“As long as it isn’t a gun or knife…” He always said that. She had plenty, to be sure, but she enjoyed almost every gift I have given her throughout the past year so I wanted to be sure to get something extra special.

“Hey, there is her favorite album!”

Type O Negative’s ‘October Rust’. I had come to find out that between me and her I was a bigger fan than she had been. But this particular album, or one song honestly, spoke volumes to her. So I picked it up.

Flash forward to the day of our anniversary. Andrea was coming to my little apartment. I had everything set up. Disc in the player, her favourite flower petals, burnt as incense then cooled, were laid along the hallway to the bedroom. Her favorite meal and desert finished. I even had the most glorious ring sitting in my leather jacket’s pocket.

I was ready. I answered as she knocked on my door. Inviting her in, I lead her to the dining room table. Her face, normally the color of freshly fallen snow underneath a roof of black, was lit with fevered red all over her cheeks and her black painted lips turned to the brightest smile I have ever seen her give. She knew, and I knew she would. Some of this cliché usually sends these messages to women.

As our forks laid down from finishing the feast I had prepared, I secretly hit play on the stereo. Soon, I could hear the song play, and her face got even brighter. I picked her up and we danced in a slow pattern for a minute until the song reached the perfect spot.

“Aaahh, let me love you…

I knelt before her, pulling my surprise from my pocket and sang with the song.

“Aaaahh, let me love you…
Tooooo…. Death…”

She clutched my right hand tightly as her mascara began to run. Her face melting into sobs and joy as she took the ring and slid it onto her finger. We danced through the rest of the song before I swept her off her feet, leading down the path of burnt flowers fallen. As “Be My Druidess” began, she finally answered my question with a resounding “Yes!”

She might have been crazy to David, but she was my perfect woman, my greatest wish and the one I wanted to love until death.

Okay, this was originally supposed to turn sour, but I have tears in my eyes from this one. I felt the ending was beyond perfect despite the fact that she was originally designed to go psycho at the end.

Have a beautiful week and if someone pulled this kind of stunt for you, love them to death too!

Stain of Time

I have been around for far too long.

Many generations of descendants have come and gone before me in my nearly two and a half centuries of life. Cursed was I to watch as they buried my great, great grandson before me. A child of twenty years, gone because of someone texting behind the wheel.

My only living descendant was his year old daughter, with a woman that I never had the chance to meet. They were unwedded, so I know nothing of them or their family.

I lift my feeble arms to bring my cold, clammy hands to my weeping eyes, drawing away tears that have been all too prevalent in recent years. Living through five rounds of cancers, hiding away in some home that my once proud and secure retirement fund barely affords. Unknown to the last child, the last remnant of my family before I realized that there she stood.

She was a beautiful woman, the mother of the last born. The only thing marring her face was the mascara running down her cheeks. There she stood, holding the last hope of my family, the last one to hope to survive my curse. I wipe away the near dry stains that were once tears and reach my arm feebly into her direction. She stepped back, but held her daughter out just enough for me to see her darling face for the first time, hopefully the last.

I pull my arm back, knowing to touch the dearest hope of my once proud world would surely destroy her. I let my head fall as my weeping grew stronger.

And I never raised my head again.

Edited to fix grammatical errors. Enjoy