Day 243 – Pale Face – Short Story

I’m going to tell you a story of something that happened to me when I was a young boy, I know, I know, how old am I now, and can you really trust someone you can’t see, who’s only connection with you is through words written on the screen, words you now read. Well, I can’t do any of those things, I can’t promise the world and not deliver, I can’t make my tale be true, if you choose not to believe, if I wanted to show you proof, I would, but why is that needed, would it not only ruin the story itself, if you found the tale to be true, or false, but would it not also destroy the excitement, if you found the truth, was somewhat, lame?

I can see, my words have already mistreated you, and you seem lost, confused, or, maybe annoyed. I see you ask that question, can I really see you. Of course not, I am making an assumption, maybe it’s because I know I have the tendency to ramble, and the more I do, the less I make sense, especially here, on this medium, one where I am required to recheck what I am doing, to ensure what i want to say is said. but, all I seem to do is keep on typing and abandon the checking, abandon the rereading, to make sure it all flows the way it is supposed to. But, once more, I have lost my way, and must press on, back to the matter at hand.

When I was a young boy, my family and I, I say that as if we all had made the decision, but that is not true, you see, my father had been offered a new job and back in those days, very few women worked, my mother was one of those, I’m not saying she didn’t go to be exhausted each and every night, because she did, there was twelve of us in the house, myself, my five bothers, four sisters, my father,m my mother and of course our three dogs, Skip, Jessup and King., and mother cared for all of us.

Anyway, no more straying off the path, the story, yes?

We moved into a large, run down house at the end of Kersley Street, you may know it, the house still stands, my family, still own it, but, no one has lived there for years, not since mother died, which was some time ago, more than twenty seven years, god time moves so fast, I still can’t believe it’s been that long since she left. But, I’ve done it again, I’ve managed to go off course, and lead you astray from why I started this story, I guess my mind is not what it used to be, and, well, I like to natter on when I have the chance. Maybe I’ll save the story for another time, when you’ve got time to sit and spend a while.


Published by

Matthew Tonks

People are surprised when reading Matthew’s stories that he’s a sane forty something year old, happily married, father of one, employed full time and dream of dark disturbing things that any sane person would never even contemplate thinking of. But it's true, he’s toyed with writing for most of his adult life, but has always found the peg a writer must fit into is not the shape he wished to be. His writing can be described as lamenting, long, concussive (yes it smashes you in the head), compulsive, and stuffed with rhythmic communication and violence, let’s not forget the violence. His own opinion on his writing is this, “You see, I don't just want the words to seep into your mind, but into your soul, showing you images of blood and beauty through, volatile language, violence, sex, love and sin. My muse takes different shapes, and every now and then you can see her shining her wicked smile in some of my stories, tempting you with her promises, but ripping your heart out instead.” So have a look, and take a seat in my wayward ride, as you join me while I purge through, this twisted road of madness.

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