A RUM inspiration / Ideas from the past and future / The Twins are HOME / Writing Horror

 Back in the earlier days of my life. Shit, I'm talking prior to my twenties, where each and every new alcohol introduced by my friend, Chris, was excellent and a notch in my pallet. I remember distinctly this particular rum that he, or his sister, my memory for those moments are slightly fogged due to the alcoholic endeavors, took the bottle out. We drank it just the same. The name of the rum wasn't Bacardi or any other name brand, and it had a distinctive difference in taste, which made the blunt of jokes in times to come. In other words, it was nasty.

Flash forward to the future. I was working at Target, these were my grunt years, pushing freight from the truck, unloading trucks, sweating buckets of salt that would usually form patterns of dry white shaped continents on my red shirts. I laugh about the sweat stain today, but then it was a little embarrassing. I worked with a guy who loved to drink, and it was the beginning to be, what I saw, a problem. I began to write a story, loosely based on this guy, and I mean loosely. The character's name is Tomkin and recently, with the Christmas season springing upon us, I decided to re-write the tale and give you a taste of it below. The story is going well, whether I get it finished before Christmas is a different situation altogether. I hope you are all doing well, thanks for stopping by, it appears that the writing bug has bitten me and I'm slowly getting into a routine I talked about in the last post.

The Twins are HOME (tentative title)

Daylight dimmed casting dark shades over the Christmas tree farm. Instead of thirty five degrees, it was more like ten with the wind chill. People were cold, shivering, huddled together on the hay rides. Families, friends, and tradition to get that perfect tree. This was Tomkin’s first time at the tree farm and he decided to take Henrietta, his wife. This Christmas was going to be great!

The wagon came to a halt and the tractor’s diesel engine silenced. Tomkin hopped off the wagon and reached his hand up to his bride. Henrietta was on the large side, bright red lipstick plastered on her lips. A pair of cheap sunglasses covered her blood shot eyes, to hide the binder the night before, and she laughed stepping into Tomkin’s arms. He almost tumbled.