Who Am I?

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A Short Story by John Carpenter

I hate my life. Every day is a carbon copy of the last. I wake up, I eat, I do little else, and then I sleep again.

I am Fred or Freddie as people often call me. I live with a woman who I have little in common with and rarely see. I am her personal assistant, at least that’s what I call myself. I’ve lived with her, Beatrice, for almost eight years. Eight years I’ve stayed in this job, a lifetime in my mind. I’d leave but I can’t. I’ve no useful skills or qualifications and if I didn’t live here and work with Beatrice, I wouldn’t be able to eat and I’d be right back on the streets as I was before Beatrice. I should be grateful, I often am but still, I hate my life.

I long for freedom, the ability to go far far away. To see all the places I‘ve never seen. To live a life worth living, but I can’t. I can’t ever afford to leave, not even for a day. Beatrice needs me around almost all the time, even if I don’t see her for most of the day. She works in the city and we live in a small country home, far away from everywhere else. I go stir crazy every other day. I almost never leave the house. Beatrice doesn’t like it when I stray too far from my work. Sometimes I go for walks at night., I’d walk for hours and see little more than empty lonesome fields. Every walk I’d try and go further than the last, to peek beyond the precipice that little bit more.

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The Mysterious Case of the Moving Attic Door in Apartment Ninety-Seven (An Ongoing Investigation)

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(A True Story.)

A little over five months ago, I moved into student accommodation in Dunaras Student Village, Galway. My apartment is shared with three other lads on the third floor. After one month, my housemates and I noticed something extraordinary. One morning, our attic door, which none of us had paid any real attention to, was wide open.

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The Last Will & Testament of Vance Garrison


Inspired by the music video for “Simple Song” by The Shins.

(Short Story)

The Garrisons were no ordinary family. It seemed odd to even call them one. Sure, they lived in the same house, shared many of the same genes, and even ate the same evening meal. Still, they lacked one of the primary characteristics of any family: communication. Thus, they lacked that all-important sense of community. They also lacked the building blocks of any good household, the communal watching of “The Walking Dead” every Saturday night.

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“Eight Years” – A Very Christmassy Short Story


On a cold crisp night, four prior to Christmas, I found myself walking the usual route home after work through my beloved Grafton Street. Shops were closing as people hurried to buy last-minute gifts for their loved ones and buskers were quick to pounce on this seasonal generosity. I gave into the hysteria, throwing one a 50c coin I had leftover from lunch. Christmas comes but once a year I suppose.

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