“Got one last story in you Gramps?” I couldn’t help but smile as I shot the old man the question and tipped the beer bottle to my lips, downing the last few drops of precious brew. I smiled because it was rhetorical, redundant. A question I already knew the answer to. Ya see, Gramps always had a story. I’d been visiting with Gramps and listening to him weave his wild yarns my entire life. From tales of adventure, to comedic experiences with some of the town’s local oddballs, to the occasional terrifying splatter show that rivaled any horror picture. To put it simply, I’d literally grown up on the old man’s entertaining ramblings. The thing was, Gramps’ stories were always true. That’s what made them special. That’s what kept me captivated over all the years and years that I heard them. It didn’t matter if we were doing something boring like adding the umpteenth coat of paint to his rotting and weather-beaten barn, or choking back tears from the dust as we orga
Stories that are collected from the depths of the unknown or spawned from the deep recesses of my mind...