Once upon a time there was a lonely trash bin. His name was John.
John was very lonely because he always stays alone at home with no one to speak to.
But one faithful day, the landlord of the building where John stayed at decided that today was the day to add two new trash cans next to John.
The green trash bin was named Susan. She was a recycle bin for all the papers to be reused. She was a hero to all the trees to the world!
And the blue trash bin's name was Paul. Paul was used to store glass bottles! He was very important to the environment.
When John had first met Susan and Paul he was the HAPPIEST trash bin in the world! He had never experienced this feeling in his whole life. He stayed up all day and night talking to Susan and Paul, trying to get to know them better. I mean, it's the only thing John could do!
John, Susan, and Paul quickly became the best of friends. They were always together. Rain and shine, hail and sleet, always.
But one warm afternoon, something terrible happened. John had discovered a tiny crack on the rim of his trash bin. Susan and Paul freaked out! But John had told them that everything would be alright. That he wasn't going to go anywhere.
Little did he know...
August 27th, 1968. 3:26AM
John woke up with a jolt of pain on his right side. He turned to that side to see what was wrong. What he found was beyond terrifying. He found a split on his can. It went from the very top of his trash can to the very bottom of his trash can. It had hurt so bad. The contents, all his trash, had begun to spill out.
He quickly woke Susan and Paul. He showed them what was wrong and it wasn't long before all three had begun sobbing.
The pain John was experiencing was so intense he could barely breathe. He knew he was dying.
John uttered his last words to Susan and Paul, smiled, and closed his eyes....
Paul, who never cried, shed his tears. One by one they trickled down his face and down his chin. He let out a sob and another. He replayed John's last words over and over again in his mind.
"Thank you for being my friend."
John passed away at age 36 on August 27th, 1968 at 3:48AM
@PensivePost #ss
John was very lonely because he always stays alone at home with no one to speak to.
But one faithful day, the landlord of the building where John stayed at decided that today was the day to add two new trash cans next to John.
The green trash bin was named Susan. She was a recycle bin for all the papers to be reused. She was a hero to all the trees to the world!
And the blue trash bin's name was Paul. Paul was used to store glass bottles! He was very important to the environment.
When John had first met Susan and Paul he was the HAPPIEST trash bin in the world! He had never experienced this feeling in his whole life. He stayed up all day and night talking to Susan and Paul, trying to get to know them better. I mean, it's the only thing John could do!
John, Susan, and Paul quickly became the best of friends. They were always together. Rain and shine, hail and sleet, always.
But one warm afternoon, something terrible happened. John had discovered a tiny crack on the rim of his trash bin. Susan and Paul freaked out! But John had told them that everything would be alright. That he wasn't going to go anywhere.
Little did he know...
August 27th, 1968. 3:26AM
John woke up with a jolt of pain on his right side. He turned to that side to see what was wrong. What he found was beyond terrifying. He found a split on his can. It went from the very top of his trash can to the very bottom of his trash can. It had hurt so bad. The contents, all his trash, had begun to spill out.
He quickly woke Susan and Paul. He showed them what was wrong and it wasn't long before all three had begun sobbing.
The pain John was experiencing was so intense he could barely breathe. He knew he was dying.
John uttered his last words to Susan and Paul, smiled, and closed his eyes....
Paul, who never cried, shed his tears. One by one they trickled down his face and down his chin. He let out a sob and another. He replayed John's last words over and over again in his mind.
"Thank you for being my friend."
John passed away at age 36 on August 27th, 1968 at 3:48AM
@PensivePost #ss
Crossroad Blues
Back home in St Louis, there was this music store called Holman’s. They had just about everything on Heaven and Earth, from pianos to penny-whistles. They even sold records, too, and the very first time I ever heard the blues, it was Bessie Smith’s voice flowing like sweet, cool water out of Holman’s front door. That music meant so much to me that it’s somehow almost a footnote to remember that the sidewalk outside Holman’s, coincidentally, was one of my parents’ many prime fighting spots. Soon as they turned that street corner, every damn time, my mother or father would let out a sharp “So about that…” or “I think you oughta…”, and it’d break out into an unholy shouting match to put the dogs of war to shame. I’d shrink down into the concrete just to avoid catching another burning fist.After a couple of years of this hell, Mister Holman himself gifted me with a guitar, as compensation for my troubles, and I played that thing until my fingers bled. It was my only God and solace.A little later, I started playing my songs wherever people’d listen, but they all just walked on by. Bobby Dixon had tighter rhythm. Art Freeman had smarter lyrics. Lissy Mulligan knew these obscure chords from China.So I went down to the crossroads and begged for salvation. The devil, he’s shorter than you’d think. Thinner, too. But he had those eyes like diamonds and that crooked smile, just like all the stories. He cut me a deal, a sweeter deal than I expected; ”I’ll make you the greatest guitarist on this side of the globe”, he said, his voice as smooth and cold as silk, ”and in twenty years, you can pay me back.” “You want my soul?” I asked. ”That ain’t necessary”, said he… “but we’re having some trouble back where I come from, and I sure could use someone to help look after my pets.”I agreed, of course, and for the next twenty years I lived like a king, cutting records, playing gigs, hooking more than my fair share of adoring fans. But the greatest reward, for me, was finally being able to play the music I pictured in my head, with no damn skill barrier rising in my way. It was like liquid gold trickling from my fingers, raw yet beautiful, every single time.As he does, though, the devil came to collect. I kept my skill, thank God, but in return, I had to take care of his pets. And as a thousand hell-bound souls poured weeping into my head, I only had the chance to ask him how long it would last.”Oh, maybe a hundred years or so. Just ’til we get things straightened out.”I’ve been living with this for almost a decade now, and it hasn’t gotten any less awful.They fight and cry and scream so loud I can barely hear myself play.
@PensivePost #ss Submitted by tilvast
Back home in St Louis, there was this music store called Holman’s. They had just about everything on Heaven and Earth, from pianos to penny-whistles. They even sold records, too, and the very first time I ever heard the blues, it was Bessie Smith’s voice flowing like sweet, cool water out of Holman’s front door. That music meant so much to me that it’s somehow almost a footnote to remember that the sidewalk outside Holman’s, coincidentally, was one of my parents’ many prime fighting spots. Soon as they turned that street corner, every damn time, my mother or father would let out a sharp “So about that…” or “I think you oughta…”, and it’d break out into an unholy shouting match to put the dogs of war to shame. I’d shrink down into the concrete just to avoid catching another burning fist.After a couple of years of this hell, Mister Holman himself gifted me with a guitar, as compensation for my troubles, and I played that thing until my fingers bled. It was my only God and solace.A little later, I started playing my songs wherever people’d listen, but they all just walked on by. Bobby Dixon had tighter rhythm. Art Freeman had smarter lyrics. Lissy Mulligan knew these obscure chords from China.So I went down to the crossroads and begged for salvation. The devil, he’s shorter than you’d think. Thinner, too. But he had those eyes like diamonds and that crooked smile, just like all the stories. He cut me a deal, a sweeter deal than I expected; ”I’ll make you the greatest guitarist on this side of the globe”, he said, his voice as smooth and cold as silk, ”and in twenty years, you can pay me back.” “You want my soul?” I asked. ”That ain’t necessary”, said he… “but we’re having some trouble back where I come from, and I sure could use someone to help look after my pets.”I agreed, of course, and for the next twenty years I lived like a king, cutting records, playing gigs, hooking more than my fair share of adoring fans. But the greatest reward, for me, was finally being able to play the music I pictured in my head, with no damn skill barrier rising in my way. It was like liquid gold trickling from my fingers, raw yet beautiful, every single time.As he does, though, the devil came to collect. I kept my skill, thank God, but in return, I had to take care of his pets. And as a thousand hell-bound souls poured weeping into my head, I only had the chance to ask him how long it would last.”Oh, maybe a hundred years or so. Just ’til we get things straightened out.”I’ve been living with this for almost a decade now, and it hasn’t gotten any less awful.They fight and cry and scream so loud I can barely hear myself play.
@PensivePost #ss Submitted by tilvast
Her last cigarette.
Leaned against her car, she breathes in her cigarette smoke. She promised her father to stop smoking, and she will. This one is the last, and she makes sure to enjoy it as much as she can.The toxic smell fills her lungs with each breath, leaving as she sighs softly, lenghtily, following the pace of her heartbeat. The smoke briefly hides the view in front of her, a deserted land with no one in sight. A yellowish light cascades onto her from the sign above her head. She chose this place to smoke, to make it memorable, to give her bad habit a symbolic period.She concentrates on her feelings. The asphalt beneath her feet. The slight heat of the spring night, idling on her skin with not a single bit of wind to take it away. The dark veil that has been obscurring her thoughts for the past seven years, reminiscent of the blackness inside her damaged lungs. The volutes that swirls away toward the starry sky.Is she ready for that ? She wonders. She knew the moment would come.Exhaling her very last puff, she finally lets go of the butt.As it touches the wet ground, the fuel immediately ignites, setting fire to her shoe still maintaining the gas pump open. She welcomes the burning sensation as her brain finally lets go of her dark thoughts, only focusing on her pain.On how good it feels to finally be free.
@PensivePost #ss Submitted by Anariinna
Leaned against her car, she breathes in her cigarette smoke. She promised her father to stop smoking, and she will. This one is the last, and she makes sure to enjoy it as much as she can.The toxic smell fills her lungs with each breath, leaving as she sighs softly, lenghtily, following the pace of her heartbeat. The smoke briefly hides the view in front of her, a deserted land with no one in sight. A yellowish light cascades onto her from the sign above her head. She chose this place to smoke, to make it memorable, to give her bad habit a symbolic period.She concentrates on her feelings. The asphalt beneath her feet. The slight heat of the spring night, idling on her skin with not a single bit of wind to take it away. The dark veil that has been obscurring her thoughts for the past seven years, reminiscent of the blackness inside her damaged lungs. The volutes that swirls away toward the starry sky.Is she ready for that ? She wonders. She knew the moment would come.Exhaling her very last puff, she finally lets go of the butt.As it touches the wet ground, the fuel immediately ignites, setting fire to her shoe still maintaining the gas pump open. She welcomes the burning sensation as her brain finally lets go of her dark thoughts, only focusing on her pain.On how good it feels to finally be free.
@PensivePost #ss Submitted by Anariinna