"What's your story?" The man asked. I chose not to answer him, acting like the loud crashing of the waves on either side of the boat were too loud to hear anything. "Oi, I said; what's your story?"
I looked at him with a glare, I didn't want to answer a damned thing. "What the hell do you care?"
"Well boy, it just so happens that you got an Englishman and an American on a boat, one of us is bored to shit and the other has a story to tell," he demanded, "and I heard that you're a big author where your from."
"So? That doesn't mean anything anymore." I told him. It was true, I was an author before this ride. I wrote fictional and non-fictional accounts on the supernatural. I did dark humor as well, but those days are over. They've been over, I've gotten too old, or rather, too afraid.
"Sure it don't, but looks like we gon' be partners for a while, and as your partner, and the one driving the boat, I'd say I earned some entertainment." The man had a point, but I wasn't quite ready to give in just yet. "If I am to tell a story, can I have your name?"
"Johnson is what they call me, others, Old Scraggly Bastard."
"Aldrick Davis." I looked down at my black shoes sitting at both sides of my black back pack holding onto whatever small belongings I managed to gather before I left my home. I wore that day a black trench coat with a black T-Shirt and black pants. My plan was to travel during the night and hide while I rest during the day. I wasn't running from anything, I was running from myself.
YOU ARE READING
Hollow Hearts
HorrorIn this book, you'll find unfinished short stories that will hopefully someday grow into a much larger body of work. For the exception of one, these are all my creations. Enjoy.
