Think about your grandmother, how sweet she was, how much she truly cared about you and smiled at you (with fake gleaming teeth, or her own in some cases). Does that bring some warmth, warmth that you thought faded after they passed, only to then realize that the embers of her love were and are always there, keeping you from freezing. Imagine the opposite of that. The exact opposite.
Now here is a piece that i didn’t entirely intend to write. While working on a piece, long since tucked into the “meh, maybe one day” folder, i was trying to design characters that were foster children all tucked together in one house, with severely religious foster parents, that were all waiting, and trying, to “rotate out” (meaning that they would be shuffled off to another home, perhaps one with less rules or whatever). From personal experience, most foster children aren’t well adjusted and have less than desirable pasts (which is a subject all on its own, perhaps for that story which i should complete, nudge nudge), so i wanted to emulate this by throwing, what else, shitty parent stories in the mix; but i think i dug a little bit too deeply.
Now, for this piece, i’m not exactly positive on the context, but for some reason i had pulled this bit of text into its own file and worked on it quite extensively. I purposely aimed to make the prose thin, almost simple, and expressed in almost a casual way, almost as if i expected to chop it up here and there with quotations and threw in a few lines of what was going on around the teller of this story and the listener while the story is being told.
The story is pretty horrid, the concept alone still makes me cringe, being a bit on the nose and all, but hopefully i conveyed the simplistic storytelling that, say, some one of fifteen or sixteen with limited intelligence might convey.