bob dillon

Ireland’s trying SOPA.

revokingemotion:

It could be in Law as early as Friday.

It will be passed without a vote, it is NOT going to the Oireachtas.
It will be signed directly into law.

PLEASE, ANY SANE IRISH FOLLOWER I HAVE. RING YOUR TD, EMAIL THEM. SIGN THE PETITION ON http://stopsopaireland.com/
FOR YOUR OWN SAKE AND MINE.

merry christmas.

just sayin’ :)

Short Story | Death

Randomly started writing this in Google Docs, stuck it here ‘cause I’m quite proud of it.

Rain attacked the surrendering, concrete ground with the violent noise of watery collisions consistently ringing in the background. Main Street was full. It was Christmas Eve and people scrambled in and out of the many shopfronts, buying last minute gifts for loved ones. Loud shouts of thunder began to roar and the rain doubled, falling heavier still. Large coats and menacing umbrellas covered the already drenched consumers. One person, however, was different.

He wasn’t rushing, nor was he covering up. In fact, all he wore was the most odd silk, black cloak which was clinging to his body due to its drenched state. The only thing that parted the silk and skin was the fierce wind as it grew in a tunnel-like way between the large buildings that were positioned each side of the narrow street. This man, no older that fifty, strolled along, clearly in no rush. His gifts were already tucked under his toasty Christmas tree at home, wrapped and ready to be given to the unsuspecting receivers.

The strangest part of it all was that nobody took notice to him. His slow, quiet steps and minimalist attire attracted no attention from the stressed shoppers. Nobody was bumping into the man, nobody scoffed as his preparation for the weather and nobody would dare connect with his fierce, determined stare. This man meant serious business. He made his way down the cobbles, weaving expertly in between the shoppers that would, for anybody else trying to move at all, provide quite the obstacle.

It was late and nearing midnight. Shops were doing their best to shoo the last of their customers out so they could close up after the busiest day of the year, just adding to the congestion. At the far end of the road, a clock struck midnight. The cloaked figure grinned to himself satisfyingly. It was officially Christmas and it was time to deliver his first present. A side street provided escape from the chaos, and the man turned onto it quickly. Making no attempt to step over the puddles on the aging ground, he made his way down the street, passing many crooked and old cottages.

He reached his destination. One of the smaller, but more cosy cottages. Through the front window curtain that provided weak concealment, an old woman was putting out the fire, rearranging presents with toy car Christmas wrapping on them, inevitably for the grand kids, and locking up the back door. He opened the spindly, wooden gate gently and proceeded up the path slowly, but with an intensity that indicated he didn’t want to wait until she was asleep. He didn’t want to disturb this late, but he wouldn’t get another chance this side of Christmas.

He knocked politely on the door, preparing the gift in his hand, waiting for the door to gently swing open, revealing the quaint old lady. It did.

There she stood, in her toasty Christmas woolen jumper, her grey hair messy and her aging face portraying such a natural smile. One that faded. The man at the other side of the threshold, wet and run down, smiled instead.

“Hello, Rita,” he greeted. “My name is Death, and I’m here to escort you with me if you don’t mind.” 

With that, he raised his white, ice cold hands up to her flinching face and stepped over the threshold, closing the wooden door behind him.