Daniel Lowe
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I have no idea what I am doing.
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Harold's Destiny
We drove up the snowy, winding road towards the cozy A-frame cabin. It really did look lovely, and I was beginning to look forward to a week’s holiday with my mates Brad, Phil, Wallace and Sir Harold Whitaker Stolt III, Destroyer of Worlds. Yes that is his actual name. No I am not joking. His mum and dad took turns naming their kids, and since Harold was the middle child, his dad got to name him. Anyway, we got up to the top of the hill and parked the car. I opened the door to get out, but immediately slammed it shut and exclaimed, "Bugger this, let's go somewhere warmer!", and without hesitation Brad put the car into reverse, and we were rocketing down the mountainside - or rather, off the mountainside - as Brad had been a little bit too keen for our new plan to visit the Caribbean and failed to make the turn in time. As we made our untimely departure from the road, we spent a few seconds plowing through a patch of shrubbery and small trees before bursting out the other side in slow-motion. We spent a brief moment weightless as our Subaru de-forester levitated in the air, not dis-similarly to how a cartoon character would do, before slowly creaking and tilting forward to face the several hundred metre drop that awaited us. We all fastened our seat-belts upon seeing this. As the car began to plummet downwards, racing towards it's terminal velocity like a dog chasing literally anything, Harold began to panic. He did this even despite the large, friendly letters on the cover of his copy of The Hitch-Hikers Guide to The Galaxy specifically instructing him otherwise. "Brad you bloody plonker! You've killed us! We're all going to die!"
By Daniel Loweabout a year ago in Fiction