Tolkien Ruined My Marriage but I Don't Care
It's finally happened. I stood up for myself against the darkness that has seeped from the void. Growing up, I never cared for fantasy. My father would scoff at my little brother reading while we were eating and would say "Books are a waste of time and memory. You think all that make believe will make you more smarter?". That was as close as I ever got to the topic of fantasy. Decades later, my wife and I would sit in front of the television every night after dinner. I never cared much for anything on albeit except for the news so I'd always watch whatever my wife wanted to view which was usually jeopardy followed by cooking shows but as time went on, I noticed she slowly took to reading in front of the television until eventually I saw that she didn't care what I changed the channel to. When I questioned her lack of interest, she answered by telling me that I could watch whatever I wanted.
The Last Dastardly Tale of The Crimson Fowler
He slowly pulled into the empty lot and parked his deteriorating, used car; the finest a senior pension can buy. He sat in determined silence before holding his palms out and staring down at his old, wrinkled hands. It was these hands in their youth that almost conquered the entire world, these hands that brought fear to the people and left authorities trembling in their wake. As he took one last look at his hands, he tried with all his might to transform into the monster he once was, but it wasn’t the sight of his hands or the nostalgia: it was the failures that helped him transform. He curled his hands into fists of rage and went from being a reclusive old man to the dastardly supervillain known as The Crimson Fowler. He checked his utility belt, reached to the passenger seat, grabbed his walking cane and, slowly but still aggressively, got out of his car. Gradually shutting the door, he scowled at the large sign above him: Frozen Pond Aged Care.