Taff Can I ask you a question, the most important one I can think of? Sure. I might not know the answer. Or I might not be able to tell you, but you can ask me anything. Can you tell me how to let go of something? Something precious? Simple. Don’t hold onto it for too long. *** The Schwinn was brand new, gleaming, pale white. The color of clouds, of bones, of ghosts. “Wow,” Scott said, still too stunned to smile. He ran his hand unbelievingly down the ten-speed, from its rubbery seat down its smooth center bar to the ram’s curls of its handlebars. His fingers flitted over the gear levers, squeezed the brakes. A real ten-speed, he thought. A grown-up bike. And not a birthday or even a Christmas present. He turned to his parents, both standing nearby, quiet, expectant smiles hovering on their faces. “So, what do you think, kiddo?” his father asked. “You don’t seem too happy about . . . oof!” Scott’s sudden embrace knocked the air out of his father. “It’s cool . . .
What do You think about Gutted: Beautiful Horror Stories?
