If you found this website, which, I suppose, you did, I just wanted to say a big “Well Done.” And I know some of you have found this website because I’ve had several hundred hits on the page, and not all of those were me checking to see if anybody had actually signed the guestbook. But, despite submitting the site to Google ages ago, when I tried doing a search for “Roger Smith,” the other day (a name I apparently share with many geeky Americans in middle management, and, slightly cooler, a Japanese Anime character also known as 'The Negotiator') I couldn’t find head nor tail of it. I then tried “low priority stories” and still came up with nothing. Finally, I tried submitting, “my father was killed,” the first line of the opening story on this site, and was still unable to find anything.* So, if you’ve somehow managed to find the site, this means you are either a close friend or family member (or at least someone I send e-mail to) or a very persistent and patient person who likes seeking out new writing. In either case, well done and a heartfelt “Thankyou” for being you.
Anyways, I’m a big fan of the randomness of entering something in Google and seeing what you end up with and I just wanted to share the fact that if you if you ever enter the phrase “my father was killed by” you open yourself up to a whole slew of heart-rending personal family tragedies and also some really bad fiction. I’d like to think my story “meteor” didn't fit into either category, but like I said, I couldn’t find it anyway.
Here are some I did find though…
My father was killed by a customer. He had a bakery. The customer wanted first turn for his bread and when my father didn't agree, he killed him. We spent a lot of money to save his life but it didn't help, he didn't live.
My father was killed by outlaws in 1892. One time he was riding along and two caiyutes kep' alongside, one on each side. They was crying.
My father was killed by the Taliban. He was killed on his way to work as an Afghan money changer in the Central Bank of Kabul.
My father was killed by friendly fire. More specifically, a man in his own squad. The man, "Goose," was shooting at another man, missed him and killed my father instantly. We were always told that he was killed by a Japanese sniper.
My father was killed by the Harrell Brothers, on the Ruidoso River, about where the town of San Patricio now is. My father was on his way to the Dowlin Mill, which was on the upper Ruidoso. He was taking a wagon load of grain to the mill to be ground. This was about a year after my mother was killed. The Harrell Brothers were from Texas and had settled on the Ruidoso River.
My father was killed by a drunk driver on his way home from work July 21, 1994. I was 17 years old.
"My father was killed by a man in black, and I have dedicated my entire life to finding him and avenging my father's death."
My father was killed by a truck when I was eight years old. My mother, who had been severely depressed all her life, went into a tailspin with that. The first thing she did was decide not to tell me that my father was dead. Instead, she created a conspiracy of silence within the family. I was informed that my dear, loving dad had just "gone away," never to return home. Imagine the good things that might do to a little girl's psyche. My father's death left my mother totally unable to care properly for me and my older sister. At age nineteen I escaped my lot in life, or so I thought, by getting married, to a lawyer. It started out blissfully—we said we wanted a family soon, and I was pregnant within three months. And then, in short order, my mother was institutionalized and began receiving electroshock treatments, and I discovered that instead of a knight in shining armor, I'd married a gambling addict.
* By the way, for all you budding writers out there, despite some of the dodgy lines above, starting a story with the death of a relative is usually a winner I find. People like stories they can relate to and we all have relatives and, sooner or later, they will die. Yes, all of them. Even Auntie Flo. So, you know, people can relate. The opening line of L’etranger was the simple and stark “Aujourd'hui, maman est morte.” and if it’s good enough for Camus it’s good enough for you. So, if you’re having trouble thinking of a first line for that great novel you’ve always meant to work on why not try: “My Auntie Flo was killed by a budgerigar,” and take it from there...
