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Old October 9th 2014, 09:09 PM
DashCrowley DashCrowley is offline
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Join Date: Oct 2014
Location: Green Bay WI
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Default A Story Inspired By Dave.

I realize that I am a "newb" to this board, or whatever. I was attempting to find a way to send this story to the band directly or to whoever screens their "fanmail" or whatever, and this board seems to be the closest thing I can find. I just wanted Dave to know how much his song Marigold has meant to me over the years, and how much he has influenced me as a human being. I love Dave Grohl as a mentor, an idol, and an inspiration.





SIX COLOR PICTURES by: Dash Crowley


Take those pictures down, she said. They don't look right there.

Aw, come on, he said. I think they really bring some light into this room.

No.

What do you mean? he said.

They just...bother me. I'm sorry.

Well, then I'll just put them in my office, he answered.

He was not sure how pictures of flowers could disturb a woman, but he wasn't ready to start another argument with his fiancee and he carefully removed each marigold photograph from its nail - nails he'd spent over an hour making sure were properly lined up, properly level, and properly spaced - and placed them in a small pile.

I'm sorry, honey, he said. He carried the pile of his artwork into the other room with his head slightly hung. She had never been one to truly support his hobby. He knew he wasn't a great photographer or anything, but it's what made him happy, and he was proud of his work. He especially liked taking photos of flowers, throughout the processes of their single, short-lived lives. This particular series was of a marigold slowly dying, and he had found it to be one of the most beautiful he'd ever shot.

They looked good over his computer desk, he guessed. He had really wanted them on display for all of his guests, but Amy had shot it down, and that's the way marriage goes, he supposed. Compromise. And who cared, really? He didn't take his photos for anyone else or for anything other than personal gratification. So day after day he would visit his marigolds, his six beautiful color photos, all in a row, just above his monitor as he did his schoolwork. He took classes at night to try to improve his photography skills. Had turned his office into a hobby hole of sorts and it was used particularly for all things surrounding the images he captured with his oldschool camera. One that still used film. He even developed his pictures himself, with a red lamp and the tiny plastic paint-roller paint holders he'd accumulated from relatives and garage sales.

He took many pictures for many months after he'd moved in with Amy, but every now and then he would come back to the negatives of the marigolds and just stare at them a while. He'd redevelop them, using different gradients of the chemicals to achieve new effects. But the strangest thing he noticed, was that each time he developed the pictures again, the flowers seemed to wilt further and further.

He was sure his eyes were playing tricks on him, but he would hold each new set up next to the previous and the differences were drastic and real.

Amy mentioned to him one day that she was not feeling well. In fact, he noticed over the weeks that she seemed to be getting worse and worse. Ever since he'd moved the pictures from the living room.

Maybe I should move them back into the front room, he suggested, shouting to her from the photo-den that his office had become. They might cheer you up.

I hate those damned things. I wish you would spend more time outside of that office, she said. It's like I never see you anymore. I want my man back. I need you, Jake.

I'll be there in a minute, doll, he said, and went back to developing a fresh batch of the marigolds. They were starting to brown now, and he heard a hacking coming from the other room. He could barely pull himself away from the chemical baths long enough to go and check on his betrothed.

She really was ill. He put a warm, damp washrag on her forehead and made her some soup and fed it to her by the spoonful. When he was sure that she'd fallen fast asleep on the loveseat, he crept back into his office to re-examine his works. He looked from the first set of prints to the last. They were extremely different. He wanted to show Amy but did not want to disturb her rest, or her mind. He knew how much the marigolds had bothered her. The day he'd first developed them she had seem putoff. She was unsettled by their presence and he did not wish to cause her any further discomfort. She was sick enough as it was.

In the first print they were brilliant and orange, even in the last shot of the series where the petals had begun to wilt.

In the newest print they were darkening even in the first shot and by the last there was nothing more than a stalk with some shredded remnants of what had been.

Amy was getting sicker and sicker by the day. If he'd have been a more attentive man, he would have noticed the correspondence between his production of prints and the extent of her illness. But he wasn't, and he didn't.

He walked to the chemical baths and retrieved the negatives from the small manila envelope in which he kept them. He would give them one last print. As he bathed the photo paper in the chemicals he felt a tightening in his stomach. A sort of apprehension. He was so excited by the prospect of some real, preternatural happening that he'd lost his appetite over the past several days and had forgotten to eat anything at all.

When he pulled the newest batch from the baths he was neither surprised nor disturbed by his findings. Each picture showed the stalk of the marigold, barren and curling, until it was no longer in view of his lenses. This had to be some kind of hallucination, had to be in his head. Still, he lined every series up on the floor in a square shaped pattern, watching panel by panel as the flower decayed on film.

He couldn't take it anymore. He had to tell someone. Had to make sure that his mind had not been lost; that he was not the only one witnessing this supernatural entropy caught only on some outdated film.

He ran to the living room to rouse Amy.

Amy, honey, wake up! he whispered loudly.

She was still.

Amy?

She was still.

Amy, sweetie, it's the strangest thing. You've gotta see this. I'm sorry to wake you.

She was still.

Jake was frantic. He shook Amy and put his head to her chest. Grabbed her by the wrist, found nothing and put his first two fingers to her throat.

Amy was dead.

Amy was as dead as the marigold he'd caught on film, and as he held her, he wept, but he could not erase the dying marigold from his mind.

END.

If any of you enjoyed this story, please visit my page at http://www.readwave.com/dashcrowley and take a look at some of my other stories. I swear I'm not just some douche trying to pimp his shit here. I legitimately love FOO FIGHTERS and even moreso NIRVANA. I hope my story did ANY justice to the brilliance of the song that inspired it.

-Dash

Last edited by DashCrowley : October 9th 2014 at 09:12 PM.
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Old October 11th 2014, 12:04 AM
DashCrowley DashCrowley is offline
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Default Re: A Story Inspired By Dave.

No one? Nothing? Not even some heckling? Come on guys. Give us some feedback here.

-Dash
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Old October 17th 2014, 06:48 PM
DashCrowley DashCrowley is offline
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Default Re: A Story Inspired By Dave.

Thank you to everyone who took a look at this.
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Old October 17th 2014, 10:01 PM
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Felipe. Felipe. is offline
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Default Re: A Story Inspired By Dave.

http://bbs.foofighters.com/forumdisplay.php?f=33
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