Grandma incest stories

Grandma Incest Stories

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Grandma incest stories

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At least that's how it seemed to me. I don't know why I called her Granny Kay, for Granny Kay was not at all my Granny; not at all anyone's Granny so far as I knew, but for as long as I can remember Granny Kay had been Granny Kay by name, unless in her presence, in which case I'd come to understand that one should call her Mrs.

It was true that mum did suggest I say hello on her behalf, but that was as far back as I can remember.

Nowadays, when I tell her that I've been to see Granny Kay, mum only nods her head and changes the subject, but I thought it only polite to continue to mention that mum was asking after her.

I will," I said, my eyes moving to the door which barred the entrance to a room that most likely had never heard laughter at Christmas, whose skirting boards had never felt the bump of a misguided Tonka truck, a room whose doors remained tightly shut, undamaged and unmarked by the pen-knives of growing children.

Now, as always, it was closed tight, with the addition of a rolled up towel on the floor in front of it to stop draughts.

I would mention Granny Kay's request to mum, but I knew mum would never come to visit. Somewhere in the past mum and Granny Kay had been good friends, but for reasons I'll never know, all that had been spoiled.

Lifting my eyes from the rolled up towel I disclosed the sole purpose of my visit. Dud matches were a great source of fun in those days.

A couple of boxes of dud matches, a bit of dirt by the curb and two or three of your newest Hot Wheels and an afternoon was never long enough.

Wooden cabins could be built with dud matches, Roads could be constructed. Ranches with Corrals could appear out of nowhere.

It didn't matter that the Seventh Cavalry were the good guys, with the German army, as always, being the baddies; a few of Robin Hood's Merry Men making up the shortfall.

It didn't matter that the Germans had a Confederate cannon, or that the British army were using a Morris Minor for a tank; somehow it all fell into place with the dud matches and Granny Kay was my only supplier.

Almost as if she had expected my request, Granny Kay turned with a toothless smile and produced three small boxes in the palm of an almost skeletal hand.

I will," I replied, picking each box carefully from the old woman's hand. She leaned forward then, her double stringed necklace of blue and green glass rasping in front of my face.

Granny Kay sat back, nodding knowingly even before I had answered. Her ancient mouth opened with a silent chuckle.

Leaning forward once more, the necklace rasping in front of my sweater, Granny Kay relayed information that even PC Quigley ought not to know, "You were picking brambles in the quarry!

I could feel my face redden, even before Granny Kay had rested her old back against the wooden chair. The quarry was a forbidden place, a place mum had often told us to keep away from -- so heaven help us.

One step too far and over you would go into Dead Man's Pool. Dead Man's Pool was a deep, dark body of stagnant water at the foot of the sheer cliff face.

Not to mock Granny Kay's warning, but just then I thought of how Me and Wiggy and Sticks had often leaned over the edge of the three hundred foot quarry, launching spits onto the skeletal remains of sheep that had not been as careful as us.

Sticks wiped his nose on the cuff of his sweater, as if to affirm the statement that followed. Granny Kay was waiting for an answer.

Turning from the window I said, "But I wasn't alone. They followed again as I moved my eyes back to hers. Not that I'd ever utter what thoughts ran through my head, but Granny Kay's eyes were faster than the eyes of Jesus on mum's bedroom wall.

The rose made a kissing sound and Granny Kay said, "Do you like to pick brambles, Peter? Granny Kay nodded knowingly, the smiling lips drawn into her toothless jowls.

Mum once made jam with rhubarb, but I don't think I've ever seen a rhubarb pie. At that, Granny Kay rose from the chair, the string knit shawl slipping from her back as she reached and shut off the oven.

I followed Granny Kay out of the house, my own two feet stomping on slab after slab, crack after crack in perfect unison to the big blue slippers under the old red coat, lavender and mothballs.

And swing your arms while you're at it. My heavens, what a boy! We moved quickly along Wallace Street, stopping only a time or two for Granny Kay to have a cheery hello to what she called some of her fellow old fogies.

A chortle of laughter to old Mr. Kelly, a promise of tea and a chat to Hazel Joyce and we'd resume our steady pace.

I wouldn't say I had a hard time keeping up with her, but Granny Kay managed to have me take a few big steps as we rounded into the Terraced houses of Castle Lane.

Towards the end of the path stood an old man in brown trousers, a white shirt and, strangely enough, an orange sleeveless cardigan. I knew him, of course.

Everyone knew Hobo Hobson. Not for any particularly bad reason though. It was just that, unlike Granny Kay, Hobo was often seen in some of the oddest places.

It was not unusual to bump into him at the sandpits or strolling in gypsy's park. Pretty strange, really, for someone to be there and not have a dog to walk.

It all made sense though, when Sticks informed us that his dad says old Hobson was a certified tinker. Right now, Hobo Hobson was hoeing between the flowers, the shiny silver blade turning over dirt that looked like black sawdust.

He turned as the latch on the swinging gate chinked back into place. Have you went and adopted a wee laddie? Can you no' see this is Jimmy Gibson's wee fellah.

So it is," Hobo said, a mark of incredulity in his voice, "and see how he's grown, so he has. It suddenly dawned on me that Sticks was wrong about Hobo Hobson being a tinker.

I was an idiot to believe him in the first place, an idiot to believe him in many of the things he said, like the Greyhounds at the foot of Dead Man's Pool.

But when Sticks raps you on the head with a knuckled fist, or cracks you on your forehead with his own, insisting that such and such is so; you sort of tend not to argue the matter.

Right now, if it were possible to hide behind Granny Kay I would do so. But as this was impossible, seeing as I was positioned in front of her, I chose instead to gaze resolutely onto the flower beds, feeling strangely at odds in the company of a man I had taken for a tinker, a man who, as it turned out, not only lived in this nice house, but was also a really good gardener and a baker of rhubarb pies.

Hobson removed a red cloth from his pocket and began to wipe meticulously on the silver-headed hoe. There are moments in my lifetime that my mind still replays, and one of the most memorable moments was that afternoon in Mr.

Even better would be to throw away all of her lottery tickets, but I knew better. Nothing came between my grandmother and her love of gambling.

With her mouth open and eyes glazed, she drank Diet Pepsi and chain smoked as she tapped her darkened fingernails against the buttons.

My mother met a nice man and married him in February, For the first time, I had my own bedroom and bathroom. Then on Christmas Eve of , my grandmother came home from work to find her things scattered on the icy front lawn and an eviction notice taped to the door.

My grandmother moved into my bedroom that weekend. What remained of her life was stuffed into plastic grocery sacks. My grandmother had quit drinking, but she took long pulls from that bottle before bed.

I spent the next four years sleeping on the floor and growing to hate her. I had dreams of being a writer.

You came in this house last night glowing like a lightning bug. For my sixteenth birthday my mother and grandmother promised me a sleepover.

When the day finally came, I raced home and flung open the door only to find her sitting on the bed.

She hovered on the outskirts of the party, entering the bedroom because she had forgotten something. At one point, she stumbled into our bathroom.

Her Benadryl had worked its magic because she proceeded to urinate with the force of a Thoroughbred. At school the next day, word spread about my crazy grandmother.

When I sat down at lunch, my friends picked up their trays and moved to a new table. For the next two weeks, I secretly laughed every time she brushed her teeth.

My grandmother bought a trailer and moved out shortly before I turned eighteen. I celebrated by sleeping naked in a new set of bed sheets, but soon I found I was behaving like her.

Doing laundry meant dousing a t-shirt in perfume and popping it in the dryer. I leave food containers just lying out. Meanwhile, my grandmother was leaving us.

She swore to get more exercise, to eat better, to stop smoking. The oxygen tank hissed as she drew breath from the cord looped over her ears.

The last time we spoke was on my twenty-sixth birthday. Three months later, my grandmother was found dead in her mobile home. While we waited for the attendants to take her body, my brother sat on the ground picking at his cuticles, his hat pulled low.

My mother walked in slow circles. I bowed my head so my hair covered my eyes. She placed her hand on the door knob then took it off before turning back to me.

She hates to be cold. I touched everything with my fingertips, ashamed that even now I was squeamish around her things.

But its petals remained long after the others faded and dropped. It Was a Sunday by Richard Zamora. We're looking for stories of how addiction or recovery has affected you, your family, your street, your town.

But also stories from doctors about treating patients in America. From officers confronting drug trafficking.

My body began to Bi curious women chat and melt in his hugs. I called her my best friend. Through the arch I could see a miniature pool and fountain. That's what Granny Kay called it an affliction. In Girl giving guy hand job homes, usually men are not allowed to enter the kitchen since it is the women's area.

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