oh my god dm, i remember the first sad shit thread i didnt watch it cuz i assumed it was about the guy and thought to myself fuck that, i dont get as sad about people as i do animals. this time i watched it all the way through and i fucking bawled my eyes out holy shit that is probably one of the saddest things in here. im a complete sucker for dogs but this one my god.
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oh my god dm, i remember the first sad shit thread i didnt watch it cuz i assumed it was about the guy and thought to myself fuck that, i dont get as sad about people as i do animals. this time i watched it all the way through and i fucking bawled my eyes out holy shit that is probably one of the saddest things in here. im a complete sucker for dogs but this one my god.
I couldn't watch it all the way through, but I got pretty far...
I just had to hit 'x' when I saw that needle <___<
I didn't feel sadness at this, just sheer. fucking. anger.
Seriously. What the fuck.
I just had to hit 'x' when I saw that needle <___<
I didn't feel sadness at this, just sheer. fucking. anger.
Seriously. What the fuck.
seconding. idk why anyone would find this sad, it just really weirded me out
maybe I'm just really nostalgic or something but the end of the first pokemon movie always makes me really sad
A frail old man went to live with his son, daughter-in-law, and four-year old grandson. The old man's hands trembled, his eyesight was blurred, and his step faltered.
The family ate together at the table. But the elderly grandfather's shaky hands and failing sight made eating difficult. Peas rolled off his spoon onto the floor. When he grasped the glass, milk spilled on the tablecloth.
The son and daughter-in-law became irritated with the mess. "We must do something about Grandfather," said the son. I've had enough of his spilled milk, noisy eating, and food on the floor.
So the husband and wife set a small table in the corner. There, Grandfather ate alone while the rest of the family enjoyed dinner. Since Grandfather had broken a dish or two, his food was served in a wooden bowl.
When the family glanced in Grandfather's direction, sometime he had a tear in his eye as he sat alone. Still, the only words the couple had for him were sharp admonitions when he dropped a fork or spilled food.
The four-year-old watched it all in silence. One evening before supper, the father noticed his son playing with wood scraps on the floor. He asked the child sweetly, "What are you making?" Just as sweetly, the boy responded, "Oh, I am making a little bowl for you and Mama to eat your food in when I grow up." The four-year-old smiled and went back to work.
The words so struck the parents so that they were speechless. Then tears started to stream down their cheeks. Though no word was spoken, both knew what must be done.
That evening the husband took Grandfather's hand and gently led him back to the family table. For the remainder of his days he ate every meal with the family. And for some reason, neither husband nor wife seemed to care any longer when a fork was dropped, milk spilled, or the tablecloth soiled.
The family ate together at the table. But the elderly grandfather's shaky hands and failing sight made eating difficult. Peas rolled off his spoon onto the floor. When he grasped the glass, milk spilled on the tablecloth.
The son and daughter-in-law became irritated with the mess. "We must do something about Grandfather," said the son. I've had enough of his spilled milk, noisy eating, and food on the floor.
So the husband and wife set a small table in the corner. There, Grandfather ate alone while the rest of the family enjoyed dinner. Since Grandfather had broken a dish or two, his food was served in a wooden bowl.
When the family glanced in Grandfather's direction, sometime he had a tear in his eye as he sat alone. Still, the only words the couple had for him were sharp admonitions when he dropped a fork or spilled food.
The four-year-old watched it all in silence. One evening before supper, the father noticed his son playing with wood scraps on the floor. He asked the child sweetly, "What are you making?" Just as sweetly, the boy responded, "Oh, I am making a little bowl for you and Mama to eat your food in when I grow up." The four-year-old smiled and went back to work.
The words so struck the parents so that they were speechless. Then tears started to stream down their cheeks. Though no word was spoken, both knew what must be done.
That evening the husband took Grandfather's hand and gently led him back to the family table. For the remainder of his days he ate every meal with the family. And for some reason, neither husband nor wife seemed to care any longer when a fork was dropped, milk spilled, or the tablecloth soiled.
Shock Wave, every one of your posts should be sad, but instead I just find myself angry at how much of a douchebag one or two of the characters is.
This is no exception. Seriously 'Oh my girlfriend is blind, DUMPED', 'My son wrote something on my car, FINGERS DESTROYED' and now 'My father is elderly and weak, EAT IN THE CORNER YOU STUPID OLD MAN'
Jesus fucking christ.
This is no exception. Seriously 'Oh my girlfriend is blind, DUMPED', 'My son wrote something on my car, FINGERS DESTROYED' and now 'My father is elderly and weak, EAT IN THE CORNER YOU STUPID OLD MAN'
Jesus fucking christ.
This just reminded me of my old dog from when I was younger. I used to talk to him about everything too, and we had so much fun together. I was on the verge of tears when I read this
I... I must be terrible, but this comic had me burst out laughing. For a good while.
http://img403.imageshack.us/img403/6517/41838329.jpg
But then I felt bad by the end. But still. That had me laughing.
http://img403.imageshack.us/img403/6517/41838329.jpg
But then I felt bad by the end. But still. That had me laughing.
Completely true, but the first one was still so awful. When I read the car one, I just thought that the dad deserved to feel like the biggest asshole in the world because he kind of was the biggest asshole in the world
I havent shed a tear in a couple of years.... thanks wer (and thanks whoever posted the animal crossing one)
Btw, im also sad that this isnt already on Greatest Hits
Btw, im also sad that this isnt already on Greatest Hits
I just listen to K by Bump of Chicken and wow that was powerful. It was really sad, but it isn't the depressing saddest, it's triumphant.......
Also the ending of Toy Story 3 ;_; I have watched it like 5 times and I still cry at the end....
And Stephen King's "The Mist" is really depressing. The movie as a whole isn't, but the ending is just messed up. It tore me up for days......
Also the ending of Toy Story 3 ;_; I have watched it like 5 times and I still cry at the end....
And Stephen King's "The Mist" is really depressing. The movie as a whole isn't, but the ending is just messed up. It tore me up for days......
The mist is the greatest thriller ever made for the simple fact that the ending is just plain beautiful. A piece of art.
Most of the stuff in this thread is straight up depressing, damn.
On the subject of sad movies, Grave of the Fireflies gets me every time. As does Life is Beautiful, for that matter. Really reminds you about the important things in life.
On the subject of sad movies, Grave of the Fireflies gets me every time. As does Life is Beautiful, for that matter. Really reminds you about the important things in life.
I thought Life is Beautiful would be a comedy the first time a watched it, so happy and ladidaa the first half.
And YES, Grave of the Fireflies gets me everytime too. It has been mentioned before in this thread and it rightfully does so
this thread is meant to be sad
liking this thread is sad
i think i see something
liking this thread is sad
i think i see something
Here you go! :D
Probably the same douchebag in every one of Shockwave's posts. Guy's girlfriend goes blind, dies, so he gets a new one and gets married, sees son making bowl, cuts his fingers off.
I'm sorry but I was laughing while reading this.
Made me laugh so hard.
For those of you who want to see the cute kitten to make you happy again:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uilt0kyKROI&feature=related
Oh my God that movie... so damn sad.
The saddest story of all time (in my book) still has to be The Scarlet Ibis by James Hurst. It's a short story book we had to read in 9/10th grade, those bastards can be cruel :P.
Summer was dead, but autumn had not yet been born when the ibis came to the bleeding tree. It's strange that all this is so clear to me, now that time has had its way. But sometimes (like right now) I sit in the cool green parlor, and I remember Doodle.
Doodle was about the craziest brother a boy ever had. Doodle was born when I was seven and was, from the start, a disappointment. He seemed all head, with a tiny body that was red and shriveled like an old man's. Everybody thought he was going to die.
Daddy had the carpenter build a little coffin, and when he was three months old, Mama and Daddy named him William Armstrong. Such a name sounds good only on a tombstone.
When he crawled on the rug, he crawled backward, as if he were in reverse and couldn't change gears. This made him look like a doodlebug, so I began calling him 'Doodle.' Renaming my brother was probably the kindest thing I ever did for him, because nobody expects much from someone called Doodle.
Daddy built him a cart and I had to pull him around. If I so much as picked up my hat, he'd start crying to go with me; and Mama would call from wherever she was, "Take Doodle with you."
So I dragged him across the cotton field to share the beauty of Old Woman Swamp. I lifted him out and sat him down in the soft grass. He began to cry.
"What's the matter?"
"It's so pretty, Brother, so pretty."
After that, Doodle and I often went down to Old Woman Swamp.
There is inside me (and with sadness I have seen it in others) a knot of cruelty borne by the stream of love. And at times I was mean to Doodle. One time I showed him his casket, telling him how we all believed he would die. When I made him touch the casket, he screamed. And even when we were outside in the bright sunshine he clung to me, crying, "Don't leave me, Brother! Don't leave me!"
Doodle was five years old when I turned 13. I was embarrassed at having a brother of that age who couldn't walk, so I set out to teach him. We were down in Old Woman Swamp. "I'm going to teach you to walk, Doodle," I said.
"Why?"
"So I won't have to haul you around all the time."
"I can't walk, Brother."
"Who says so?"
"Mama, the doctor–everybody."
"Oh, you can walk." I took him by the arms and stood him up. He collapsed on to the grass like a half-empty flour sack. It was as if his little legs had no bones.
"Don't hurt me, Brother."
"Shut up. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm going to teach you to walk." I heaved him up again, and he collapsed.
"I just can't do it."
"Oh, yes, you can, Doodle. All you got to do is try. Now come on," and I hauled him up once more.
It seemed so hopeless that it's a miracle I didn't give up. But all of us must have something to be proud of, and Doodle had become my something.
Finally one day he stood alone for a few seconds. When he fell, I grabbed him in my arms and hugged him, our laughter ringing through the swamp like a bell. Now we knew it could be done.
We decided not to tell anyone until he was actually walking. At breakfast on our chosen day I brought Doodle to the door in the cart. I helped Doodle up; and when he was standing alone, I let them look. There wasn't a sound as Doodle walked slowly across the room and sat down at the table. Then Mama began to cry and ran over to him, hugging him and kissing him. Daddy hugged him, too. Doodle told them it was I who had taught him to walk, so they wanted to hug me, and I began to cry.
"What are you crying for?" asked Daddy, but I couldn't answer. They didn't know that I did it just for myself, that Doodle walked only because I was ashamed of having a crippled brother.
Within a few months, Doodle had learned to walk well. Since I had succeeded in teaching Doodle to walk, I began to believe in my own infallibility. I decided to teach him to run, to row, to swim, to climb trees, and to fight. Now he, too, believed in me; so, we set a deadline when Doodle could start school.
But Doodle couldn't keep up with the plan. Once, he collapsed on the ground and began to cry.
"Aw, come on, Doodle. You can do it. Do you want to be different from everybody else when you start school?"
"Does that make any difference?"
"It certainly does. Now, come on."
And so we came to those days when summer was dead but autumn had not yet been born. It was Saturday noon, just a few days before the start of school. Daddy, Mama, Doodle, and I were seated at the dining room table, having lunch. Suddenly from out in the yard came a strange croaking noise. Doodle stopped eating. "What's that?" He slipped out into the yard, and looked up into the bleeding tree. "It's a big red bird!"
Mama and Daddy came out. On the topmost branch perched a bird the size of a chicken, with scarlet feathers and long legs.
At that moment, the bird began to flutter. It tumbled down through the bleeding tree and landed at our feet with a thud. Its graceful neck jerked twice and then straightened out, and the bird was still. It lay on the earth like a broken vase of red flowers, and even death could not mar its beauty.
"What is it?" Doodle asked.
"It's a scarlet ibis," Daddy said.
Sadly, we all looked at the bird. How many miles had it traveled to die like this, in our yard, beneath the bleeding tree?
Doodle knelt beside the ibis. "I'm going to bury him."
As soon as I had finished eating, Doodle and I hurried off to Horsehead Landing. It was time for a swimming lesson, but Doodle said he was too tired. When we reached Horsehead landing, lightning was flashing across half the sky, and thunder was drowning out the sound of the sea.
Doodle was both tired and frightened. He slipped on the mud and fell. I helped him up, and he smiled at me ashamedly. He had failed and we both knew it. He would never be like the other boys at school.
We started home, trying to beat the storm. The lightning was near now. The faster I walked, the faster he walked, so I began to run.
The rain came, roaring through the pines. And then, like a bursting Roman candle, a gum tree ahead of us was shattered by a bolt of lightning. When the deafening thunder had died, I heard Doodle cry out, "Brother, Brother, don't leave me! Don't leave me!"
The knowledge that our plans had come to nothing was bitter, and that streak of cruelty within me awakened. I ran as fast as I could, leaving him far behind with a wall of rain dividing us. Soon I could hear his voice no more.
I stopped and waited for Doodle. The sound of rain was everywhere, but the wind had died and it fell straight down like ropes hanging from the sky.
I peered through the downpour, but no one came. Finally I went back and found him huddled beneath a red nightshade bush beside the road. He was sitting on the ground, his face buried in his arms, which were resting on drawn-up knees. "Let's go, Doodle."
He didn't answer so I gently lifted his head. He toppled backward onto the earth. He had been bleeding from the mouth, and his neck and the front of his shirt were stained a brilliant red.
"Doodle, Doodle." There was no answer but the ropy rain. I began to weep, and the tear-blurred vision in red before me looked very familiar. "Doodle!" I screamed above the pounding storm and threw my body to the earth above his. For a long time, it seemed forever, I lay there crying, sheltering my fallen scarlet ibis
Doodle was about the craziest brother a boy ever had. Doodle was born when I was seven and was, from the start, a disappointment. He seemed all head, with a tiny body that was red and shriveled like an old man's. Everybody thought he was going to die.
Daddy had the carpenter build a little coffin, and when he was three months old, Mama and Daddy named him William Armstrong. Such a name sounds good only on a tombstone.
When he crawled on the rug, he crawled backward, as if he were in reverse and couldn't change gears. This made him look like a doodlebug, so I began calling him 'Doodle.' Renaming my brother was probably the kindest thing I ever did for him, because nobody expects much from someone called Doodle.
Daddy built him a cart and I had to pull him around. If I so much as picked up my hat, he'd start crying to go with me; and Mama would call from wherever she was, "Take Doodle with you."
So I dragged him across the cotton field to share the beauty of Old Woman Swamp. I lifted him out and sat him down in the soft grass. He began to cry.
"What's the matter?"
"It's so pretty, Brother, so pretty."
After that, Doodle and I often went down to Old Woman Swamp.
There is inside me (and with sadness I have seen it in others) a knot of cruelty borne by the stream of love. And at times I was mean to Doodle. One time I showed him his casket, telling him how we all believed he would die. When I made him touch the casket, he screamed. And even when we were outside in the bright sunshine he clung to me, crying, "Don't leave me, Brother! Don't leave me!"
Doodle was five years old when I turned 13. I was embarrassed at having a brother of that age who couldn't walk, so I set out to teach him. We were down in Old Woman Swamp. "I'm going to teach you to walk, Doodle," I said.
"Why?"
"So I won't have to haul you around all the time."
"I can't walk, Brother."
"Who says so?"
"Mama, the doctor–everybody."
"Oh, you can walk." I took him by the arms and stood him up. He collapsed on to the grass like a half-empty flour sack. It was as if his little legs had no bones.
"Don't hurt me, Brother."
"Shut up. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm going to teach you to walk." I heaved him up again, and he collapsed.
"I just can't do it."
"Oh, yes, you can, Doodle. All you got to do is try. Now come on," and I hauled him up once more.
It seemed so hopeless that it's a miracle I didn't give up. But all of us must have something to be proud of, and Doodle had become my something.
Finally one day he stood alone for a few seconds. When he fell, I grabbed him in my arms and hugged him, our laughter ringing through the swamp like a bell. Now we knew it could be done.
We decided not to tell anyone until he was actually walking. At breakfast on our chosen day I brought Doodle to the door in the cart. I helped Doodle up; and when he was standing alone, I let them look. There wasn't a sound as Doodle walked slowly across the room and sat down at the table. Then Mama began to cry and ran over to him, hugging him and kissing him. Daddy hugged him, too. Doodle told them it was I who had taught him to walk, so they wanted to hug me, and I began to cry.
"What are you crying for?" asked Daddy, but I couldn't answer. They didn't know that I did it just for myself, that Doodle walked only because I was ashamed of having a crippled brother.
Within a few months, Doodle had learned to walk well. Since I had succeeded in teaching Doodle to walk, I began to believe in my own infallibility. I decided to teach him to run, to row, to swim, to climb trees, and to fight. Now he, too, believed in me; so, we set a deadline when Doodle could start school.
But Doodle couldn't keep up with the plan. Once, he collapsed on the ground and began to cry.
"Aw, come on, Doodle. You can do it. Do you want to be different from everybody else when you start school?"
"Does that make any difference?"
"It certainly does. Now, come on."
And so we came to those days when summer was dead but autumn had not yet been born. It was Saturday noon, just a few days before the start of school. Daddy, Mama, Doodle, and I were seated at the dining room table, having lunch. Suddenly from out in the yard came a strange croaking noise. Doodle stopped eating. "What's that?" He slipped out into the yard, and looked up into the bleeding tree. "It's a big red bird!"
Mama and Daddy came out. On the topmost branch perched a bird the size of a chicken, with scarlet feathers and long legs.
At that moment, the bird began to flutter. It tumbled down through the bleeding tree and landed at our feet with a thud. Its graceful neck jerked twice and then straightened out, and the bird was still. It lay on the earth like a broken vase of red flowers, and even death could not mar its beauty.
"What is it?" Doodle asked.
"It's a scarlet ibis," Daddy said.
Sadly, we all looked at the bird. How many miles had it traveled to die like this, in our yard, beneath the bleeding tree?
Doodle knelt beside the ibis. "I'm going to bury him."
As soon as I had finished eating, Doodle and I hurried off to Horsehead Landing. It was time for a swimming lesson, but Doodle said he was too tired. When we reached Horsehead landing, lightning was flashing across half the sky, and thunder was drowning out the sound of the sea.
Doodle was both tired and frightened. He slipped on the mud and fell. I helped him up, and he smiled at me ashamedly. He had failed and we both knew it. He would never be like the other boys at school.
We started home, trying to beat the storm. The lightning was near now. The faster I walked, the faster he walked, so I began to run.
The rain came, roaring through the pines. And then, like a bursting Roman candle, a gum tree ahead of us was shattered by a bolt of lightning. When the deafening thunder had died, I heard Doodle cry out, "Brother, Brother, don't leave me! Don't leave me!"
The knowledge that our plans had come to nothing was bitter, and that streak of cruelty within me awakened. I ran as fast as I could, leaving him far behind with a wall of rain dividing us. Soon I could hear his voice no more.
I stopped and waited for Doodle. The sound of rain was everywhere, but the wind had died and it fell straight down like ropes hanging from the sky.
I peered through the downpour, but no one came. Finally I went back and found him huddled beneath a red nightshade bush beside the road. He was sitting on the ground, his face buried in his arms, which were resting on drawn-up knees. "Let's go, Doodle."
He didn't answer so I gently lifted his head. He toppled backward onto the earth. He had been bleeding from the mouth, and his neck and the front of his shirt were stained a brilliant red.
"Doodle, Doodle." There was no answer but the ropy rain. I began to weep, and the tear-blurred vision in red before me looked very familiar. "Doodle!" I screamed above the pounding storm and threw my body to the earth above his. For a long time, it seemed forever, I lay there crying, sheltering my fallen scarlet ibis
The Scarlet Ibis is a story of two brothers, the narrator, whose name is not given but is simply referred to as "Brother" by his younger sibling, and "Doodle". Doodle is born a very sickly child who isn't expected to live. His brother wanted someone who could run and jump and play with him, but instead he got the fragile Doodle; this makes him angry. Determined to make Doodle into the brother he wants, Brother pushes him constantly, past the point of physical endurance; he is often cruel to him, even making him touch the coffin that was originally built for him as a baby. Doodle does learn a lot from Brother, but this comes at a high price.
Eventually, at the age of six, he even learns to walk. Enlightened by this, the brother decides to teach him how to run, climb vines, swim, and even fight to prepare him for school. However, almost a year after the plan was made, and the deadline was almost up, Doodle was still far from the original plans.
One day, a big red bird appears in the garden, looking sick and tired. The boys' father identifies it as a Scarlet ibis, a tropical bird that must have been blown off course because of a recent storm. When the bird suddenly dies, Doodle, pitying the creature, decides to bury it. Afterwards, the boys go down to Horsehead Landing, a nearby swamp. On their way back to the house Brother has Doodle practice rowing. A sudden rainstorm comes, and when they reach the riverbank Doodle is tired and frightened. Brother runs ahead of Doodle, leaving him behind in the pouring rain. Brother is angry that Doodle can't finish "training" before school starts. Brother soon returns for Doodle, only to find that he is sitting next to a red-berried bush with blood flowing out of his mouth, staining his throat and shirt red. He had died like the Scarlet Ibis. Brother cries with regret for what he had done.
Eventually, at the age of six, he even learns to walk. Enlightened by this, the brother decides to teach him how to run, climb vines, swim, and even fight to prepare him for school. However, almost a year after the plan was made, and the deadline was almost up, Doodle was still far from the original plans.
One day, a big red bird appears in the garden, looking sick and tired. The boys' father identifies it as a Scarlet ibis, a tropical bird that must have been blown off course because of a recent storm. When the bird suddenly dies, Doodle, pitying the creature, decides to bury it. Afterwards, the boys go down to Horsehead Landing, a nearby swamp. On their way back to the house Brother has Doodle practice rowing. A sudden rainstorm comes, and when they reach the riverbank Doodle is tired and frightened. Brother runs ahead of Doodle, leaving him behind in the pouring rain. Brother is angry that Doodle can't finish "training" before school starts. Brother soon returns for Doodle, only to find that he is sitting next to a red-berried bush with blood flowing out of his mouth, staining his throat and shirt red. He had died like the Scarlet Ibis. Brother cries with regret for what he had done.