Cowardice

She

Was

Just

So

Unbelievably

Beautiful.

From the second she stepped into my life, she snatched my attention

Like a comic book convention captures fans

And I was her biggest one.

Because at her name's slightest mention

I'd imagine her face in all its perfection

And suddenly, BAM.

An extension in the length of my p-

Pencil lead, you perverts.

Night Terrors

At first, we thought someone broke into our house. On the first night it happened, my wife and I were jolted awake by a deafening boom and screams from Jonathan's bedroom. Panicking, we burst into his room and saw toppled furniture and dented walls. On the floor were clothes and shattered glass from a picture frame that fell off a nightstand. And in the corner of the room sat Jonathan. His face deathly pale and his eyes wide open, mortified. His knuckles dripped blood which stained his bedroom floor. And his fingers pointed to something inside of his closet.

Paranoid Pat and the War Pigeon

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Steady breaths. Steady breaths.

Pat controlled his breathing as he walked briskly down the sidewalk. Sweat dripped from his head and his heart raced from nervousness. His vision darted around at the suburban houses on either side of him, fearfully scouting for murderers, or snipers, or axe-wielding maniacs. Every time he heard a car approaching behind him, he would look over his shoulder, in case that driver planned on running him over. 

His eyes met with a neighbors, who, while watering his front lawn, smiled and took his right hand out of his pocket. Pat froze momentarily, anticipating his neighbor to pull out a gun, or a throwing knife, or a really, really sharp boomerang. But his neighbor just gave him a wave. Drenched in sweat, Pat walked faster and faster home.

Pat reached a four-way intersection, where he stopped. He glanced to his left, then his right, then his left again, making sure that there wasn't a single car in sight for miles. He was about to cross when he noticed two pigeons standing across from him on the other side of the street.

(Untitled)

(Psst: Looking for a title? Hit "CTRL+F" or "CMD+F" to quick search!)

Asterisks = Author's Favorites. Brackets: Genre

Titles in Alphabetical Order:

*12 Billion Eyes [Drama]
A Realistic Fighting Cartoon [Prose, Experimental]
Ad Council [Humor]
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and the Pillsbury Dough Boy [Humor]
*Alight Romance [Romance]
All You Wanted Was a Cookie. [Humor]
Alone Again [TO COME LATER]
Another Misguided Lamb [Humor]
AT&T VS. TMOBILE [Humor, Fanfic?]
*Blood Trails [Humor, Drama]
Brandchael [Humor]
Bunny Cafe [Humor, Murder Mystery]
The Bus is Late [Humor]
Chunks (It's About a Lesbian That Eats Her Own Vomit) [Humor]
*Cookie Clicker: The Movie [Humor, Script]
The Corner of Carl's Jr. [Humor]
Crab People [Humor]
Ephemeral [TO COME LATER]
*Fladeboe [Xkybo]
The Hash-Slinging Slasher [Horror]
*Hi [Horror]
Himchan Miracle Story [Humor]
Hotel Apocalypse [Humor]
I Gotta Feeling [Humor]
Joker&Bane: Friends4lyfe [Humor, Fanfic]
Mecha-Hitler 2.0: The Infinity Reich [Humor, Sci-Fi]
Megan's Adventure [Humor]
Mint Chocolate Sushi [Humor]
Mushroom Soup [Horror]
*Naruto [Humor, Fanfic]
Only You Can Prevent Wildfires [Humor]
*Oscar [Humor]
Paper Trails [TO COME LATER]
*Samuri the Last [Humor]
Story Title [Humor]
Superman Loves the Sun [Humor]
Tales from the Mushroom Forest
Unrecognizable [Humor]
*The Wonderful World of Wombats [Humor, Informational]
Author's Note

On the Threshold of Life and Death

And I'm dead. In the center of my school's quad, I lay on the ground, bleeding while everyone around me panicked from the sudden noise of a gun going off.

It didn't hurt, save for the split second when the bullet pierced the roof of my mouth. Strangely, even though I'm still fully conscious, I can't feel the pain of the shot. I can feel the cold gunmetal in my hands, I can feel the side of my body touching the rough concrete ground, I can even hear the sobs of the other students. But I can't feel the pain of the shot.

I heard it's because of a survival mechanism, where if we get hurt suddenly, chemicals rush into our brain and we won't feel pain for awhile so we can get away from whatever's attacking us. I guess that makes sense.

Interesting thing, suicide. Movies always show it as instantaneous. One second, you're alive. The next, bam. Eternal darkness. Or an afterlife, reincarnation, whatever. But the truth is, nobody really knows how long it takes for your consciousness to die. So I'm just as surprised as you that I can still see what's happening around me. I can still hear what people are saying. I can still feel the blood dripping from my mouth. I can taste it too. I hate it.

The bullet tore through my brain. My heart stopped beating a long, long time ago. But my consciousness still lingers. On the threshold of life and death, my consciousness still lingers.

Trapped in Sharknado

"Wait, wait, wait, slow down, Richard," Doyle interrupted Richard mid-sentence. Richard panted, exhausted from the two-block sprint he just ran from his house to Doyle's. "You made a what?"

"It's a DVD player that puts you in whatever DVD you play in it," Richard gasped in between breaths. Basil entered the living room with a coffee mug in his hand. He took a small sip, recoiled from the heat of the drink, and blew into the coffee to cool it down.

"How'd you do that?" Doyle asked as he leaned forward to grab a slice of pizza on his living room table.

"Do what?" Basil asked while blowing into his mug. Richard sighed, but the other two mistook his sigh as heavy breathing from exhaustion.

"He made a DVD player that puts you in the universe of whatever DVD you play on it," Doyle explained, chewing with his mouth open.

"Seriously? Like inside the universe? Can you interact with everything?" Basil asked

"Yes!" Richard exclaimed as he threw his arms up and fell back on the couch's backrest. "You can interact with everyone and everything! You can even change the storyline!" Doyle did a fist pump.

"YES. Let's go try it out! I'll go grab a few DVDs," Doyle said as he ran to his bedroom.

Clarence Porter: Urban Survivor

Clarence was awakened by the sound of crickets chirping beside his ear. Startled, his eyelids burst open and immediately clamped shut from the intensity of the sunrise. A long blade of grass, nudged by the wind, reached over the top of Clarence's head and fiddle-tickled his nose. He sniffled one. Then twice.

And a cricked jumped up from the ground and onto his lips as Clarence let off the single most powerful sneeze known to man. The cricket was not only killed, it was vaporized, since it's a well-known fact that crickets aren't designed to travel in speeds excess of Mach 10.

Clarence stood up and licked the cricket guts from his face. He needed all the protein he could get if he wanted to make it out of the plains and into the big city before sundown. He picked up his backpack and camera and started walking towards the figure of a city in the distance. He pointed the camera to his own face and hit record.

"I'm Clarence Porter. And I'm gonna teach you how to survive in the world's most dangerous artificial habitats. Our next stop: Chicago, Illinois."

Spooky School: A Choose Your Own Adventure

You and your best friend, Sam, are at your house on a calm summer Wednesday in suburban San Diego. You casually browse the Internet for interesting things to do locally, but have yet to find anything. Sam lies face up on your bed, casually tossing a ball up and down.

You hear the gentle ding of a phone chime. It's Sam's. Sam picks it up and checks the text that just arrived.

"Hey!" Sam exclaims, "There's a haunted school tour going on later tonight! Doesn't that sound awesome?"

"Eh... I don't know, haunted things are always filled with cheap scares and people with masks."

"Nah, but this one's different! It's a genuine haunted location, with murders and screams and a gigantic maze-like school from the 17th century!"

You seriously doubt that there's a school from the 17th century in San Diego. But Sam does look incredibly excited and there is nothing else to do today. So... you make your choice.

Morning Never Comes: An SCP Inspired Tale

Item #: SCP-1363

Classification: Euclid

Special Containment Procedures: An instance of SCP-1363 is to be contained in the center of a chamber with dimensions 30 m x 30 m x 30m. An incinerator is to be placed in one corner of the room. Prior to entry to the room, all traditional writing surfaces (papers, whiteboards, etc.) must be removed. Once a month, a single piece of paper is to be "fed" to SCP-1363 by placing it within 20 meters of SCP-1363 and left for an hour, followed by immediate incineration. All personnel interacting with SCP-1363 are to be given a Class-C amnesiac immediately after interaction, followed by a week of thorough psychological analysis.

Description: SCP-1363 is a free verse poem titled "Morning Never Comes," written by ███████ ████████ and is composed of one stanza with twenty-six (26) lines. SCP-1363's exact date of composition is unknown. The earliest discovered instance of SCP-1363 is on a parchment estimated to have been created during the early 16th century, though older, undiscovered instances of SCP-1363 are likely.

Instances of SCP-1363 have the ability to spread to other materials exclusively purposed for writing within 20 meters of it, usually creating another instance within 30 minutes to an hour of being in its proximity. SCP-1363's spreading ability seems to be bounded only by its 20 meter range and not by any physical barriers between it and the new surface. It has been observed creating new instances despite being separated from the new material by solid iron walls, glass, and even a vacuum. New instances created by display identical spreading properties, essentially spreading like a virus. Instances have commonly been observed on notebooks, book margins, chalkboards, whiteboards, papyrus, and stone tablets.

SCP-1363 instances also exhibit a "hunger-like" quality when unable to spread to other writing materials for more than two months. SCP-1363's hunger seem to increase the materials that SCP-1363 can embed itself on. While hungry, instances have been observed on leaves, concrete walls, and even [DATA EXPUNGED], but materials are always within 20 meters of the original instance. The papers and other materials that hold instances of SCP-1363 are not anomalous and can be destroyed normally.

When an unedited version of SCP-1363 is read in its entirety, readers begin to feel a lingering sense of fear and paranoia, but only when consciously thinking about SCP-1363 or any fragments of the original poem, including its title. With every subsequent recollection of SCP-1363, victims experience more intense feelings of fear. Common effects of SCP-1363 include:

• Sudden drops in ambient temperatures.
• Goosebumps.
• General uneasiness and discomfort.
• A feeling of being constantly watched.
• Perceived rapid movement in peripheral vision.
• Anxiety attacks.
• Insomnia.
• Sudden bursts of irritability.
• Visual, auditory, and tactile hallucinations.
• Suicidal tendencies.

To date, roughly 45% of victims exposed to SCP-1363 committed suicide within a year of initial exposure, while 80% of total victims suffer from severe psychological trauma. Times between initial exposure and suicide vary from subject to subject. Shortest recorded time until suicide: 6 days. Longest recorded time: 37 years.

SCP-1363 was discovered on ████████ ██, 20██, after a local news station in █████ █████, ██ reported a mass suicide of students attending a local school, attracting Foundation attention. Mobile Task Force Zeta-6 (aka "School Boys") was sent to investigate. Ten instances of SCP-1363 was acquired for analysis, all other instances discovered were destroyed. Class-B amnesiacs were applied to the entire town and the school was demolished. See Incident 1363-01.

A Dae With Daehyun

Christina held the laminated concert badge in her hand, which read "B.A.P all-access VIP pass" along with a few pictures of the members of B.A.P on the front. Yongguk, Himchan, Youngjae, Jongup, Zelo, they were all there, in strange yet seductive poses, or at least seductive to Christina. She still couldn't believe that she won the pass in a boxing contest, pulling off a come-from-behind victory in the 32nd round against a seven-foot tall, steroid abusing, sexually frustrated lady that went by the name of "Shalilian."

How did she win the badge? Because of her sheer strength? No, she was actually quite weak. Determination? Almost.

Love. She won because of her love for B.A.P, unmatched by any other. As she held on to the badge attached to the black B.A.P lanyard wrapped around her neck, she glanced at all the members posing on her badge, but really only looked at one person.

Daehyun. She loved Daehyun.

The Purge

12 hours. That's all we have to endure. Once a year, every year, we have to make it through one night. Twelve hours. That's all.

Because once a year, every year, all crime is legal in America. All crime, including murder. Especially murder. There will be no government intervention, no police, no ambulances, and no firefighters available during the entire night.

Why does this night exist? The government claims that it "purifies" Americans, lets them "vent" their negative emotions.

But that's true only for those who can afford weapons, those who can afford protection, and those who are important enough to be exempt from the killing. Everyone else that doesn't fit into those categories dies.

I can't afford weapons. I can't afford protection. I'm not important to society. And neither is my seven year old daughter.

The Medical Compound

I'm sick. Totally and utterly sick. I've been bedridden for twenty days now, and there's no sign of recovery any time soon.

I can tell mom's becoming quite worried. She's taken my temperature every two hours. Every meal I've had for the past few weeks had been chicken noodle soup. Every four hours, she replaces the wet rag on my forehead.

It's been relaxing, to be honest, spending day after day watching TV, or surfing the Internet on my laptop, or reading. It really isn't that bad, even though I'm probably never going to recover. You know why?

Because I'm not sick. I'm just a genius. And starting from today, I'm on permanent vacation.

To the Ends of the Earth

October 25, 2024
Time to Impact: One Year

We lay side by side, on a vast emerald field, looking up at the night sky. A gentle wind glided over our thick winter clothes and scarves, running its hand over the fabric to flatten it. Blades of grass swayed with the ebb and flow of the breeze like waves across a viridian beach, occasionally breaking against towering islands of bark and wood. Hand in hand, we floated through a deep green ocean, surrounded by an archipelago of trees that sprinkled their leaves down on us like amber colored confetti, as if celebrating us.

But this was no time for celebration. This was a time for mourning.

Corvus C. Row

Hell yeah. Another day. I was still alive.

The light from the sun woke me up. I slowly got up and stretched lightly to jolt myself awake for what was about to be another day in my life. I turned my neck, cracking the joints as I exhaled in relief. I looked beside me and there was my wife, Brachy, still asleep. She was so hot, and everyone else I knew was so jealous that I married her and they didn't.

I sighed. 

Wait, no. No I didn't. I cawed. As loud as I could. I cawed as I jumped off the tree branch that I slept on all night and flapped my way to the ground, cawing and cawing the entire drop down until at the last possible second, right before I would have turned into a black bloody pulp, I spread my black wings and glided safely to the ground. I pecked the shit out of a worm that I saw crawling on the ground and immediately devoured it. 

"Caw, caw," I screamed at the ground, which meant "The early bird does get the worm" in your language. I said it to taunt the worms beneath the earth, to make them fear for their stupid little lives.

Fear for their stupid little lives because I, Corvus C. Row had awakened. I was a goddamn crow. And I was ready to conquer the world.

Behind Closed Doors

Ten years, I've lived in this house with my parents. I've been allowed to roam the entire house, explore every speck, tile, and corner of every room. I know the exact layout of every room, closet, and bathroom, down to the furniture.

Except for one. A wooden door, exactly the same as the other ones. Painted snow white, with a glossy finish. Cold and smooth to the touch, like a silk curtain. A brass, round doorknob with a small keyhole. Father says to never open it under any circumstances.

But you know... there's nothing as tempting as a locked door.

Night of the Pomeranian

The military truck that we rode in bumped and shook as it drove across the rough terrain. Across from me, ten soldiers, bathed in the truck's red light, stared blankly at the ground, assault rifles held in unsteady hands. Beside me, nine more soldiers in the same state, as if comatose. To my left, the squadron commander smoked a cigar, as if today was just another day.

But it was not another day. This was the single most important battle for the human race, against the most dangerous enemy we've ever encountered. A dense atmosphere of nervousness hovered and slowly choked us all, reminding us that this could easily be our last day alive.

"Gentlemen," our commander started, removing the cigar from his mouth, and we all snapped out of our dazes and looked toward him, "You are humanity's last and greatest hope against this growing epidemic. You are twenty of the bravest men and women I've ever had the privilege of fighting beside with in my twenty years of service. If we survive, each and every one of your names will go down in history."

He stood up. "Remember your training. One bite is all it takes. No matter what they look like, no matter how much you recognize them, remember that their real personalities are gone. They're just hollow bodies, waiting to be killed. Do not hesitate. Do not react to them. Just shoot. And above all..."

The commander extinguished his cigar on the palm of his left hand, leaving a black, circular burn mark. He showed no pain.

"Do not... I repeat... Do not..."

He pulled the cigar away from his palm, revealing several other burn marks dotting and overlapping the skin on his palm of various hues of black.

"Pet the pomeranians."

An Excerpt From A Chemist's Diary

I don't know what to make of these strange occurrences, and I fear that if I explain them to anyone else, I'll be branded a lunatic by society. So I write my observations this diary, both to keep my sanity and in hopes that if the unspeakable were to happen to me, someone in the future may be able to explain these events. Or, if not explain, then avoid entirely.

What I am about to write in these pages are true events, written to the best of my memory. At times, it may seem more like an outlandish horror story, but I swear, on my mother's grave, that these incidents are not fictitious. I realize that the bulk of the text may be overwhelming to some, so if you happen to come across this diary in the future, I offer one piece of advice to you.

If you ever find yourself alone, and you feel like you're being watched by something. Or, if you enter a room by yourself and are suddenly subject to inexplicable chills and feelings of panic, then it's there. Behind you. Hidden in plain sight. Staring you right in the back of the head. And if you ever find yourself in those situations, the only advice that I can offer is...

Do not look behind you.

Cycles

Part 1: Asleep

The scolding tone of the alarm, like an irate parent,

Commanding me to rise out of sleep, 

Signaling the start of another day. 

Awake, asleep, awake, asleep, 

Fluttering over two mental states as my eyelids flutter open and shut, 

Until finally, I'm awake, 

Reluctantly pulled from my solemn slumber.

Awake, but unwilling to pull myself away

From the sweet embrace of my bedsheets.

Awake, but uneager to rise and silence

The electronic screams by my side.

Awake,

But still asleep.

Zombies: The Western Musical

The three stood before the porch of the two-story saloon, the last building they hadn't yet searched in the small desert town. The three stood silent, attentively listening for any sound of the undead from within the faded brown, plank-thick wooden walls of the small, seemingly abandoned structure. The decaying wooden pillars that held up the awning in front of the cracked, wooden double doors and the shattered windows and broken glass strewn about everywhere on the sandy desert floor were all battle scars of both the house's age and the zombie apocalypse all those years ago.

Two minutes crawled by, as the trio stood in the hot Californian sun, the desert wind blowing specks of dust and sand in their faces, all with their weapons at the ready. No undead moans heard, but still, the three took caution. The dead could very well just be dead quiet.

Dmitri motioned to Pascal to follow him inside. The third one remained outside as a lookout.

The two slowly approaching the rightmost door, taking care to silence his footsteps. With the butt of his pistol, Dmitri nudged the door open, inch by careful inch, trying to avoid as much noise as possible.

A deafening creak, the burglar alarm created by rusted metal hinges of the generations-old door. And the moaning from within the saloon followed.

"They're awake." Pascal grinned.

Ragged Doll P

Step. Step. Step went my feet as I walked down Camino Ruiz, a route I was more than familiar with. I had taken this same route so often that I could navigate it with my eyes closed if I really wanted to. Things never ended well in the times that I did try to walk the road blind though. At best, I would stumble on a protruding block of concrete beneath my feet that I had forgotten about. At worst, I would cause a 42 car pileup requiring 15 medical vehicles and presidential attention.

Regardless, I probably knew this route better than I know most of my family members. The pale white trees to the right of the sidewalk with pale bark that flaked and peeled like old paint, the woofs and ruffs from an unseen dog greeting me from behind a fence bordering the street, the severed leg stupidly hidden behind a bush near the intersection of Camino Ruiz and Westmore Road. I knew every secret and every story that this road had to offer simply because I walked the same path every day to and from school. No detours. No shortcuts. Just Camino Ruiz.

I lived my life the same way that I chose my paths. I would find the safest, most comfortable approach, and repeat it endlessly, never daring to change even a single step. Of course, that meant that my life was often boring and cyclic. At times, I didn’t mind the monotony, but sometimes, the faintest desire for a thrilling, fast-paced adventure would spark deep within my pinkish-red internal organs, a spark that never completely engulfed me because of my reluctance to change. But thankfully, one day, change took control. And slapped me right in the face.