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Messages - TheLawliet10

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Story Critique / Made Love
« on: 06:52:35 PM 03/03/17 »
   Andrea and I met at Westlyn University during our freshman year, she was going for her Psychology doctorate and I was looking to get an Art History degree so I could get a teaching job to fall back on if my paintings didn’t sell well. What drew me to her was her hair, it was a beautiful golden blonde that made me think of honey. We started dating about a year later, and after we got our bachelor's in our respective fields we got hitched. Her parents hated me, but we didn’t care. We had a pretty happy life, until Andrea got into the accident. My love had been crossing the street, she was focused on her phone, on the music in her ear buds, so Andrea never saw the truck barreling down the road. The doctors said she wouldn’t make it, but I still took her home instead of leaving her in that cold, uncaring hospital room.

   My beloved has been bedridden since then, so it fell on me to be the only bread winner for the two of us. I took a job at a local middle school, and I took up sketching during my lunch period, and took up smoking to try and cut the pain of knowing my wife… knowing that our family could never be complete.

     It was Wednesday when a coworker of mine, an English teacher named Doris, announced in the break room that she was getting married next month. She showed us the ring on her finger, and I gave a smile and a nod while the others congratulated her through hugs, handshakes, and the Home Ec teacher, Mrs. Laurel, offered to bake the sweets for her reception. Doris had been a good friend over the three years I had been the Art teacher at West Bank Middle School, and she had become my smoking buddy when she found out I liked the same brand of cigarettes that she enjoyed. Our free periods lined up on Wednesdays, we always took a break outside the school, hidden from the security cameras and the principle. This day wasn’t any different, and we definitely had a lot to talk about during the thirty minutes we had.

     “What was it like when you and your wife got together?” Doris used that question to begin a barrage of questions about married life. I answered each of them between puffs of my Marlboro Light 100, my eyes on the small gold ring accented by three nice sized diamonds, not too large but not small either.
It took a few questions for Doris to finally calm down, a large, glowing smile on her face. I remember when my wife could smile like that, that’s the reason I asked to see my coworker’s ring, and that’s why I took her finger off her hand. Doris screamed like I had stabbed her shoulder, I had to get her to quiet down, so I slammed her head on the concrete wall next to the dumpster. The dumpster was a good spot for the body, and I had an old necklace jewelry box from my anniversary last month. The rest of the day went as normal, only the vice principal asked me what had happened to Doris. I told him she had felt sick and left early, and he bought it.

     I knew we would have to move, I had never gotten that angry at someone just for being like my loving Andrea. I pulled into the driveway, my old Chevy giving out a few clunks as I turned it off. After that I rushed up to my one and only, smiling as I saw that she was awake. Her blue eyes were cloudier than when I met her, and more color had drained from her lips from that morning, but now she had her finger back. All I needed was a couple of staples and the finger looked absolutely perfect on her. I stroked my beloved’s hair and kissed her deep, and gave her a smile.

      “After the move,” I said, looking into her eyes, “I think we should try for twins.”

2
Narration & Review Videos / Re: The Revolver Series
« on: 03:55:23 AM 02/14/17 »

3
Your Stories / Red Roses
« on: 09:31:09 PM 02/06/17 »
   I first met Mrs. Patricia Wilkinson a few weeks after my parents and I moved to Mazon from Joliet, and a few days after that she became my favorite, and only, babysitter. It’s not like I was a bad kid, I didn’t cause more trouble than any other nine year old, it’s just that the town was so small that there weren’t a lot of people with free time after their jobs or school. I don’t remember too much about when I first met her, but what I do remember is that Mrs. Wilkinson had a huge garden in her backyard. Being a boy in second grade I didn’t really appreciate the beauty of all the different colors of the flowers, and would’ve rather had been watching Rugrats or playing my Genesis back home. I have a feeling Mrs. Wilkinson knew this, mostly because she would bribe me with a slice of freshly baked cake or a trip to McDonalds if I helped her with tending to her plants.
   
     Over the years, I learned a lot about the grey haired lady who lived just down the street from me. Patricia Wilkinson was married to a man named George in 1967, just before he was sent out to Vietnam. They never had any children, which she blamed on the war turning her husband into a completely different person. When he came back he was cold and more cynical about life. George became a heavy drinker, and in 1975 he left Mrs. Wilkinson in the middle of the night after telling her that he loved her.
   
    By the time I had hit eighth grade, around the time my parents had decided that I didn’t need an adult to stay with me until they came home from work, I had started to actually enjoy working with Mrs. Wilkinson’s roses. She had taught me exactly where to prune, how much water to give each plant, and when the right time was to cut them and place them in her favorite green glass vase. Instead of going to a club or getting into sports, after school I’d grab my bag and head to Mrs. Wilkinson’s every day after class for her special ‘Botany Classes’.
   
     Around high school was when I started to go to Mrs. Wilkinson’s a little less, I still visited her once a week, but I had started to take an interest in other things than flowers, namely girls. Patricia understood, telling me that she was young once too, and that a good kid like me better find a nice girl to spend time with; however, being the stupid teenager that I was, I started dating Becky Reeves.
Becky was beautiful to say the least: long blonde hair, hazel eyes,and a smile that made me melt the second she flashed it at me, but I’ll admit that she was a fucking horrible person. She was a gold digger, but I honestly didn’t care at the time, since she made it up to me in… other ways. I really thought Becky and I were meant to be, but once again I was a stupid teenager, and it took me until my senior year to find out she was cheating on me. I was in a pretty dark place after that, and my parents really had no idea of how they could help me, but Mrs. Wilkinson tried to help me take my mind off things by asking me to tend to her flowers like always.
   
     The rest of my high school career went smoothly, thanks in part to Becky going to California for Spring Break that year and deciding not to come back. Her parents had called me a few nights before classes were back in session and asked me if I knew where she was staying, but I had no real way of helping them since I had left her before December and I really didn’t care.

     Graduation came, and my parents had offered Patricia a ticket to the ceremony. She was delighted, and I could see her beaming from her seat next to my father. It was at this point that I realized that I was more than the snotty kid from down the street to her, between the advice about moving on after I left Becky and when she gave me roses to give to a different girl who had asked if she could go to prom with me, I finally figured out that sweet, little old lady who taught me about gardening was a real grandmother too me. The last time I saw Mrs. Wilkinson and her red roses was also the last day I spent at my parents house. I went over to tell her about how I was going to Northwestern University, and how I was going for a Doctorate in Botany. I’ve never seen an old lady actually get up and jump for joy before, and I was honestly scared she would break her hip. Thankfully, the only thing she broke out was a bottle of wine for a toast to me and my future as Dr. Jonathan Grant, Ph. D. in Botanical Science.

    After my first year of college I got a call from my mother. It wasn’t surprising to hear that Mrs. Wilkinson had died, she was at least eighty-seven by the time I left my home town, but I would never have thought she could take her own life. I broke down crying when my mom told me they found her in her garden, near the roses that she loved, with a pair of weed clippers lodged in her throat. The thought of what she had done to herself made me numb, and I told my mom that I’d be heading back home as soon as I could. It took me about a day to get back, both my parents telling me how sorry they are that this happened, and that they were there if I needed to talk. I couldn’t talk about it though, I couldn’t think of what to say. Patricia was my friend, the closest thing to a grandma that I had, and she had taken herself out of my life.

     The funeral seemed to go by so quickly that I can barely remember it at all. My parents and I were the only ones there aside from the priest, Mrs. Wilkinson was apparently an only child, with no living relatives. Her last will reflected that too, since she left her house to me. As much as I wouldn’t loved to keep it, it was honestly all too much. College loans aside, I couldn’t live in a house within a few feet of where that wonderful old lady had taken her own life. Selling the place was my only choice, which meant spending more time in town, and more time in that empty house.

      It was a few weeks in that I saw the dead rose bush, the flowers were shriveled up and black as wet dirt. I went into town, bought a pair of gardening gloves and a shovel, and went to work prying the dead flower bush from the dirt that it clung into. It felt like it took hours, the roots seemed to be deep down and thick in the hard dirt. Finally, I gave one last tug with my gloved hands, ripping the wood and dead flowers from their bed, along with a dirty, soil caked human skull. I threw it to the ground, and ran inside to call the police. The cops spent days pulling out each and every bunch, bush, and bed of flowers out of the dirt, but only the rose bushes near the back porch marked the graves. I remembered planting one bush with Mrs. Wilkinson when I was helping her,and that’s where the officers found Becky Reeves. She had never made it Cali that Spring Break, and George Wilkinson never left that night in 1975. There were all here, all under the red rose bushes that lined the back porch where Mrs. Wilkinson and I ate her favorite German chocolate cake after helping her water them for the first time.

      I live in Braceville now, in a house with a nice, big backyard. I have a loving wife, and a beautiful nine year old daughter, and a quiet, large garden with a single red rose bush. My wife asked me once why I only planted one bush near the fence, rather than two or three. I told her the truth: I don’t have the right fertilizer. After she asked her what kind I needed, all I could think about was the night I found her with my best friend, and how nine months after my little girl was born.

      “You’ll see baby,” I answered, “I’ll get some next week.”

4
Story Critique / I Believe Again (Santapasta Contest Entry)
« on: 09:48:26 PM 01/10/17 »
   I stopped believing in Santa Claus when I was ten, when I found my father placing presents around our family tree. My dad, being the good father that he tried to be, told me he was ‘helping out old Saint Nick’, but I knew better and I think my father knew that. After that day, he and mom stopped asking me if I wanted to write a letter to Santa every year, and opted to just openly ask me what I wanted that year. This, of course, came with the condition that I not tell my younger cousins the harsh truth that there was no jolly, fat, red and white clad man who snuck into their houses to give them free toys. I agreed, and this went on until I moved out and went to Saint John's University on a football scholarship.
   
             St. John’s is where I met Tracy, my future wife, and we both decided to move out to the country after a few years of living in a cramped apartment in Brooklyn. The fact that my wife was pregnant pushed the decision, and in a few months time my son, Caleb, was born. It was because of Caleb that I started to do the very same thing my father did for me, I ‘helped’ Santa Claus by taking care of our house for him. I was thankful that Tracy could bake amazing cookies, and that she would secretly replace the milk Caleb left out for me with a bit of spiked eggnog and an extra note saying that she had a ‘special gift’ for me in the bedroom when I was finished.
   
            When Caleb turned ten, I loved ‘helping Santa’. I loved the joy on my son’s face every morning, and guessed that was why my father did this for me. Unfortunately, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and as I finished putting the last present under our tree, I heard my son gasp.
   
         I turned quickly, wanting to give him the same speech my dad gave me about helping out jolly Saint Nick, but as soon as I opened my mouth, Caleb ran up to his room and slammed the door shut. I felt a pang of guilt, and rushed up the stairs to try and find some way to apologise to my boy. Tracy had apparently fallen asleep waiting for me, she came out of our room wiping her eyes and asking what happened. I told her everything, from the shocked and sad look on our son’s face, to how I felt like this was all my fault for not telling him the truth in the first place. We both decided that we needed to talk to Caleb now, so I walked over to the oak door of my son’s room and knocked gently on it.
   
        “Caleb,” I called out, “can I come in, hon?”
   
        “Leave me alone!” he cried out, almost screeching. I some how knew that would be his response.
   
       “Son, please.” I said, before reaching for the brass knob and twisting it. As I pushed the door open, my eyes widened, and I rushed toward the open window of my son’s room. Caleb was nowhere in sight, Tracy had the idea to check the closet, but it only held shirts and old toys packed in boxes. I turned towards my son’s bed, hoping to see him hiding under the covers. All I found was a note, written on fine white parchment, with a red and green border around it. It read as: ‘Do you believe now?’

5
Story Critique / Re: The Road
« on: 09:45:36 PM 01/10/17 »
Thanks a lot for the comment, I really appreciate it a lot. I might fix up the ending a bit, but I've moved on a bit from this story so it'll be a while before I look at it again.

6
General Discussion / Re: What is Creepypasta?
« on: 10:43:52 PM 11/25/16 »
I personally feel that length isn't a huge issue, but I feel like if a story is too long without any breaks it hurts the story because more details will be lost on the reader. Honestly, the details matter more than the length of a story.

What makes Creepypasta different from other forms of horror are the authors, the people that are fans of the genre themselves. Creepypasta is a simple genre to get into and enjoy, but it's a difficult one to find the better works in. It probably has the most amount of authors in any genre of writing, and they range from great to just plain horrible. Which is why Creepypasta has sort of split into a two different groups: mainstream Creepypasta and Ashcan horror (at least in my eyes). Mainstream seems to focus more on the 'icons' of the genre and the idea of how to get popular through horror (which includes narrators like MCP and shows like Channel Zero), while Ashcan focuses more critiquing and trying to keep the stories more based on realism.

Speaking of realism, I personally feel that stories should be focused on realism to a point. I feel that there should be details about things that ground the story in a sense of realism, that characters should know certain things and not know other things. I do, however, think that authors can put a good amount of obviously not real things in their stories. Ghosts, cults, weird and horrific events that obviously wouldn't happen in real life, that's all fine, as long as it has a reason to be there (ie, isn't just used for shock purposes) and as long as the story surrounding the events is realistic. The pure escapist story lines got us things like Jeff the Killer, while the more realistic stories got us Candle Cove.

As for characters, the stock characters, or the 'icons', honestly are not important. Using the same monster over and over, going through the same formula, that's a lot like Hollywood's current line of jump scare based 'horror' movies, or the Paranormal Activity movies. As a genre, we need to move on from them.

7
Story Critique / Black-eyed Child (Black-eyed People Redux)
« on: 09:39:02 PM 10/11/16 »
   We met in December, three days before Christmas Eve, which made our anniversary a pretty easy date to remember. It was at a holiday party my brother, Greg, was having at his apartment. Greg had gotten into SIU on a football scholarship, and I was proud of my little brother for getting into the same school as me. My little bro had always been the more popular of the two of us, he was the brains and I was the brawn, but I was ok with that. However, being the smart one came with being labeled as socially awkward, and the worst part was that I was. High school had been more uncomfortable than anything, but college was pretty good. I had a few friends, went to strategic games, science club, and things like that, and Greg had taken the entire semester to spend time with his favorite (and only) brother.

    The party started out small, but quickly got bigger and bigger as Greg’s friends texted and called their friends, which turned our kiddie pool of a party into a tidal wave, and that’s when I first met Julia. My little bro introduced her to me, probably hoping to hook me up, saying that she was a bad ass Debate Team captain. I had to laugh, wondering how much Greg had chugged to use the words ‘bad ass’ and ‘Debate Team captain’ in the same sentence. Julia’s raven black hair framed her face, and made her sparkling green eyes pop out like the star on the top of a Christmas Tree. The debate captain must’ve caught me staring, she giggled and held up her half drunk Screwdriver.

    That’s about where our conversation started, we found our way to Greg’s half destroyed couch that he picked up off a curb before winter, and we started talking. We had a lot in common, amazingly, we both loved the anime Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure, when I mentioned how I used to watch Bill Nye as a kid, Julia started drunkenly singing the entire theme song. Hell, we got the entire party shouting out ‘Bill, Bill, Bill, Bill!’ at one point. Eventually, Greg got a call from his super, and the party was over. I asked what his superintendent said to him, and Greg gave a nervous smile before saying “I might have to move into your place after next semester, big bro.”

    The wild party goers slowly migrated out to their cars, their friends and partners crowding into the cold, metal boxes on wheels. I was about to head out to my own Sedan, feeling more tipsy than drunk, when I felt a warm hand on the shoulder of my coat. I turned to face Julia, she’d sobered up a little after having a few cups of Greg’s favorite coffee. “Hey Derrick,” she started, her voice a little nervous, “I know this sounds kind of weird, but do you mind taking me home?” When I asked her why, she revealed that my little brother had taken her car keys after she told him she was going for a beer run… after we had just watched her toss almost a half a bottle of vodka in Screwdrivers a few minutes before. Being the gentleman, and hopeless romantic, that I am, I told Julia I’d drive her back to her place.

   It was cold that night, almost below zero, as we sat in the car and waited for it to heat up. Julia was wearing a big, puffy jacket, but I could see her shivering like she was completely naked in the middle of an endless tundra. I pulled out of the parking lot as soon as I felt a blast of warm air come from my car’s vents. We pulled onto Main Street, and Julia became my navigator as I drove my own, personal ship through the white, snow filled streets. More of the fluffy flakes came down, faster and heavier than it was that morning, and soon the only thing cutting through the darkness was the headlights of my car.

    “Almost there,” Julia said, “just a little…” My navigator covered her mouth quickly, and I knew this was a good time to pull off to the side of the road. The raven haired woman pushed open the door and quickly rushed out to the snow covered curb. The sounds of her tossing her cookies make me realize my own stomach was starting to tie itself into a square knot, and that’s when I noticed the girl. The girl’s hair was like a dark curtain in front of her face, her face was pointed down at her small, bare feet in the icy snow. The light from my car’s headlights put her into an eerily bright spotlight, and I swear to god the poor thing’s skin was blue with frost bite.

    “Hey,” I said softly, taking a few steps toward the poor girl, “what’re you doing out here?” Maple Avenue, the street we were on, was a back country road, there wasn’t a house for the next few miles up until an intersection, and from the look of the girl’s skin she had been out for the last few hours. She didn’t have a coat on, or shoes, or anything other than a long sundress, the kind a mother would give to her daughter to play dress up in.

    The girl’s voice broke the silence that has surrounded me, and it made me shiver in my leather jacket. “Mister,” the young girl’s quiet, sweet voice seemed to echo like a gong, “can you take me home? Please?”

    I could feel Julia’s hand on my shoulder as we both looked at the girl. I knew the right thing to do, this poor girl was just standing there facing us with her eyes pointed straight at her frozen feet. “What’s your house’s number, kid? I’ll call your mom and tell her we’re on our way.”

    “I don’t know my mommy’s number. Please mister, let me into your car.” she said as she took a step forward,her feet dragging in the snow like a ship through the ocean. “I can tell you where I live.”

    My passenger pulled at my coat sleeve, and I turned to look at the raven haired woman I was taking home. “Derrick, I think we should take her to my place first. She looks like she’s freezing, and we can call the cops and tell them once we get there.” At the mention of the police, the sound of a body falling into the snow hit up like a truck. I rushed towards the girl, hoping she was still conscious, that her heart was still beating. 

    Her eyes… Her eyes made me stop in my tracks. The entire eye, including what should’ve been the white, were completely pitch black. Her eyes were so dark that they were like mirrors, reflecting my face down to the curve of my ears. The girl began to scream at the top of her lungs, but it sounded as if she had the voice of a full grown man. The girl’s screech was like a runner’s pistol to me, and I rushed back to my car. Julia had started to ask me something, probably what that sound was, but all I did was tell her to get in the car. After that, Julia would call me her hero in public, saying that I saved her from some sort of mugger that tried to trick us into giving him a ride. We both knew that was a lie, but we also knew that no one would believe us, even Greg said I must’ve been drunker than he thought when I told him about the girl with black eyes.

    Julia and I had been together for a year when I finally decided to pop the question, and we hadn’t seen that girl or anything like her since that night.It had been four years after I asked Julia to marry me when our daughter was born. We named her Alexandra, after Julia’s grandmother. She had her mother's black hair, and she looked beautiful as I held her in my arms, like a little cherub from those Renaissance paintings they show you in art class in middle school. I still remember the day I got that call from my wife, and she had told me about how our eight year old daughter had been killed by a hit and run driver. She was wearing the sundress I had bought Julia on our honeymoon in Hawaii.

    When I finally got to the hospital, Julia ran into my arms with tears pouring down her face. Later on, I asked the doctor where exactly the accident had taken place. He told me it was on Maple Avenue.
     (Based on the short horror story Black-Eyed People by an anonymous author)

8
General Discussion / Re: Channel 0
« on: 09:18:30 PM 10/11/16 »
I'm really iffy about it, mostly because they had full rights to make a TV adaptation, and they changed the Skin Taker's name to Jawbone and seem to basing the series more on the 'Candle Cove was a real show' stories.
EDIT: So, I just saw the first episode, it's free on syfy's website, and it's very mediocre. I feel like they crammed so much into the episode that could've been spread out between the first few episodes. We're introduced to characters we never hear the name of, a character we do know the name of is meaningless to the story at that point, and they take so many liberties with the source material that I can safely say that it does not need to be an adaptation of Candle Cove.

The Tooth Child (the thing made of teeth) seems to be central to the plot, the show is being used as some sort of supernatural beings version of a calling card, and we gets back story and 'scary' imagery in the form of sudden flashes and flash backs. I didn't enjoy it much.

9
General Discussion / Re: Crappypasta: An Anthology
« on: 06:44:20 PM 10/06/16 »
Just sent in my submission, hopefully it's so bad you'll find it just terrible  ;D

10
The worst pasta I've ever read has to be the Max and Ruby Lost Episode. I consider it extremely bad because it's just mediocre, it's a generic story about the usual 'scary things' happening in a mysterious DVD that the main character mysteriously got in the mail. At least Jeff the Killer is so bad it's funny, I can enjoy pointing out the flaws and unbelievable things in it. The Max and Ruby Lost Episode is just boring. 

11
Story Critique / The Road
« on: 01:47:09 AM 09/13/16 »
(Formatted for an easier read.)
I used to work as a security guard at a polyester manufacturing plant. It was an easy job, the plant was pretty quiet most of the time, and my shift was one of those afternoon shifts. Sunday through Thursday, for eight hours a day,  I would look over a few camera monitors and watch Youtube. Needless to say, it was incredibly boring after the first two weeks, and even the over reaction of my favorite Let’s Play Youtubers started to make me yawn in the middle of my shift. When my shifts finally finished, and my relief signed in and asked me the usual ‘How was your shift?’, I bolted out the door, got into my car, and drove as fast as legally allowed to get home and sleep.

   Last week was nothing different, the same eight hours of internet, the same ‘How was the shift?’, and the same sound of my 2001 Chevy Impala turning its’ engine over as I turned the key. I pulled out of the parking lot and flipped on my brights, the gravel road stretching in front of me like a trail of breadcrumbs leading me to my home, my mind focusing on nothing but the thought of getting into my warm bed. The voice of the late night call-in radio show I had on was saying the lines to phone in where open, and to ask any questions you had about the theme for the night: How to improve your night life.

   I had to laugh at that a little, wondering how much money this guy was making to basically say ‘don’t stay up listening to the radio all night.’ Once I hit pavement, the voice of the radio mixed with the sound of my tires on the road. It had been three days since I’d gotten a good night's sleep, and the long, dark road combined with the monotone sounds of the radio and my tires were making my eyes heavy. I turned the AC on full blast, trying to chill myself to force my eyes to stay open for the last twenty minutes of my drive. The next couple of minutes of the drive where a mix between trying to focus on the road, turning the air conditioning up and down, opening the windows to get some fresh air, flipping from radio station, to radio station, to radio station.

   My heavy lids closed, and I swear I only closed them for a minute, but I guess that’s all it takes. I don’t know how long it had been before I felt the front of my car smash into something, and there was a sound like when you break a chicken bone accidently that forced my eyes awake. My foot slammed down on the brakes, my tires squealing as I pulled to the side of the road.

   “Oh shit… Holy fuck, what was that?” I said to myself before grabbing my phone. I tore off my seat belt and pointed my makeshift flashlight in front of me, the light from my screen barely able to even show the road. The night sky was cloudy, and I remember the moon was barely brighter than a glow stick through the tree leaves, so it wasn’t until my foot tapped against the black, leather dress shoe in the middle of the road did I realise what I had done. My heart pumped like the motor of the Impala, I swear I could barely feel the phone slip from my hand and shatter against the road, but I didn’t care about my cheap flip phone… Not after realising I’d just murderer a man. My brain started to scream at me, a voice in my head scolding me like my mother would for coming home too late when I was a kid.

   “You killed a man,” the voice echoed through my head, “you killed a man, you fucking monster!” In the moment, I did the only thing I could think of doing, I grabbed the shoe from the ground and ran to my car. The blood pumped to my ears as I pulled a U-turn, the spotlights that where my Impala’s brights cutting through the dark night and showing only a large, red spot in the road, like a juice stain on a grey-white carpet.

   The voice in my head stopped, like I had run over it too. I jumped out of the car again, shouting at the top of my lungs, “Hello?! We’ve gotta get you to a hospital! Hello!” There was no answer. How? How the hell did he crawl into the forest?! I had heard his bones break, the guy must’ve been in fucking agony! I must’ve searched for at least an hour, every time I yelled for whoever it was to answer me the only thing that answered by the sound of the wind moving through the leaves above me.
      
   My mind raced as I rushed back to the road, the voice in my head yelling at me at the top of its’ lungs. That could be why I didn’t notice the sound of tires on pavement, or the light from the brights of the car that slammed into me. The sound of bones cracking filled my ears again, right before my world went as black as the sky was.

       The warmth of the hospital bed surrounded me as I woke up, the beeping of the machines and the sounds of footsteps made my head pound as I looked around the room. I’d been found by the sheriff on the side of the road, my body bruised but no worse for wear. He had said that it looked like someone tried to run me off the road, and when I ran for it they tried to drive my car into me. I told the sheriff my story, from heading home from work to the brights of the car, and the feeling of it hitting me, but he brushed it off as a nightmare from the painkillers, right before informing me that whoever tried to kill me had stolen my car.
 
       A few days later, the doctor released me into my own care. My mother, who I lived with at the time, came to pick me up and take me home. The whole way there she scolded me for getting out of my car in the first place, between saying she was happy I was alright and telling me that my boss had been worried as well. She also told me that the hospital had given her the things I had on me at the time of the accident.

       She said they found almost everything, the only things missing were my car… and one of my black, leather dress shoes.


12
I used to write My Little Pony fan fiction... it was baaaaad. I only stopped, at first, because I couldn't get back into my account. Rereading my stuff, it's really mediocre, then again it is fan fiction.

If you want to read it here you go:  https://www.fimfiction.net/index.php?view=category&user=6714

13
You know, when you get down to it, this is a horror version of Groundhog Day.

14
Story Critique / Re: Senses
« on: 07:56:50 PM 09/11/16 »
I can honestly say that I really enjoyed the ice imagery sprinkled through out the story, it gives a bit of foreshadowing to the end twist that I didn't pick up on until I read it a second time. The only  things I can really say, and take this with a grain of salt since this is my first time reading a story with the full intention of giving criticism, is that 'the operation room' in the first paragraph should be 'operating room' like you have in the next to last paragraph.

Along with that, the sentences 'My skin crawled either realization with what had occurred' and 'My blood turned icy with fear and confusion' contradict themselves a lot, especially since they are both reactions to the man seeing his own dead body, and that he seems to be feeling them at the same time. It's most likely how I feel about it, but I feel as if the skin crawling part should be placed after the blood turning icy part, as in he was confused until he realized what had happened.

Other than that, I feel as if the pacing was very good, the grammar and spelling (aside from the operation room) was great, and the twist at the end was a pretty good one, especially with the ice imagery as I said before.

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