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Topics - PostMortemCreamPi

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Your Stories / Act 1, Scene 2
« on: 10:50 PM, 07/31/20 »
interior shot of a small dark dank basement. The walls and floor are a full grey concrete. Cracked nearly in every spot. There’s a stagnant puddle of water in the center of the floor, surrounding a clogged drain. The teens enter from the staircase that leads to the exterior cellar door
Shaun: See  guys it’s just an old house.
Cody: If it’s just an old house why where you so eager to come here?...
Shaun: Come on, didn’t you guys always want to come in here? See the house from all those stories in person.
Tiffany: I know I have.
The teens wonder about the dank cellar, hands against the walls, stumbling around.
Jeremy: Did any of you think to bring a flashlight?
Tiffany: We all have flashlights on our phones, don’t we?
They each take out their cell phones and turn on the flashlight feature
Jeremy: Shit! I’ve got a low battery guys.
Shaun: Don’t worry we’ll be in and out, real fast.
Cody: Hey does anyone else smell that? Cody covers his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie It smells disgusting in here!
Jeremy: It’s probably the stagnant water, could be from a leaky pipe or something.
Tiffany: Or maybe it’s from the bodies of the missing kids they never found.
Cody: Cut it out Tif that’s not funny.
Shaun: Does anyone see the stairs up?
The group scans the room with their flashlights, finding decaying musty old boxes. A work bench with a few rusty tools still sitting on it. Then finally in the farthest corner, the stairs.
Jeremy: Yeah guys there over here. Jeremy gestures the others toward the far corner.So who's going up them first?
Cody: I think Shaun should, it was his idea that we even come here. He should be the first one to risk the stairs.
Shaun: Fine by me... pussy.
Shaun begins to ascend the stairs as they creak and moan with each step taken. When suddenly on the fourth step it gives out from under him.
Shaun: Whooah! Shaun catches himself on the railing be careful guys the fourth step isn’t safe.
Tiffany begins to climb the stairs after Shaun. They both reach the top without another incident. Cody and Jeremy follow shortly after.

Your Stories / Act 1, Scene 1
« on: 11:51 PM, 07/26/20 »
Opening shot of four teens standing in front of a decrepit old farm house. Leaning up against the back of small pickup truck. An ominous tree looming in the foreground.
Jeremy: I’m not going in there.
Shaun: Come on man it’s just an old house.
Jeremy: It’s the old Johnson’s house, you’ve heard the stories right?
Tiffany: Yeah old man Johnson hung himself right on that tree over there.
she gestures to the tree in the foreground.
Tiffany: And before that his father shot and killed his mother then himself.
Shaun: Yeah but it’s just a house...
Cody: A house that’s been abandoned longer then any of us have been alive. What if the floor boards give out, or worse the stairs. God forbid us falling through the stairs onto the stone basement floor and break a fucking leg.
Shaun: Guys come on it will be fine.
The teens move closer to the house. Zooming onto them as they look for a way into the building.
Shaun: Hey guy over here... he gestures them toward a shattered window. We can get in through here.
Cody: Great now we gotta worry about cutting ourselves up just to get in.
Shaun: Stop being such a pussy Cody.
Jeremy: He’s got a point there Shaun... Isn’t there a safer way to get in?
Tiffany: I heard there’s a cellar door that’s been busted open around back, maybe we can enter through there?
The teens move around to the back of the farm house. Finding a busted cellar door lying open, it’s gaping maw open to the elements. The teens enter.

    If you ever watched Nickelodeon in the early 2000’s, then you might remember a sketch comedy show called “The Amanda Show”.  It aired in 1999 and lasted until 2002, and had a reoccurring joke about dancing lobsters. Now the show was produced by a man named Dan Schneider, who I don’t need to tell you was a creep. You can simply look him up and venture down that rabbit hole yourself.
   These dancing lobsters would from sketch to sketch appear nearly at random and where seen at the time as just that; a random gag that popped in and out of episodes. However looking deeper into the show and it’s production I noticed something nefarious about these jubilant crustaceans.
   They appeared often and frequent the more Dan Schneider was involved in an episodes production. If Dan was closely involved in the episode, the lobsters would appear. If Dan was away or let someone else have control over an episode they wouldn’t appear.
    Now I looked into the “actors” who would play these dancing lobsters and found nothing. Only a small article about how when in need of more actors Dan Schneider would get his friends to portray small roles. Now it became more interesting as the lobsters could have very well been friends of Schneider’s. Looking deeper into the show I began to fear that these where harbingers of ill omens.
   Perhaps Schneider was using these lobsters as part of his sick little games. That he was using his position as producer and show creator to force his agenda. It became apparent that some of the members of a sketch seemed unfazed or even unsettled by the appearance of the lobsters.

Your Stories / Bad Trip
« on: 11:39 PM, 05/25/20 »
   It's late on a Saturday night, you check your bread box and find some tiny plastic dinosaurs. Your son must have left them there when he was playing. Only you remember you don't have a son, or any children for that matter. You also don't recall owning any tiny plastic dinosaurs. Though it's hard to remember when you've been on a five day bender. A glass of whiskey when you wake up, a cigarette to ease the nerves; then a small bump of cocaine to start the day off right.
   You close the bread box, the sight of reptiles unnerves you. Especially when you see lizards everywhere you look. Perhaps it's nerves, or the three tabs of acid you took an hour ago. You can't look in the mirror in fear you'd find yourself turned into a reptilian creature. You find yourself spouting out nonsense about mice ripping their own heads off. Or is that just something you read on the internet.
   Lighting another cigarette you feel your nerves begin to loosen. You pour yourself a glass of brandy to further unwind. Taking another bump of cocaine, to phone your lawyer. He advises you to begin taking cocaine seriously and do a few lines. So you decide to take the legal advice. You start to feel insects crawling over your skin, though you can't see them.
   You can feel them, from the ankles all the way to your neck, crawling about without signs of their existence. You hear the faint buzzing of their tiny wings beating fast. Swatting at them you feel the sharp sting of your hand slapping down against your forearm. Still not a sign of the damned things. You check yourself in the mirror hanging on the bathroom wall.
   You see a face staring back at you, but its not your face. At least it doesn't appear to be your face upon first glance. The more you stare back at it, you see the sunken eyes of a dead man looking back at you. Sunken in and swollen, dead glassy eyes; you wonder how those eyes could see anything let alone stare back at you in the mirror. Hair loose and disheveled.

Your Stories / The Devils Lettuce pt.1 (Lust)
« on: 10:06 PM, 04/29/20 »
        A few days ago I had ran out of green, I was in a tight spot. When trying to get ahold of my plug, I came across something unusual. I had heard from a co-worker about a guy who hangs out in the parking lots of an older mall. He was a dealer, and from what I was told he sold some of the best weed in the area. So instead of getting ahold of my usual guy, I decided to hit up the mall and look for this mysterious stranger. The mall in question was the "Cross Roads" mall, a dead little place now used to house a target and not much else.
       From what my co-worker had said I'd find the guy in the old parking garage, usually loafing about. As the area was across the street from a glass shop, I figured he must work there; going to the parking garage to sell weed to anyone who droped a hint at the shop across the way. As luck would have it I found him, sitting in the parking lot. He was dressed in a simple hoodie and jeans, but wore a cannabis  leaf pattern bucket hat. So i approached the man, and simply asked "Hey are you the guy?"
     "depends on what you mean? Im a guy." he replied trying to dodge the question in typical dealer fashion.
     "The florist I was told to meet at the vase shop across the street." I asked trying to drop the right hints. As dealing with a weed guy can be a troublesome effort when your not one of their usual customers. Luckily for me he asked me how much "Flower" i wanted and I knew I had the right guy.
     I bought a few grams off him, then went on my way. The weed was increadible, it was deffinatly the best weed I'd smoked in years, if not the best weed I've ever smoked. It gave a sensation of euphoria that I cannot even begin to describe. It was like having all the right parts of your brain trigger at the same time. Setting off levels of dopamine and serotonin that were matched only by the experiance of a thrill ride. When I had finished all that I'd boughten, I needed more. I had no other desires, than to feel that rush once more.

Your Stories / Monologue of an immortal.
« on: 03:29 AM, 04/ 6/20 »
     She came to me as I knew she would. With venom in her blood and hatred in her breath. Each word she spoke was a sharp jab, but they where shallow cuts. I had been called many things, much worse than what she could articulate.
     I silenced her swiftly with a grand gesture, she was not to get the better of me. I had centuries of life over this girl, and I would not tolerated her insolence. I had more pressing matters than her “feelings”. She would come in time to see the gift I gave her, the gift of immortality.
     Though like many others she would grow to resent the gift, even curse it. Just like I had time and time again. However there could be no doubt in the preciousness of what had been given to her. Many had walked on deaths door and begged for a way, any way to overcome it.
    But now I had grown bored with her, so I cast a cold iron dagger down to her. A test, she would either try to take my life; or her own. With no avail. Though it might have some effect, the wound would subside, and leave little more than a mark on her ashen flesh.
     If she takes no action, then perhaps there may still be hope for her. She could learn to use the gift, and might even grow stronger than those who had been in her situation before. Perhaps she may even begin to relish in the newfound freedom of immortality. Freedom to do as you pleased, minus a few small things.
    Like never being able to feel the warmth of the sun without risk of it setting one ablaze. Never being able to sit and watch the fire orb rise above a hillside. Never being able to see it set.

Your Stories / Franken-bone
« on: 07:31 PM, 03/22/20 »
20, April, 1869
     I returned to the manor today, late in the evening hours. To the place my parent had been caretakers for most of my childhood. Up until the estate ran dry, they took care of the empty and disheveled manor the best they could. Despite my father alcoholism, and my mothers “sickness”. Although I buried them decades ago, I never buried the feelings of guilt and animosity towards them.
     But that was about to change, I was going to spend one last night among the damned. I knew that if I simply spent a night there then all my feelings would come to a close, and I could continue my own life. So I went alone, only a small oil lamp to guide me through those decrepit halls. But I knew I had to go late, and leave before the morning hours as best not to worry the villagers.
    Since as long as I could remember they had always feared and dreaded the manor. As it looked above the small village, enshadowing it with its own silent sense of dread. It didn’t help that my father the last person to care for it, had let it fall into a state of disrepair as he drowned in ever bottle of booze he could gather.
   When I had entered the estate, memories flooded back, lingering in the cobwebs that gathered. A layer of filth that could not be seen by the human eye, but could be felt by those who witnessed the countless beatings, that had taken place in its halls. It seemed at times the echoes of those beatings could still be heard.
    The light of the oil lantern seemed to warm those cold halls. The only warmth they had seen in many, many years. The amber glow let shadows dance and the mind wonder, as bottles and stains lingered. The only reminders of my parents besides their graves in the small graveyard behind the manor. Where many of it’s previous residents now resided.
  As I wondered through the old servants quarters the echoes of my past seemed to grow louder. The sounds of hard flesh hitting against soft flesh. The breaking of bottles tossed against the wall. The drunken grunts of my father as he did what he pleased.
   It wasn’t until I had turned into the hall where my parents room had been did I notice. The sounds I thought mearly an echo, had been all to real. The source being the room my parents had shared, that is when my father had not been passed out at the table.
   The door had been left ajar and there was the faint glow of a candle from the other end. So I crept quietly to the door frame, to peer inside. I was aghast when I saw the lumbering figure. It stood hunched near the bed, opening itself and slotting in bones and organs. Mashing flesh into places flesh was never meant to go. Sewing itself back together. The figure was that of a man and a woman fused together at the hips.
   It crawled with six limbs as the woman figure was bent in an unnatural way. Back broken and crooked to allow its hands to form the front appendages, while it’s legs had been popped from their sockets. Dangling while splayed out and no longer working.
    I ran from that house, I ran and never looked back. I could only see the figure as what it had once been. The husks of my parents.

Your Stories / Cigar Box
« on: 07:19 PM, 01/19/20 »
        My father wasn't in my life for long, not to say he left, simply that he passed while I was still young. The memories I do have of the man are fond, he was a kind man, never really getting physical or using harsh words. The most I can recall was a quick and stern "stop that" with an explination as to why I shouldn't do something.
   When he passed, not many of  his personal belongings where left to remember him by. The odd picture here and there, being replaced over time with different memories. All that remained was a few nice clothes, in hopes I'd grow into them. His baseball glove that we'd play catch with, left unattended. A wooden cigar box and some unfinished liquors, sitting on the top of the entertainment stand,
   Over time the liquor bottles would get used up in the short months after his passing. The vodka and other expensive bottles saved for holidays and family gatherings. While the cheaper whiskeys disappearing in the short days between his passing, and his burial. Those difficult days turned into long and equally difficult years. Being especially difficult on my mother, as she seemed to never quite get over him.
   She'd become more reclusive over those years, taking an online sales rep job she could do from home. With most family gatherings being my maternal grandparent and the odd visit by an aunt or uncle. The older I grew it only worsened, I wasn't exactly the perfect child any parent would ask for. When I wasn't out in the woods behind the apartments, I was about the town with the other kids I called "friends".  Getting into various amounts of trouble from caught smoking pot behind the local convenience store , to smashing some mail boxes of abandoned homes.
   It wasn't until I was about twenty and my mother left for a weekend to visit her father in the hospital, that the cigar box caught my curiosity. At the time I had been sitting on the couch waiting for a "friend" to bring me a zip. The old wooden box sat atop the entertainment center caught my eye, I'd seen most of my life but never bothered to ask about it. So I went into the kitchen to grab the step ladder from between the fridge and counter.
   Looking over the top shelf, it was caked in nearly a decade and a half worth of dust. Never being dusted and simply used to place loose change that had never been picked back up. The box itself was pushed back near the wall, left to be forgotten. My mother never moved it after these years, or even appeared to have opened it. I figured that perhaps in this small wooden box, was a memento of my fathers for me to keep.
   I took the box with me to the couch while pulling a folding try along with me. I was hesitant to open the thing, it's small size deceptive of it's weight. Carved into the lid was his name, etched in deep with some nice Celtic knot work. I stared at the name, the name we shared, while running my finger through the deep curves of the knots. The loud banging of my front door awakening me from the trance.
   It was my friend with the bag of goodies, so I let him in and we sat back down on the living room couch.
"What's with that cool box?" he asked noticing the cigar box still on the small stand.
"Oh, its just something we've had laying around" I replied trying to dance around the details. "Wanna open it with me?"
   We had sat down and I kept trying to find a way to delay opening the box. I had been curious and wanted to open it, but there was still doubt in my mind. Rolling a blunt and trying to distract him from the fact I'd invited him to open the box with me. Though the idea of rolling a blunt only made him more excited to open the box. I assumed he thought I'd been stashing some weed away in it, when in actuality I had no idea what could have been inside.
   In those short moments that felt to me like an eternity, he had grabbed the box off the tray; sliding the lid off the box. Inside was a small pill bottled labeled for my father and a short snubbed nose revolver. The prescription had read Olanzapine, containing around five or six pills. The revolver on the hand lay loaded. Five shots and one empty casing. I had remembered seeing that gun before.
   It was a long time ago, that the memories where still distant and hazy. I had remembered my parents fighting, Dad had been making a scene after losing his third job that month. Mom was trying to tell him things would get better, and that he needed to keep taking his meds. The most memorable part was a loud thundering boom echoed through the apartment. That was the day my father had committed suicide.

Story Critique / My cousin the Taxidermist
« on: 08:57 PM, 01/20/19 »
My cousin was kinda a weird guy, I didn't see much of him despite living roughly in the same town. He had always lived out on a farm outside the city limits, but still in the same general area. Despite his awkward behavior, probably brought on by living so far from most people; he was a good person. He was also a damn good taxidermist, and I mean a damn good one.
He picked up the hobby from going hunting with his father and learning to stuff and mount bucks as trophies. He picked up the skill fast, my uncle was proud of him. I was damn proud of him, my cousin was an artist when it came to stuffing animals. Throughout high school he made a good amount of cash doing taxidermy for hunters in the area. Some of his work still sits in the local hunting store as a testament to his skill, and an old advert for his business.
He's been missing for nearly a year now, we've lost hope that he'll be seen again. Since my aunt and uncle have passed, the duty of assorting his affairs have been place on myself. So I took the time to go out to the old farm that has been in the family for generations, where my cousin had been raised and lived till his disappearance. Where he also had a large garage set up for cleaning and stripping game, as well as taxidermy.
I was the only person who say him regularly when he was still around. Regularly for us meant about once a month, we'd usually just hunt or fish in some of the surrounding land. Besides the hunters who'd come by when wanting his service, he had no one else. His disappearance while upsetting to most of the hunters, only held weight to me. He was my last living relatives, not including my children.
Going back through the house felt a little surreal, the house itself like a ghost. Everyone who lived there was gone now. Yet the photographs and furniture still sat, grampa's favorite chair, my aunts old dolls that she collected still on shelves. The trophies my cousin and uncle had from hunting, still on the walls or standing in the corners. The place was dusty but was just as it had always been, and I guess it was now mine.
The workshop was barren when I entered, no tools or works in progress. It seemed that my cousin must have left on his own accord, not letting anyone even me know. It wasn't until later that week when I received a letter did I wonder. It was from old man Jacobs, who owned a local storage facility. It was addressed to myself, asking to come by and clean out the units my cousin had been renting. He seemed to express sympathy for my loss, while giving me as much time that I need to swing by.
I went the next day to go clear out the thing left behind, figuring it was mostly old family mementos. I was a bit shocked when Mr. Jacobs told me there was three units, I hadn't a U-haul or a pick up and would have to make multiple trips. The first unit was just as I expected, old family furniture and boxes of photos. I took my time with these, looking back at photos of grampa and gramma's wedding. My dad and uncle in some of their early birthdays, being twins it was had to tell who was which. Ones of me and my cousin, back when things where better, back when I still had a family.
I had cleared it out, making sure to get everything. I even took the worn wardrobes back with me to the farm. I hadn't much use for the workshop so I could store thing there. I didn't sleep that night though, a heavy storm kept me up. I sat flipping through the family albums again and again, while making space for them on a shelf. During the windy night I heard a tapping. A branch from a bush under the window must have been hitting up against the house, something I'd have to look later.
The following day, I made my way to the storage units first thing in the morning. The second unit was bound to be full larger items. It sat next to the final unit that sat on the end of its row. When I finally got inside to look, it was a bit of a shock. From wall to wall it was covered in various stuffed animals and pelts. From full bears and mountain lions, perfectly mounted buck heads, to boxes of small and large pelts. Some of them seemed familiar, like the buck that head been caught in the barbed wire a few years back.
I remember that summer, we'd been out camping for the weekend and when we got back it was there. Stuck in the barbed wire of the fence, tangled something awful. In its desperation the buck managed to get a post out of the ground. Then managed only to get more wrapped up in it. The thing must have been there for a day because it reeked. It had that rotting meat smell, gamey and putrid. Not much of the thing would have been useful, but I guess the head was intact enough for something.
The other things I figured had minor imperfections or where to be sold online. He would post his stuff online from time to time when bills got overdue. Others would be marked with notes with prices and names. It wasn't unusual for a hunter to try and haggle after the item was made. Either because they didn't have enough on them or just didn't respect an artisans craft. So some of these had been held for a later payment or to be sold to buyers able to pay their worth. From time to time he'd donate some to nature museums, it was his form of charity.
I knew I wouldn't be able to take all this stuff with me in my sedan so I made a few calls. Desperate to get the bigger items sorted, I sold them cheaply to the locals who hunted the animals. Figured if my cousin left them all here then I could sell them for whatever I wanted. I loaded the boxes of pelts and hides in my car, figured a bear-skin run and old cattle hide where to good to pass. The smaller things would just be sold later, or used for projects. After waiting hours on this one guy to show up and get his moose, I finally had the place emptied.
Later while back at the house I had been so tired, I didn't want to mess around with the bushes. So I ordered a pizza and decided to browse the movie streaming services. I was about halfway through some show I'd put on to kill time, when it dawned on me. If my cousin did leave on his own accord, why did he leave all those stuffed animals unsold? Most people would sell them to make travel easier, or take them with for examples in a new place. My thoughts got side tracked when the pizza guy showed up, I tipped him an extra 10$ for the distance and put on "Old Boy".
I remember falling asleep on the couch at some point,  not being bothered to get up. Sometime in the night I woke up to use the bathroom, and heard that tapping noise again. I found it a bit strange considering it was a calm night. No wind or anything that could cause one of the branches on a bush to hit up against the house. I couldn't tell at the time if it was possible an animal in the trash cans or just the old house making noise. In all honesty I just to tired to want to investigate, something so mundane. I would just get some better trash cans and have the places looked at later in the week. Making sure the place is safe to live in and no animals can mess around in the trash.
The third and final day of cleaning out my cousins old storage was finally here. I was going to be glade when it was all over and I could just continue with things as normal. I was a bit worried however, the final storage unit was on the end of the row and was larger than the others. It was one of those storage spaces with its own little side door you can open instead always using the sliding one. I figured it would be even more stuffed animals and boxes of horns and hides. That I'd have to try and contact people to sell or take the things I didn't need.
So when I got to the storage center, I was going to open the main door and just take photos of the stuff. Go to a local pawn shop or the sporting store and see if anyone was interested. I remember the events that actually transpired all to clearly. I opened the garage style door and was greeted with a rancid odor. The hot, wet gamey smell of a carcass filled the air around me. A smell like an animal had been killed and in the process of being skinned. The unit itself contained a human corpse lying on the ground skinned and bare. Collapsed in front of a prefect effigy of my cousin, dressed in his Sunday best standing in a neutral position.
The police ruled the murder of my cousin as suicide, despite the obvious flaws in the logic. A person can't skin themselves while making a near lifelike representation of them at their best. However they saw a clear cut case in the fact that he was skilled in taxidermy, and was the only one known to have a key to the unit. I'm still fighting the system, demanding they look further into the case then nothing at all. I can still hear the tapping, and I think I know that it is. It sound a bit like a small metal object tapping against the glass of a window.

Story Critique / The figure in the hall
« on: 11:25 PM, 01/16/19 »
So there's a story I must tell, it happened to me nearly a decade and a half ago. I don't quite remember the finer details or even an date. All I do know is it happened when I was roughly around the ages of four through six. Back when I lived in a house built in by my family in the early 1900's, by my great grandparents with help from their own parents. It was one of the first homes in the area, yet was built on the steepest spot of a hill. Where the gradual slope made its decline to a typical Nebraskan hill. My great grandmother would get the driveway paved almost yearly, until the end slopped nearly to the extreme of the hill.
They lived in the house until they passed, handing it off to my grandfather. At least five of my family members passed within the walls of the home; who knows how many may have passed in the area before them, natives or travelers heading out Oregon way but cut short. My great grandparents passed in their bedroom, within a year from each other of natural causes. My great grandmothers sister who never married lived and passed in the smaller of the rooms, again of "natural causes". My great aunt lived in the basement of the split level home, even in my youth I never saw her. However when she died I had to help removed her nightmare of a cat, and finally the last known death was my grandfather.
I do remember that day fairly well, my mother was taking me to see him; which was a normal occurrence, because I hated daycare. Even though it was out of her way my mother would take me over to see my grandpa to spend time with him. That day when we arrived at the house none of the lights seem to be on. This was the time before mainstream cell phones, and defiantly before my parents had gotten one. At the time we assumed he must have been asleep still, and we had our own key. My mother opened the door and the place was dark, but regardless I ran up the stairs before my mother could do anything. At the top of the stairs in the hallway to my left, he laid motionless. From there the days events become a blur, I was too stunned unable to fully comprehend the situation, just knowing something had changed.
This is how we came to live in the house, we were the last members of the family who still lived in the area and we simply couldn't let it go. It was in this house that some of the most unexplainable things happened to me from hearing noises that weren't there, like a television while no one else was home. Or the garage door opening and when going to check the door was closed. Things that could be seen as a child's imagination running a bit freely. While living in this house I developed night terrors for no explainable reason, that still plague me from time to time. One night however I saw something that is completely unexplainable.
I awoke in the night having to use the bathroom, much like any child would. My bedroom was the smallest one, where my mothers great aunt had slept in previously, it was across the hall from the bathroom. I had climbed down from the oddly large bed my parents had gotten me, one that covered most of the space with its various drawers. Now like I mentioned before my memories of the events aren't clear, but I do know what I saw. It was when I opened my door a very tall and stark white figure was making its way down the hall to the other rooms in the house.
The figure was obscenely tall, extending in height to the ceiling of the hall. It must have been around eight to ten feet tall, to tall to be either my mother or father. It seemed feminine, though there was no visible indication of any gender. The figure just gave off a presence that seemed to delicate to be a mans. It wore a long flowing cloak or gown, as stark white as it's skin, that contrasted against the hall giving out a small glow. The gown was similar  to that of a woman in a medieval painting of a handmaid or possibly a nun. The only notable items where the long dress with a head piece, that covered most of the head except the facial area. The features of the figures face seemed to be sharp, but not noteworthy enough for me to remember.
It was at this point, for whatever reason I simply shut my door and crawled into bed, to the best of my recollection I just went back to sleep. Never wanting to question about the figure in the hall, but by how my older sister seemed to react to strange noises I felt she had seen it too. I still think about the figure to this day questioning what it was or meant. I don't think it was a burglar simply by the way they where dressed, and how nothing was missing or broken the next day. The figure itself almost seemed to pop out at you like when you use white out on lined paper. It just didn't blend in right and almost screams to be seen. Perhaps one day I'll go back to that house and find my answers.

This if a challenge just for fun, fore bored people of all writing levels. I have a habit of grabbing books and just reading a sentence out of context and then flipping through to another page and acting like its the next part. This usually makes my friends laugh as the results can be ridiculous. So because of this I want to see what people can do with a random part of a story.
 Each person who wants to participate takes any book they currently have on hand, and use it was a jumping off point. Just flip through to any page and grab a random paragraph. Use this as the opening of your story (yes you can rework the paragraph but the purpose is to write around a random opening.). Please as either a note or something give credit to the author and story who's paragraph you borrowed.
Personally I'd recommend stories with a good amount of normal situations that will lead well into any story.  I also recommend you write your story either on the critique board and link it here or write as a response. Again this is for fun and just to give you a story opening you can't control.

My random paragraph:
 "He almost laughed, but when they lifted him, the pain overwhelmed him. He dropped back into darkness..."
borrowed from Blind by Kevin T. Stein published in The Dragons At War, a Dragon Lance saga collection of short stories.

It was a fairly normal Saturday night for me, I was bored, lonely, and willing to make bad decisions. My friends where busy with previous engagements, and I had recently quite my job; a habit that I can't seem to kick. My final paycheck from that job had just came in, and of course it was not going to be enough to last me long. So I decided to visit one of the many bars on the main strip of my small Midwestern city.
The place was called "The Underground" because it was a repurposed tornado shelter that was never filled in, and converted into a bar around the mid 60's. It was your typical place, a small kitchen serving overpriced slop, the wrap around bar of cheap liquors, and a few billiard tables. Most of the patrons where your weekend warrior and hick types. It was a busy night, free pool as long as you where drinking. I figured I could probably hustle a few bucks off some stupid drunks while feigning my own drunkenness.
I ordered a pitcher of some cheap beer, found a little table to settle down and scope out my victims. There was already plenty of jackasses talking big, while missing ever shot they took. It wouldn't be hard to scam them, as long as I used the right method.In the end I decided to go with a "dumb luck" routine, noticing they where already placing money on the games. After whittling down the pitcher to the halfway mark, I stumbled my way over to the guys at the pool table. Acting over eager to play but unsure about placing any money down, as far as they knew.
In the end I walked away from that table about a hundred bucks richer. The guys where either already to drunk or to stunned to try anything, at least not in the bar. I returned to my corner and had a couple more drinks, while watching over the rest of the hall. Not many people where putting money down, and the ones that where seemed to look at me weary. When I noticed a chick at the bar around my age. Which is unusual for this place, most chicks our age either attended college parties or didn't really drink anywhere but at home. Or they all together didn't drink or party, focusing on their studies and not their social life.
She was stunning, sitting there at the bar ordering cocktails one after another. All made up for a night out on the town. She sat alone, with a few stools between her and the next patron. She had on a tight little plaid skirt, the best way to describe the color would have to be greyish. Underneath she wore fishnets, torn just above the knee with some high heeled boots that rode up to mid-calf. Under her crop jacket she wore an old Sum41 tee, the one from around the time of their second album "Does this look Infected". It looked like she'd had it since back around then, cause it fit poorly in all the best possible ways. A bit tighter near the chest, while resting above the navel. Her dark hair was styled in a shot layered bob cut, with muted toned makeup applied lightly just to gently highlight her features.
I figured I would try and make a night of it, chat her up and see if it leads anywhere. So I went over to the bar, ordered a few doubles sending some her way. She accepted them and even met my gaze, I figured since I was the only guy her age in the whole place I had a clear shot. That was if she wasn't looking for older guys, who'd probably lose their cash before getting anywhere with her. Surprisingly she made her way down to me before I could even get a chance to prepare myself. Things seemed to be turning out just like I could hoped they would.
I remember clearly that Def Leppard's "Love Bites" was playing at that moment. A song I knew well, having been dragged to nearly every show they played near where I lived. All I could think at the time was that she was looking fine, and now sitting at the stool next to me. She ordered us some more shots before starting up a conversation.
Getting a better look at her she was quite pale, and it only served to make her steely blue eyes all the more enchanting. Her smile was bright, each tooth sat straight and perfect. We talked about relatively shallow topics, favorite bands and concerts. Movies we'd seen over a thousand times and could spew off every line in the directors commentary. It was the standard getting to "know" someone, when in reality you could probably care less about the actual person. Choosing to focus on the more physical aspects of them while trying to imagine the fun you could have.
I was honestly surprised with how much we both had in common, down to our favorite film. Wes Cravens New Nightmare, the last and definitely most tongue in check of his "Nightmare" films. We where both fans of horror, from the classics to the laughably awful ones. Luckily I was able to get at least a feigned expression of impressed when bringing up the widescreen VHS fact. Most people aren't aware that Wes had to make the VHS copies in widescreen; because you could see Freddy's hat when he's supposed to suddenly pop out in front of Heather in the final dream encounter.
Most of the conversation continued in this vein, mainly about horror flicks. We didn't even bother giving each other our names; but that was kind of the point wasn't it. Eventually after a heated debate about weather Jason or Freddy had won their little bout. For the record Freddy wins because he brought back memories of his terror, which would allow him to return. She invited me to her place to re-watch the film so it was fresh in our minds. I would say everything was going to plan, both hers and mine.
So we left the bar, ditching out on the tab by putting it on the guys who'd lost to me at pool earlier. I wasn't shocked when she said she didn't have a car, making mine the only option to get to her place. Most people probably don't drive to a bar then pound down drinks expecting to drive back. This would only mean that I'd be relied on to get her home. She gave me directions as we went, a left here and take that street ahead. All while learning heavily over the center console, her breasts pressing hard against my shoulder as she drunkenly supported herself on me. Her breath was moist and sour, clearly she'd drank more than I thought.
Her place was an apartment in an old house that had been converted, the neighborhoods were full of similar places. All the large houses built during pioneer times, now run down slums for the trash the settlers decedents became. Her apartment was in the back and on the top floor, that had probably been an attic at one point in time. Only three apartments used this entrance, connecting to the main area through the laundry hall. It wasn't anything special, just a small studio with no sign of any room mates. The only furniture besides the stove and fridge in the kitchenette was an old pullout sofa and a TV. She popped in the DVD and we sat on the stained and ragged mattress.
It was now that I knew fully that no one would miss her. However I decided to play along just a bit longer. It wasn't far into the movie that she leaned in closer than before, her breath hot on my neck. She continued to nuzzle up against me, as placed my arm around her. She was kissing my neck and breathing heavily. She placed a hand on my chest, slowly working her way to my groin. I drew her closer in and kissed her, she tasted like a myriad of spirits and liquor. Making her lips like an intoxicating poison all on their own. She made her way into my lap, exactly where I wanted, no needed her to be.
She leaned back in and I went to whisper into her ear. "You shouldn't have invited me in." I told her but before she could let it sink in, I did. Bearing my fangs, plunging them deep into the jugular; getting what  I was after all along. I don't know if she felt any pain, as my own experience is but a faded memory. From the sounds she made, it's was as euphoric for her as it is for myself. They always made noises of pained ecstasy, as if the last moments of their life was both an orgasm and a stroke. I drained her dry not a single drop left, unable to control myself once the sweet ichor had touched my starved lips.
Once the deed was done I sat there in her apartment, unsure if I should pity or envy the poor girl. She was so easy to get alone, yet she could experience the one thing I've longed for decades, release. I let an idea lull in my mind until finally deciding, she would not die here. So preparing to do something I hadn't done in countless years, I slit my own wrist. Filling my mouth with my own bitter dark ichor, then giving her one more kiss. Forcing the blood from my mouth into hers, a process that once done would bind us. For better or worse we would always end up back to each other, unable to stay apart. Until the force that bound us was broken by the death of one, or I released her from my servitude.
I left a note about the true nature of the events that went on, before leaving into the night. Giving all she'll need to know to find me if she so wished, and most do. She will come either to thank me or to curse my name. Now there is nothing more to do but wait, hoping she didn't do anything too stupid in the wake of her new dawning. Maybe I'll even bother to get to know her name this time around.
(**Note** please leave some feedback, it would be a shame if you ended up just another feed bag. I added a few sentences from the rough draft and reworked some parts.)

Story Critique / I think my apartment is haunted
« on: 07:21 AM, 01/ 1/19 »
I moved into a small studio apartment in November of 2018. I was finally considered an adult, I had my own little fortress of solitude. I could do whatever I wanted, as long as it didn't break my agreement. The owner of the building had told me that people didn't seem to last in the place that long, and thus I didn't have a proper lease. It wasn't long after that I started hearing and seeing strange things.
Now I didn't initially think much of it, when I was a kid I suffered from odd auditory and visual hallucinations. Some of these where your typical things out the corner of your eye, or hearing your name called when it wasn't. So I simply just thought that whatever caused them as a child was still a very real factor in my life. The voices I heard in my apartment where three distinguished male voices.
It started the first week I'd been there, at random times I'd hear someone talk. Originally I thought it was a neighbor, being loud enough for me to hear. However after getting to know my neighbors and the sounds they made through the walls; I came to the conclusion that it wasn't them. The voices continued to persist, becoming more frequent the longer I lived in the apartment. Things began to spiral out of control, around a week and a half after moving in.
I was coming home from work one night and my lights wouldn't turn on. My initial thought was the bulbs needed changed, or the power company made a mistake. When suddenly they came back on, but the walls where secreting a green slime. The lights flickered as the voices returned, giggling and snickering until the finally proclaimed in unison "Nosferatu!".
At the time I was so tired and annoyed from my long day I simply shouted "That joke hasn't been funny in like seven years!".
"Don't ruin this for me now." one of the voices had responded in a deep stilted mocking tone.
The lights had stopped flickering at this point, but my walls where still covered in goop. I cleaned it up with a towel, making sure it didn't leave any kind of damage that would get me thrown out. Then I grabbed a ginger ale from the counter and made myself a dinner. Nothing more was out of the ordinary till my little blue YETI brand cooler fell of the counter. With a low mumbling voice saying undistinguishable words.
At the time I just assumed that I must have bumped it so that it was at a tipping point. The contents shifting and eventually making it fall. After finishing my food and picking the cooler back up, It was already late. I'd been up nearly all day working a double shift, dealing with crappy people. So I decided to get some sleep and enjoy my day off in the morning. As I drifted off, the voices seemed to come and converse with one another.
I learned to just ignore things I heard late at night when I was a child, so I did my best ignoring them till I passed out. While I slept, I dreamed of being covered in spiders like a lot of spiders. I mean a copious amount just crawling in my skin, covering every amount of my body. Consuming me and forming a vaguely human shape, like some sort of spiders man. When I was suddenly and violently awoken by the crash of a toaster oven next to my head. I was tired and delirious at the time and just sat there on my bed screaming.
When I saw the visage of some soy-boy hovering over me as I had been sleeping. I tried to muster up some form of courage and shouted at the figure. "Who the fuck are you? And why are you in my apartment?", it came out embarrassingly meek.
"I'm a ghost, well half ghost." The pale man said through the hair that hung down half his face.
"How can you be half ghost and if you say your dad was a ghost, I swear I'm going to get you exercised!" I said in a tired yet angrily annoyed toned. Not really waiting for any response, just hoping to doze back off.
I still live in that apartment with all the strange things that seem to happen there. The "ghosts" still try to annoy me but I've grown quite found of them. Their antics are just a small part of my life, but every time I still brings a smile to my face. That was until I came home and received a letter. It was a restraining order addressed to me, from that toaster over that nearly crushed my head.

Story Critique / The Hidden message in Twin Peaks
« on: 12:52 AM, 12/26/18 »
The phrase "Who killed Laura Palmer?" is one the American public knows quite well, at least to those familiar with the TV show "Twin Peaks".  For the uncultured few either to young or uninterested in cinematic arts, the show was an American soap-opera with a unique plot. It centered around an FBI agent Dale Cooper, assigned to a strange murder in the forests of the American north-west. The murder of Laura Palmer was the greatest question of the early 90's ever proposed on the small screen. The show itself was the brain child of David Lynch; for those who don't recognize the name you might know him as the director of many Nine Inch Nails music videos.
   It's well known by film analysis that Lynch's earlier work "Eraser Head" was influenced by his life. To be exact it's a metaphor for the feelings he had when reluctantly becoming a father  nearly a decade earlier.  The reason this is important is because it plays into the reason I believe Lynch created "Twin Peaks". When Lynch was younger, despite what he may tell you, he once attended a party on the outskirts of Philadelphia; where he was living at the time. From the second hand accounts I could gather from the lucky few who knew parts of the story; the party had considerable amounts of drugs and booze. Lynch was in  attendance because of his friends in the local independent film and art community. Needless to say Lynch partook in the festivities, it being the late 60's early 70's from what my sources could guess.
   It was after this party when Lynch, now intoxicated on cheap scotch and cocaine, that he made the decision to drive back home. From what my main source, who I'll refer to as "Uncle Jerry" Lynch wasn't in his right set of mind. Uncle Jerry was another eccentric artist in the Philadelphia area, who was in attendance at the party and knew the man well. He claims he was inspiration for the strange brother of Mr. Horne in the series. I met Jerry at a local film and television event in Omaha, Nebraska; where he settled doing work with Alexander Payne from time to time. We had gotten to talking at a bar in the hotel and Lynch came up, more importantly Twin Peaks came up. Jerry ordered himself another whiskey and began to tell me the story; as he heard it many years ago from Lynch himself.
   When Lynch made his decision to leave the party, he did so without making much of a fuss. He simply slipped out of the main room the party was at, then made is way to his car. He had gotten behind his wheel and made his way back home into the city. Jerry said Lynch described the ride as "Anguishing" his mind racing and jumping between focal points. One moment focusing dead ahead in the road, the other at the needle in the speedometer. A needle that gradually climbed it's way up the numbers, as Lynch was gripping the wheel white-knuckled. He didn't even notice the woman in the middle of the road until after the loud crack, as she was flung over the car. Lynch supposedly described that moment as "Sobering", slowing the car to a stop to see what had just happened.
   Lynch is said to have stood there in shock and awe of the whole situation, not quite believing it all. He couldn't believe that he just hit a woman with his car, or why she would have been in the middle of a highway this late at night. There was no sign of another car that could have broken down, or a house nearby that she could have lived in. More important was that she seemed to be a high-school student, she looked fairly young and had the shirt of a school in Philly on. Lynch still effected by the cocaine was in a frantic panic when he realized she wasn't moving. Despite his better judgement he dragged her off the road and into the woods at the side of the road. Later retelling these details to Jerry, expressing his guilt and shame for not doing the right thing that night.
   It was this guilt that lead him to eventually write "Twin Peaks". He used it as a form of therapy, using Laura as a stand in for the nameless girl he accidently killed. This is the reason Laura seemed to have lived a life so unbelievable of a teenager in a small north-eastern town. Her extravagant behavior a mirror of the night and life style Lynch wanted to put far behind himself. Laura's reckless behavior also helped Lynch rationalize why the girl he hit was ever in the middle of the road in the first place. Far out of the city limits late at night, with no sign of a vehicle or residence to justify it. Lynch attempted to place partial blame on the corpse he left on the roadside, but found he wasn't able to. Even when he tried to give response to why she was out there, his mind could only feel remorse and even pity. For all he knows she could have been dragged out there by a classmate and ran from him when unwanted advances persisted. Only to get run down by the first car that came across her as she attempted to make her way home. The other most uttered phrase from the work I s "Fire walk with me." a phrase associated with the death of Laura Palmer. A phrase that Lynch must have came up with from the guilt he held onto for all those years. Using the phrase and show to admit a sin he didn't mean to commit. Much like how the killer of Laura never could have knowingly caused her harm, but in the end was the very person to end her life.

Story Critique / Omaha
« on: 11:16 PM, 12/23/18 »
   I know I'm taking a big risk to my personal safety, but I feel this information needs to be shared. For those who may not know Omaha Nebraska is considered, by some, to be the heart of America. The city itself is surrounded by suburbs, one of which is Bellevue. On the outskirts is an Air force base known as Offit. If you know any Airmen then it's possible you know about this base. This base holds a few little known secrets.
   The first secret that is probably known to anyone willing to do a google search. The base was used to secure Former President George W. Bush, shortly after the 9/11 attack in 2001. The reason why may shock you, obviously the location of the base is a clear advantage. Any outside force would have to make their way into the heartland to harm the president. However there is another reason, the STRATCOM portion of the base is one of the few places in America where Nuclear weapons can be armed and launched. I personally knew one of the staff members trusted with a key needed to preform a launch. Each personnel needed represents one of the three core branches of the military; the Army, Air force, and Navy. They also act as one of the many steps for the launch sequence in any situation.
   This is just the secret that the military isn't afraid to let slip, at least to people who live close enough to be curious. It's used as the key reason for the high security procedures, but that's not the real reason. Due to its relatively empty surroundings, along with it's already high security, the base has a well funded R&D department. Most of the projects are simple aircraft and weaponry advancement. Small things like increased fuel efficiency and experimental craft; the large sections of flat plains allow for efficient emergency landings necessary for early stage developments. Beneath the layers of the base and the Nuclear shelter lay another structure.
   This is a place where the R&D department really spend most of the budget, this is the shadow base the government denies all existence. There is one other such base perceived to exist, deep into the American Mojave Area 51. Both bases are Air force operations with connections to nuclear testing, set in relatively flat land. Now as for what's beneath Area 51, I can not say for sure but I know what's beneath Offit.
   I do not know the proper term for the underground complex, so I will just refer to it as O-002. I've heard a few stories about the base O-002, from my source at the STRATCOM complex. Each of his stories are played off as just an urban legend told by bored guards in the lonesome nights. However, I've managed to get access to the "legendary" sub-base. I lived outside of the city limits for a portion of my teenage years. There was a section of land that my friends and I use to do Airsoft on. The farmland was about half an hour away by car from the edge of the base. On the land was bunker like structure, that lead to a tunnel.
   The tunnel itself was long and sloped gently downwards, lit with large overhanging florescent tubes. My friends and I decided to come back and explore it another night, when we weren't holding mock firearms and dressed in fatigues. It took us about a month to return and head down the tunnel. We went and gave our parents the impression we where making an overnight trip of our games. We had packed bags and brought along our gear just to make them believe. We left the gear at the entrance to the tunnel and went with only our backpacks of snacks.
   The tunnel was long, extremely long, our little day trip seemed to take us ages. At the time we simply thought it was because of the dull grey walls. The floor continued to slope slowly and steadily downward, leading us further beneath the surface. Eventually we came to a metal staircase section that lead us further beneath down. Each flight bringing us closer to answers at a faster pace than the gradual slope of the entry way. It was on these stairs that I began to experience migraines, as far I know none of the others experience a similar effect.
   We made our way down the entire staircase, before my migraine caused us to slow down. My friends worried, starting to second guess the idea of going further. Trying to use my headaches as an excuse to turn back and leave this place alone. I was stubborn, wanting to continue after taking a short rest. It was during this time that I became weaker, with my head throbbing steadily. I remember passing out, there at the bottom of the stairs; when I came through I was in a small room.
   I had been sat in a chair, cuffed to a table; similar to those you see in TV and movies for interrogations. I sat there unsure of where exactly I was until it dawned on me, this must be the base. A man dressed in military attire entered the room from a single metal door, he came to the table and sat opposite me. He asked question after question, but each one seemed to make less sense than the previous. I asked him where my friends where, but I never received a response.
   After hours of questioning my migraine returned but with it a voice. The voice was deep and slow, but indecipherable. The military personal opposite me seemed to notice my discomfort and began to ask  me questions of my health. His words where muted and seemed to be drowned out by the other. Now repeating the same sounds, in some sort of chant rhythmically like a heartbeat. I still couldn't make out the words that where being said, either by the man or the voice in my head.
   I eventually passed out once again, only to come to in yet another room. It was a sterile looking hospital room, I was unsure if it was still apart of the base or not. The voice then returned louder than before, it seemed to seep into the room from walls. As if the source of it was just on the other side of each wall. Enveloping me in its rhythmic chant, now understandable, it told me "You are mine, and I am yours."
   It felt like weeks I was in that room, with food being slid through a slit in the door. The voice persisted, there where times when it seemed to lessen. Yet it never silenced, always their in the back of my mind eating away at me. When one night it suddenly seemed to cease, and when I awoke the next morning I was back in my room. As if nothing had happened, my parents never mentioned my week long absence. The friends I went with that day never showed back up, no word of their disappearance at school or any of the papers. The voice still comes back to me occasionally, it tells me things you couldn't comprehend. It tells me to return to the base, and "Free it".

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