Well, I haven’t written in about two weeks. I know, I know, I’m going to get back to it soon, probably this weekend. But for now, here are a few little excerpts of stories that I had been thinking of writing, started writing, then realized I didn’t really like how it was turning out.
So basically, this is some poorly written filler until I start writing something real again.
(Cont.: Upon pasting some of these in, I’m reminded that I had wanted to continue a few of them. It’s possible I’ll get around to it eventually, but not very likely. I’ve got so much more stuff, much better stuff, that’s just waiting for me to write it.)
(Cont. #2: I just went scrolling through a list of my assorted stories and found some of these from way back when. Years ago, probably. Figured I’d put them in here anyway.)
I can only say little words. Little sentences. I feel like I used to be able to do more. But I don’t know why. Or I don’t know why I can’t. I can’t think back. I can’t think.
I scanned through the webpage and searched additionally for a few things I found on it that were applicable to my situation. Once I had assimilated all the knowledge I could find about them, I closed the internet browser and sat down. I’d have to plan for a few things. It would be tricky balancing them, but it was doable, especially for me. I set to work immediately.
The woman with the tight blonde ponytail sat down in front of the police chief.
“So what can you tell me?”
“Jackson Tailor has quite the interesting history. It seems that he’s studied and worked with nearly everything possible: mathematics, physics, chemistry, geology, astronomy, psychology, philosophy, medicine, criminology, cryptology, history, and the list goes on. He appears to be incredibly skilled in them all, and is fluent in any number of languages. But it looks like that wasn’t enough and he may have moved into crime. He’s one of our top suspects right now.”
“Very good. Do you have any descriptions of him?”
“I don’t need any. The internet is flooded with his achievements and writings, as well as quite a few photographs. He’s famous in the many circles he has been involved in.”
“What about his personality? Were you able to find anyone who knew him well?”
“No. But I’ll tell you one thing, sir, he’s smart. I don’t mean smart as just IQ – though he certainly is a genius – but he can read people and surroundings and… everything. It seems that he’s able to plan ahead to any possible outcome and make precautions. But there’s one other thing.”
“He’s hated by a lot of people. Pretty much everyone who has ever met him, actually. I talked with several of them, and they couldn’t really say a reason, but, well, he makes quite an impression. He’s respected for his intelligence and extreme insightfulness in mysteries about nearly anything, but they hate him all the same.”
The lethal injection was an interesting concoction and a very efficient one at what it did, but not without its weaknesses.
I no longer dream. I do not mean this in some “hopes and ambitions” sense, but in a quite literal one. I do not dream.
In their stead, I have living nightmares that last through the night, nights of me sleeping fitfully.
Some may think that these are dreams, or perhaps dreams within a dream – a dream of me sleeping fitfully and in those brief “respites” of sleep – the dreams within dreams – having these horrid nightmares.
But I know it is not so. I have no actual proof of this fact, but I know it to be true. I have, for quite some time, immersed myself in the study of dreams, and personal exploration into them; lucid dreaming and the such.
But then, about a month ago, something changed. I no longer dreamed, but was eternally haunted by these nightmarish episodes. I say haunted because these, unlike dreams which often fade from memory before we even awaken, stay with me throughout the day, casting a deep shadow upon my
At 13:20, 11/40/235 (7/24/143)
He washed his hands, eyes down in the sink as he covered his hands in soap and methodically washed it off. He looked up into the mirror above him and saw a tall figure dressed all in black standing behind him. He whipped around and backed up to the sink.
“Who are you?”
The figure remained silent, but lifted a long black scythe out of its sleeve.
The figure pulled back the scythe and began to swing it towards the man, but just before it made contact with him, he put up his hands and interrupted.
“Wait, wait. So you’re the reaper, right? Death?”
A slow nod was the figure’s only action.
“Why are you coming for me now? I mean…”
A shock came over the figure and it threw back its hood. The head beneath was… not a head. Eyes in an otherwise featureless black vapor, but somehow it still gave the image of a face. The ways the vapor shifted could be understood as expressions on the face, though the man was sure it was just a trick of his eyes.
For the first time, the figure spoke. The voice did not seem to have any one origin, but was instead exuded from the room itself.
“Edward MacCallough, you are?”
“No,” the man responded. “I’m Edward McCallough. A lot of people get those names mixed up. Not… saying that you’re a person. Wait, did that sound insulting? I didn’t mean it to…”
The figure held up a hand.
“I apologize for the accident that I made.”
A low grumbling sound like thunder filled the room, which Edward took to be a “hmm” from the reaper.
“I will make up for this accident, Edward McCallough. I do not believe I can have done such a thing. But it has happened. I will before I leave tell you when you, Edward McCallough, will die. I cannot do such things normally but under the current circumstances I will. In addition, I will give you a hint as to how to “cheat” me at my death game.”
Edward relaxed slightly.
“Okay, what is it?”
“You will be dying at 5:24 on October 29th, of the year 241 F.Q. You may be able to avoid me and thus postpone your expiration if you have your mouth and both your hands full of salt.”
The reaper did another slow nod, then the folds of his cloak began to flutter and spin around him, gaining in speed and violence until it was one constantly shifting column of blackness. This slowly faded away, vapor floating away from it, until it was entirely gone.
The words set down here make up but a small example of the strange occurrences that happen regularly in Anchor Asylum, located in New Jersey. People called it that, but I knew the truth. It wasn’t an asylum, exactly. It was a place that the government locked up anything that was “different” than it should be.
Weird things. Very weird things.
I hope you will continue reading my chronicles of the time I spent there.
As I stepped through the doors, I felt a chill run down my spine. Or perhaps not a chill. A jolt.
There was no
I board the bus with my ticket in hand. They had given the tickets out for free, oddly enough, a one-week trip. You had to provide food and such for yourself, but other than that, it was free. I figured it was worthwhile, so joined in.
The driver asks for my ticket and I hand it to him, a short, tired-looking man, who looks like he had been sitting in that bus seat for his entire life.
He doesn’t even really look at the ticket, just nods at me and tells me there are seats in the back. The bus is already quite full, and I walk towards the back of the bus and choose an empty seat next to a window.
The first time I discovered my gift, I was in a cold bath. A hair drier was nearby on high.
I was desperate; I had nowhere else to go, nothing else to do. Death was my only choice, and I longed for it.
I was a religious person – devoutly Lutheran for the past twelve years – but, even if everything I believed was wrong, even if to die would not bring me to God but instead to an eternity of oblivion, even if I was on the “wrong side of things”, so to speak, not following the “true” religion, and would spend eternity in hell, I must. Oblivion and hell would be better; they are stable. Their nonexistence or torture would remain and endure for all time, without change. Life was chaos. It held no meaning, and “to die is gain”.
His eyes darted all over me in an instant.
“You crack your knuckles?”
“Yeah,” I said.
He pondered. “I don’t like you. You get off on something, don’t you?”
I inclined my head questioningly.
“What is it? Drugs? Alcohol? Sex? Violence?”
“No, none of those.”
“I can tell when someone is lying, you know. You aren’t telling the truth. You aren’t exactly lying, but you aren’t telling the truth.”
I ran a hand through my hair. “Nothing, really.”