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Twenty Ten FourWe never notice.
Our alarm doesn't ring, it sings
Pharell beating our mornings
till we remove from our snooze. We
forgot the tink-tinker or
and emerge the same.
The same commute to work:
Heads sunk, tired eyes drunk by
thumb movements. Our ears dumb
locked into a Will-I-Am trance. Not
a glance of the changing scenes;
the only birds we see are angry.
The same office echoes with
of emails blaming others and smack-talking.
instead of actual talking. We fall for
the hype of Skype and only Siri’s
voice drones narrow answers
we accept as truth.
The same playground, huddled corners;
Children pick a blackberry instead of
picking blackberries, for their late-night
Facebook fights. Words will always hurt see:
no kids to hit with sticks and stones. Unless
there’s an ap for it.
What do we do when stop?
Orwell you're too late
took thirty years to demonstrate your
doublethink and we all cling to
The Beard of intrigueHis beard was fascinating.
It was a loom, woven with intricate detail and so long it would put any wizard to shame. Each pattern in the coarse mound of hair seemed to share a secret. Perhaps they were memories- I’d heard others collect memories in such ways- etchings on their bodies, collecting objects and even journal writing. Maybe this man was his own journal.
The rest of him seemed positively ordinary. He rested in his chair in a blue business suit- albeit a little outdated for fashion, but suited the character I had begun to form in my head for him. His sorrowful eyes narrowed on a frustrated brow of greying features, illuminating a sense of tiredness. Perhaps the beard in all its might was weighting down. His skin was as rough as sandpaper, blotches and scars etching his hands and face with no revelation to the puzzle of his beard.
I wanted to move closer, debating whether it was rude to ask. The very notion excited me as I built up theories as to why his beard had the
Shopping and Wizards.A thousand bags
shuffle down the high street between
clasped hands, scrunched with new purchase.
They’re buggy-dodging the determined mothers,
the rushed businessmen-- a pinball
machine shopping centre.
A green-robed man, tall with wand and hood
must be a wizard. He’s happily
procuring sushi and sparkling water
whilst his companion;
short with her piercings and jeans treats him
as if he wore the same.
Down the high street,
two track-suited parents
zoom past on their children’s scooters—
half-smoked fags between fingers yell
how fucking amazing this is.
spotted teen raps
his love for Jesus on a muffled
He raps for the Father,
He raps for the Son
and Holy Spirit.
He raps for peace, for hope, for you.
In a corner,
Brown eyes, hefty tears,
a snot-ridden face--
four years old.
A train runs through the mall toot-tooting
as grumpy shoppers move out of the way.
Napo 8- SusanWhy did you lock her out of heaven
and throw the key
into the lions land?
A beautiful girl enjoying
a new fantasy to live.
She'd stopped believing, but
faith stays in a heart longer
than a head.
"She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now,
and she'll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age"
Napo 7- Teen of the 90'sI wanted to be Posh Spice because my
hair was brown bobbed and she dated David
Beckham; I wanted to marry him. I
had no internet and recorded songs
on the radio to tape, daring to
pause and knock out the DJ’s droll. I sang
to S Club and thought I was the coolest
in my smiley faced top and my yingyang
friendship necklaces. You had to know the
Macarena not just for weddings but
school discos too and then every steps routine
to fit in. Slow dances with boys made me
wish again that they were David Beckham
and not greasy teens with bad curtains for
hair. They pressed themselves against you before
travelling to the next girl in leopard
print skirt. Viva forever was merely
a fantasy ; one I’d dream the whole of
the nineties, hoping my teenage self could
find her inner strength, her true girl power.
Napo 6- IreneShe left you a letter
outwitting at last the greatest.
A photograph, filched;
a King’s humiliation.
In your eyes she
holds the highest.
Napo 4- Warrior with painted faceThere’s a warrior with a painted face
and streaks of black across his chest; he stands
wild with pride. His merciless eyes ignited by the
echoes of fallen enemies. He slew
two hundred men and just scars mark their defence.
There’s a warrior with a painted face
who prays to gods mightier than he; he kneels
arms open to implore. He calls upon his army
to pray with him; equals once more. He watches
embers burn before retiring to his tent.
There’s a warrior with a painted face
and inside his heart rests a son and daughter
sleeping. There is a reason he is
Napo 3- Leaving the Train Station
Leaving the train station
alone I watch strangers head home.
The waves for yellow cabs and
stench of fresh-lit cigarettes, I let
the cold cloud white breath.
Even at midnight, a long-coated businessman
hurries past with laptop bag bulging and blackberry to ear. Behind me,
a clip-clack of heels and giggles-
their night hasn’t ended.
Across the road, three youths in hooded
tops kick a can whilst eating chips only stopping
as clip-clacks pass them and swoon
immaturity. Swear words exchange.
In the ice-wind rubbish travels as if taking
a commute, tapa-tapping the concrete.
Exhausted I can only wait with
white breath etching blue hands desperate to be
warmed. Eyes fight; tired and
Creepypasta: A Rotting PrisonJessie had suffered an unusually bad dream. It had seemed so real. He was on his deathbed and detected the cold of the Reaper’s grasp tightening around his bones, his veins, his mind. It had seemed so, so real, more real than anything before. The voices of his family, though nearby in the literal sense, had seemed very distant. And he remembered closing his eyes in the dream and…
…and waking up just now. But it had all been a dream. So why couldn’t he move his arms or legs? Or anything else? Why couldn’t he open his mouth to call for help? Some form of sleep paralysis? Or a stroke? Or-
It was then that Jessie detected it, a whiff of that pungent aroma, the rotting putrefaction of a human corpse. His own body, decaying with his mind trapped inside. He tried to scream, but his wasted shell of a body wouldn’t respond. Not like anyone would hear him in his coffin under six solid feet of earth.
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
Creepypasta: Nightmare of NightmaresEvery night when Wendy tucked her daughter Chrissy into bed, Chrissy would beg for her mother to check under the bed for monsters. Ordinarily this wouldn’t be so unusual, but Chrissy was almost twelve years old now. She hoped she wouldn’t have to take her daughter to counseling to sort this out. But tonight Chrissy didn’t make her usual pleaded request.
“Don’t you want me to check for the monsters, Chrissy?” she asked, praying her daughter would answer in the negative.
“I know that the monsters under my bed won’t hurt me tonight, mom” Chrissy said.
Wendy was elated. At last her daughter had learned not to fear what lurked at the corners of her mind. It was then, as Wendy bent over her daughter to kiss her goodnight that she heard a creak from behind her and her daughter spoke again.
“They’re too afraid of that new monster in the closet.”
My chest rises and falls in a constant rhythm. I dare not open my eyes, dare not look at the room around me. The muffled sounds are enough to disquiet my mind, I don't need the images to go along with it.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I lie as still as I can, my arms stretched straight on either side of me. I've lost all feeling in my body, and now it's as if I'm just floating in nothingness. If I were to concentrate hard enough, I could feel the surface below me.
Soft, comfortable. A bed beneath me with a pillow under my head. Blankets cradle me, holding me as if to say that nothing will hurt me. The sounds around me do not reassure me of that fact.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I slowly lift my eyelids to see the hazy red dark around me. The muffled sound of a beating heart echos through this room. The walls move in and out with the movement. Please, make it stop, make the noise stop.
I want silence.
I glance around the room slowly and notice an openi
Twenty Word Story"Once, when you were still here," he said softly in an empty room. "I think I might have loved you."
Sad Face Info DumpSad Face info dump
Name: Sad Face
Relationship status: Taken By JTK
Looks: Messy redish-brown hair, green eyes, a permanent carved frown into her face. Clothing: Red tank top, black cargo shorts, white converses.
Real Name: Laura Miller
Backstory: She was a generous person, but people tended to stay away from her. She got ignored, more an more, each day being more sad than the rest, her parents forced her to smile, and at least act like she was having fun, even though she wasn't. They didn't really care though. One day she couldn't take the constant smiling, despite what she felt inside, anymore, and carved a permanent frown into her face, letting everyone see what she had done, and how she really felt inside. Once her parents saw what she did, they rushed her to a hospital, trying to fix her face. She fought back though. She accidentally ended up killing the doctor, as well as her parents. Now she finds joy in killing others who are happy.
Killing Style: She comes in th
a tale of red love.Skongenga
Der skoret es der hom um vulxer. Vulxer, wick ett vitt fur, es møther um en.
Ett daig, herr sié hunden ond luxen bäkre får ett baunett. Amratt, herr höps loms øf der två ond gråus.
"Ond vens sin?" hiess her. "Ond kvälsh dack sin?"
"Es Hyl," håls luxer.
"Nams Hunt," bärks hunder.
"Ond kvälsh dack sin?" snärs herr.
"Bäkren får luko." Gråus luxer, volken um her. "Men get sems det nu nids je natt.."
Men hunder höps i främ øf hem. "Nu, nu.. Vie nids natt vauss.. Kåhapa vie kan shranda," star hie.
Vitt vulxer shäcks hurs head. "Nie! Je woll nie shrain! Det hårs min barlie.."
Gläss hunder ond luxer.
An jorner ljus der baunett, graim, hurs fur bröttie.
Beyond the GateHand in hand brother and sister ran out the door to play. Mother told them not to play too close to the gate and they must never, ever go through it. She always told them that, never saying why.
As the days passed they ventured closer and closer to the gate until they were caught and scolded.
“I’ve told you a thousand times,” she yelled.
But why, they implored. Nothing ever happened.
She looked terribly sad and scared. “Bad things have happened,” she spoke softly, her voice shaky. How could she explain? They wouldn’t listen. Saying only bad things was far too vague. “People… Children have gone missing.”
“Lost?” her daughter asked wide eyed.
“Yes, lost,” she answered, hoping that would be enough. But it wasn’t for her son, the elder.
“I won’t get lost! I know the way all around town,” he puffed up with pride.
So she told them. “It’s not that sort of lost, my son.” She
The Man from Winnesmore (Nosferatu)When The Man left for Winnesmore, it was a terror in disguise; The Man moved coffins filled with damned dirt that only rodents could love. Indeed, the carriers of the plague occupied the maggot infested dirt, creating the most unholy and unruly soil.
The Man himself portrayed a similar quality to the vermin he traveled with; his head bald, his teeth protruded like broken glass from his oddly shaped head. His body long and lean, his arms and legs sprouted from him like long vines from a plant.
The Man often strolled the city of Winnesmore, seeking a suitor and as he went about his business, his rats followed him; spreading the most fatal disease known to man, or any man before him.
The oddity lived on Refson Drive, in a Warehouse leased to Reinfield Goods; his strange figure fitting just for the door's twisted and blue shape. It was on the night that when the mourning buried their dead, he lifted the plots to feed him and his vermin companions.
This cycle was relentless; his vermin pois
Transformers: We Came in WarTransformers: We Came in War
Setting: Sometime during the Bay films
Characters: Optimus Prime
We came to this planet because ours was gone.
The quest for power consumed our home. The need for domination destroyed us. Still we live, and yet there is a piece in each of us that has been decimated forever. We will never recover what we have lost.
I look down upon this planet, and I wonder why we try.
It is evident by now that we have lost the capacity for peace. War follows in our wake. We came to retrieve the AllSpark, which has long since been lost, and we are still here. All that came of attempting to revive our planet was the relocation of the war from our planet of death to this planet of life. There is so much life on this planet. All of it we have sworn to protect. This is the promise we have made to them. But the promise would not need to have been made if we had never co
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