Distress (25 words)

Ship Capsized. Stop.

Cause Unknown. Stop.

Seas Calm. Stop

Crew Evacuating. Stop.

Send Help. Stop.

Time to join others. Stop.

I  Hear Their Song. Stop.

Webcam Feed

A Slight choppiness disrupted the video stream, indicating the inferior quality of the equipment. Dimly lit, the basement featured a sole piece of furniture, a sturdy wooden table. Deeply grooved and stained red, the table was held only a piece of rope and three severed fingers.

Behind the table, I could make out the edges of a figure tied to a chair. Faint crying suggested the person was likely male, probably gagged. Despite the poor lighting, I could make the right leg of the jeans the person was wearing. Caked layers of dried blood staining the faded denim meant that he had witnessed everything. I could only imagine if he was wondering when the same would happen to him. To demoralize him further, a small pocket knife had been left out of his reach on the floor.

Everything was as I left it.

Urgent: Grant Application for local cable show

Listing the reasons why it was a treat to visit my grandparents each summer couldn't capture the joy of those lazy months. Besides being treated to old war stories, homemade candy, and an untamed expanse beyond the field ripe for exploring they were the first people I knew to get satellite television.

Never in my dreams of pizza mountains and Ninja Turtles could I have foreseen the endless bounty they had received from the channel gods. I delighted in spelunking into the unused parts of the dial, just to see what was there by mapping it one channel at a time. One cool June night, after spending an energetic day swimming, I collapsed into my grandpa's giant armchair eagerly awaiting picking up where I had left off.  Restlessly, I roamed until I was greeted by the pallid man on channel 472

He must have been starving, as his skin hung loosely from his fragile frame. Mesmerized by the intensity of his eyes, I listened as he shouted random numbers, letters, and words from assorted languages I'd never heard before. Eerily devoid of inflection or tone, he dryly continued for what must have been hours - not stopping once for a break. Just as I was reaching for the remote, his eyes summoned a faraway look for just a millisecond and then he whispered my name before returning to his task. I sat, transfixed, watching him until the dawn when I succumbed to exhaustion.

While I've never been able that man or his show again, I have spent my life researching it. The information is everywhere actually, if you know where to find it.  That is why I am writing this. I now know what he's was trying to tell us. And, for the sake of all humanity, I need to get my show on the air

Electrons and Limits

Electrons excite me. Perhaps that is why I took so readily to computers. By the age of 13 I had cobbled together my first computer from the odd bits leftover from the old computers of friends and family. The rush of creation and experimentation that I felt that day has never been matched, but my experiments are getting closer to recapturing that glory.

The issue of any computer is that it is always in the process of becoming outdated. There are always limits on what technology can achieve. This is why my work is so important, I figured out that the best way to make a computer that didn't need to be upgraded, that had few limits, was to harness the processing power of the living human mind. In particular, I harnessed yours.

Peeling back your scalp was the easy part; a circular incision prepared the skin to peel with one swift tug. When the drill met resistance I feared my tools were inadequate for my vision, but that crimson gush of blood and mental ichor provided reassurance. Don't try to speak on my account, I fear this grey, slithy mound here may have been important for that - necessary even.  Each probe and connection slid into place among the raw ridges of your untapped mind with only a hint of disagreement. Judging by your bright, undulating crevasses I suspect you were an extremely intelligent person once.

Excellent, I'd hate to be forced to upgrade again soon.

Es Fließt Frei. (NSFW)

The slight dripping from the kitchen abruptly ended my post vacation buzz. Anticipating the need to make an emergency phonecall to a plumber, my jaw went slack at the site of the thick red liquid dripping from my ceiling. I rushed up to my upstairs neighbors apartment as I dialed 911. My silent prayer interrupted by the dispatcher.

"My name is Edward Michaels and I lived at 3710 Santiago Lane. I just returned from vacation to find blood dripping from my ceiling. My neighbors are the Andersons and .... Wait, their front door is ajar."

Numb, I attempted to narrate the scene as I choked back a resurgence of airline chicken. Mr. Anderson at the head of the table, his wife to his right, and their little boy to his left all bound and gagged in their places at the dinner table. Each one gutted and served a plate of their own entrails. On the Dinning room floor a message, written in intestine, the one clue as to the mind of the one who did this.

"Es fließt frei."

Fisherman's Catch

Below me, the city's faint movement paints an image worthy of Dali. I scan the horizon for signs of waking, for signs that the day has begun. Squinting reveals picnics, games of Frisbee, and early bird fishers.As the Earth approaches I can't help cataloging all the details of the happy people going about their day. Maybe my death won't ruin it for them.

Gasping for breath, I struggle against the wind. I pray as I attempt to steer for the lake. Had my emergency chute opened sooner I'd feel more confident about any landing, but at this point prayer is as good a tool as any. 

A flock of geese has settled on the northern bank. Do they appreciate the gift of wings they have been given? Had I wings just imagine what could be done. There'd be no parking hassles, no traffic jams, and no need for parachutes.  

Nearby several fishermen seems to be measuring a catch. Several small fries are discarded into the muddy blue. Judging by the shadows on the water, someone's about to get the catch of their life. 

Stillness of the Water

Carefully I panned my light across the entrance to the southern cave. Most divers chose the western path. It had been accurately mapped, however safety can be a synonym for boredom.

For all I knew I was the first diver to reach this area. I marveled at the seemingly endless cave until I spotted a glean in the silt. Upon close inspection I recoiled at the discovery of a pile of dozens of empty oxygen tanks surrounded by the remains of diving suits.

Gulping I attempted to retreat the previous cave, however I stirred up the silt with my desperate actions. All I can do now is wait until the murkiness settles before I can find my way out. I hope I have enough oxygen to wait here that long. More importantly, I hope that I am alone.

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Stillness of the Water

Reclusive

My right leg bursts with pain, waking me abruptly. Unprepared for the tenderness I scream as I my attempt to roll out of bed places too much pressure on it. I land in a less than graceful heap on the floor.

Alone through misanthropic choice I have no one to call out to. I prop myself against the night stand and reach for the phone. It is only when I attempt to dial 911 that I realize my fingers are stiff and swollen. Eventually, I reach the operator and muster a whispered plea for help.

Overcome with dizziness I lay down on the floor. I focus on breathing and attempt to relax until I see it. In the corner of the room above my bed were several small silken havens overflowing with a tide of tiny brown spiders.

Slideshow

Fingers trembling with excitement I opened the package. Just as I had hoped, it was the camera I won on ebay. With mild delight I realized I had received a better deal than I had planned because the previous owner had left the memory card in the slot.

Before sending an e-mail to the seller alerting them of the mistake I decided to see if anything was on it. Setting the camera on slideshow I watched as the camera displayed a picture of a shipping label. My confusion turned to horror as the next image was of a person brutally murdered. The rest of the card was alternating pictures of a mailing address followed by a murder scene.

The last image was of the shipping label from the box I had just opened.

They Always Forget the Pickles

A certain resignation fills my soul when I must order fast food. No matter the chain, food in the order, or continent I am currently on, my order will always be wrong. I'll get the wrong drink, have mustard when I had requested none, or never get the requisite number of pickles.

There's a Monster Burger a few blocks from my place that is better than most. Instead of completely butchering my order they just always forget the pickles. At least, they had never been too far wrong, until today.

Judging by the contents, they gave me someone else's order. Fries instead of onion rings, a small cheeseburger instead of my Double Monster Burger, and an unordered large mystery item wrapped in paper, and leaking what appeared to be ketchup, greeted me upon opening the bag. Revulsion struck halfway through unwrapping the paper around the unknown "delicacy", forcing me to drop it on the floor with a wet thud.

What kind of freak would order a human heart?

I Must Type

I must type this sentence to keep the monsters away. I don't know why this works, but it does. The faster I type, the further away they are. Sometimes, I think I might be able to type fast enough to make them go away. Yet, if I stop for only a moment the will return.

I must type this sentence to keep the monsters away. If I knew why they targeted me, it might be worth some comfort. It would at least let me know what my fate would be when I tire. Will I be eaten? Am I to be tormented? Will they simply kill me? Just knowing what was next would be enough.

I must type this sentence to keep the monsters away. Oh, god it's been almost a week. I must type this sentence to keep the monsters away. The cramp in my left hand stopped over a day ago; I just can't feel it anymore. I must type this sentence to keep the monsters away. Can anyone help me?

I must type this sentence to keep the monsters away ...

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I Must type

A Killer Fable

Gather close and let me spin you a tale. Let me help you cast aside your tiresome day and mundane woes with the gift of a story. Don't worry about compensation, really you are the one doing me a favor, for I have so few opportunities to spin a truly killer fable. 

Once there was a raconteur who grew up on a farm, full of optimism and faith in the human spirit. Wanting nothing more than to bring a tiny seed of country wisdom to the metallic city he set out on a personal quest. Sadly, the city was a much sharper foe than the simple country boy had envisioned. 

Upon arrival in the city all his possessions were stolen; after a few muggings and burglaries the fleeting futility of ownership was made abundantly clear to him. Bruised and beaten, he was turned away from the vendors who would not spare even a botched morsel for the poor wretched soul. That was when the boy realized that during his entire journey the city had been working in him like a poison. Eventually, He was as hard and sharp as those who had abused him, possibly even sharper. 

moral: Never fall victim to the distractions of a charismatic mugger, especially when witnesses can be such a bother.

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A Killer Fable

On Why A Blog

For the past several months I have been dabbling in writing creepypastas and microhorror stories. I'd be lying if I tried to deny that I enjoy it, immensely. There is something cathartic about corralling my inner fears and trapping then within a short story.

I guess, writing has always been a form of freedom for me, really. In person I can be very quiet and subdued, a distillation of things mundane and ordinary. Only when writing can I molt my mundanity. Only when writing can I really be myself.

Perhaps the allure of horror is that "being myself" means that I can access the inner depravity that we are socialized to suppress. However, I suspect that horror writing is freeing because I live with fear.

I have anxiety, occasional bouts of ocd, and a host of phobias.  Tiny terrors are among the most powerful in my experience. Even simple thoughts can be incapacitating; striking with bolts of doubt and loathing. Creepypastas are lightning rods, harmlessly deflecting my inner fears.

I have posted at the Sogwiki, the Creepypasta wiki, The Creepypasta Index, NoSleep, and others. I don't always participate in the communities directly or full-time, but I have found these places to be helpful in general. Still, I wouldn't mind a place of my own.

I am creating this blog for several reasons. I would like a place to post drafts and works in progress. Most decent writing sites frown on or ban this practice, and I fully agree with their reasoning. Still, I would like a site that lets me tinker constantly without needing to have a fully formed idea. The last few things I have posts on the wikis have felt a bit underdone. Posting here first, and only migrating what I am comfortable with, is a way to help enact quality control on the other sites.

Also, putting all of my stuff in one place gives allows me to craft an identity as a writer. There are people who use several of the sites I frequent, and they might recognize me across them. But, writing stories that are scattered across various wikis doesn't really help people recognize you.

I decided to challenge myself by writing a micro story a day, and having a personal space to post it would be helpful. It would allow me to complete the challenge without having to worry about site stability. And, really it's a personal challenge to myself. I guess I just feel more comfortable doing it in a personal space.

Lastly, I don't like the idea of being entirely reliant on other sites. What I write is subject to other peoples' definition of concepts such as creepy, scary, and thrilling. Constructive criticism is fine. Knowing why a story does not work is key to writing a better one. I don't find being told "Ordinary and common things are not scary" to be helpful.

In this instance I am quoting a mod who took one of my stories off of a sub on reddit. When asked what the violation was I was informed the story was not scary. When I asked for a definition of "scary", that is that I was told. Despite that definition not being posted, it was being enforced.  A personal preference or definition was being substituted for community standard without the mod seeming to be aware of the difference.

I write for myself. I do not write to suit anyone's particular definition of anything. You are free to dislike what I write. You are free to not find it scary, on a personal level. Everyone reacts differently to a story. But, don't tell me what "scary" is in universal terms. And, don't tell me what "scary" should be for me.

I have always been terrified of the mundane. Earthly concerns wear at me; eroding my confidence and sense of self. I enjoy a bit of the supernatural, but I am just not as scared by cryptids, ghosts, and superpowered killers. I apologize, but I'm not much of a believer.

In any case, welcome to my blog.