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[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Thrill Worth Killing For"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The way she screamed her pathetic scream, as if I've never heard a woman's beg for mercy before. She's in my domain. The way she begs, says that her parents have got money, the way that she offers herself to me just for a chance of life again, but they never understand it's not pleasure or money I desire, it's the thrill of the first time again. I've tried so many times to replicate it, but I never seem to get it right. So if she doesn't work, then there's always another around the corner in the bookstore, in the libraries. There's always a victim. And I will always go hunting for that last true thrill. If I don't find a thrill in her, maybe you, the reader, maybe you could give me something. I’ve been watching you. I've seen the way you read these stories, thinking none of them are true, but I see you."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "I Just Need A Little Help"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I think I hit my head.\r\nWoke up on the kitchen floor, the tile clammy beneath my cheek, tacky with something half-dried. A rust-colored smear dragged toward the fridge …ketchup, maybe? Or blood. But I don’t feel hurt, aside from the throbbing in my skull and the slight stiffness in my legs. It’s like I’ve been sleeping for days in a bad position.\r\nThe front door’s open, creaking in the wind. That's so weird, I always lock it. Breeze snakes in, scattering papers and leaves. What looks like a chewed-up shoe is on the doorstep. Probably raccoons. Little bastards are always getting into everything.\r\nI shuffle outside. It’s morning. Or maybe late afternoon? The sky’s a dim gray bruise, clouds sagging low and bloated… or is that smoke? The whole street looks abandoned. A couple of cars are crashed into mailboxes, and someone’s lawn flamingo is speared clean through a windshield like a tacky pink harpoon.\r\nA jogger rounds the corner. I wave. She sees me, freezes, and then drops her water bottle before bolting like I pulled a gun.\r\nRude.\r\nI must look worse than I thought. Probably the bathrobe. Should’ve changed. And something’s off with my ankle. Each step drags like I’m wading through unset concrete. Still, I put on my best smile and try to seem harmless.\r\n“Hey,” I rasp. My throat’s dry. “Can you call someone? I think I fell… or something.”\r\nShe’s already gone.\r\nI wander further, past shuttered shops and toppled newspaper stands. The world feels tilted, like it’s sliding slowly out of place. In the cracked window of a store, I catch my reflection.\r\nSunken eyes. Skin pale and waxy. Jaw slacked slightly open, like I’ve forgotten how to hold it shut.\r\n“Damn,” I think. “I look rough.”\r\nI bang on doors. Nobody answers. One guy peeks through his blinds, takes one look at me, and yanks them shut like I’m a debt collector with a machete. Overkill, if you ask me.\r\nEventually I reach the park. There’s a woman crouched beside the fountain, stuffing cans and batteries into a duffel. A radio crackles nearby: “Safe zone’s full. Do not engage the infected. Repeat: do not engage…”\r\nShe hasn’t seen me yet.\r\nThis time I take it slow. Careful. I wave both hands in the air like I’m surrendering to a traffic stop.\r\n“Miss?” I cough. “Please. I don’t know what’s happening. I… I think I’m sick.”\r\nShe whirls, eyes wild, raising something black and angular in both hands.\r\nWoah, is that a gun?\r\nI hear a pop.\r\nThen everything goes sideways. I’m staring at the sky now, flat on my back. My ears ring like a fire alarm in a tunnel.\r\nThe woman stands over me, trembling. “Goddamn zombies,” she says. I try to sit up. My body won’t move. I lift a hand toward her, fingers twitching.\r\n“Wait…” I groan. “I just need a little help…”\r\nShe chambers another round.\r\nEverything goes black."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Why is Dad digging a hole?"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Sometimes, you should lie to your child.\r\n“Mommy, where are we?”\r\nIt’ll save them from worrying.\r\n“Mommy, when are we going home?”\r\nIt’ll save you a headache.\r\n“Why is Dad digging a hole?”\r\nThe answers to those questions are “I don’t know,” “possibly never,” and “to get us the hell out of here,” but I don’t tell my daughter that.\r\nInstead I opt for, “on vacation,” “soon,” and, “Daddy’s playing a game.”\r\nThe truth is, I have no idea how we got here.\r\nOne night, about a week ago, my daughter came into our room saying she “had a bad dream.” We let her sleep in our bed, but when we all woke up we were here.\r\nIn a small house in the middle of a forest, surrounded in every direction by a gigantic, metal wall.\r\nThe wall is a circle, one mile in diameter, and it’s a hundred feet high.\r\nNo matter what we’ve tried we can’t get out.\r\nWe’re stuck here, trapped like rats in a cage.\r\n“Can I play the game with Daddy?”\r\nShit.\r\n“Did I say game?” I said, “I meant he’s exercising.”\r\n“I wanna exercise too!”\r\nDouble shit.\r\nBefore I can come up with another excuse, my husband bursts through the tree line, wearing nothing but his boots, overalls, and a crooked pair of glasses.\r\nHe was covered in dirt.\r\n“I need to show you something,” he said to me, “right now.”\r\nI grabbed our daughter's hand and tried to follow him, but he stopped us.\r\n“Not you, baby,” he said, kneeling down to get eye level with our daughter, “I need you to stay here.”\r\n“But I wanna come!”\r\n“It’ll just take a minute, and then we can all play together. How does that sound?”\r\nOur daughter smiled, then sat on the grass and started playing with some sticks. I envy how easily she can get distracted here.\r\nI followed my husband into the forest.\r\n“At first I thought maybe we could go through the wall, but I quickly gave up on that.” He was talking to himself more than he was me, but I listened anyway. “Then I thought maybe we could go over. There’s plenty of vines to make rope, but without a catapult or cannon there’s no way we can blast the rope over the wall.”\r\nHe stopped when we came to a small clearing, with a large hole dug right next to the wall.\r\n“So I decided to try going under, but before I got very far I realized something.”\r\nHe asked me to look at the hole.\r\nI did, but I didn’t see anything.\r\nThen he made me close my eyes.\r\n“It was happening slowly at first, so I didn’t notice, but it’s speeding up,” he said.\r\nWe waited in silence for a few minutes, then he asked me to look again.\r\nI gasped.\r\nThe hole was gone.\r\nAnd the wall was noticeably closer.\r\n“We’ve got twenty-four hours at most,” my husband said, “before we’re going to get crushed.”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "I LOVE my build-a-boyfriend."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I figured I’d give Build a Boyfriend a try.\r\nApple's latest attempt at making robots.\r\nRobots didn’t have the capacity to leave you.\r\nIn fact, they were created to be a partner, with zero free thought of their own.\r\nNo emotions.\r\nOn Apple’s website, I found myself on a Sims-like creator screen.\r\nDesigning a man from scratch felt weird.\r\nI clicked default, making a few adjustments. Brown hair was cute, but sandy blonde with a beanie?\r\nAdorable.\r\nStyle: Pretentious-cute. Long trench coat over a threadbare shirt.\r\nPersonality: Cute, makes me laugh, know-it-all.\r\nFuck.\r\nI was building my ex who left me.\r\nI even gave it a photo of my ex for reference, and his name:\r\nCharlie.\r\nBy the time it arrived on my doorstep wearing a wide smile—unblinking—something lurched in my gut. I hated him.\r\nI hated that it just stood there, fucking grinning at me.\r\n“Hello, Sierra,” the robot had the exact face I created. It held out flowers with an almost sad smile, despite me specifically telling it to look happy.\r\nThe robot must have realized I looked horrified because he leaned forward, wrapping it's arms around me.\r\n“It’s okay,” the robot hummed in my ear, mimicking the words I told it to tell me.\r\n“I’m going to keep you safe.” Its ice-cold breath tickled my ear. “I love you, Sierra.”\r\nNo.\r\nI hated how inhuman it was. Its skin was fake, a plastic, fleshy substance that was supposed to resemble skin.\r\nThe return fee was 1,000 dollars. I couldn’t afford it.\r\nBut I also couldn’t stand to look at this fake.\r\nThis thing wearing my boyfriend’s face. I grabbed a rolling pin from the drawer and struck it three times in the head.\r\nIts eyes flickered, manufactured pain igniting in them. It cried out like a human, a thick red substance trickling from its nose—like a human.\r\nI didn’t stop until it dropped to its knees and slumped to the floor.\r\nFor a moment, I watched the thing’s blood seep across my kitchen floor, drowning the flowers he’d brought me. They were my favorite. Roses.\r\nBut I didn’t remember typing that in the special requirements section.\r\nSomething sour erupted into my throat, and I dropped to my knees, rolling the robot’s body onto its back.\r\nIt was breathing. I could feel its shuddery breaths, its spluttered sobs escaping its lips.\r\nThe thing’s face was caved in, eyes lodged into the back of its head.\r\nBut this thing was still smiling at me.\r\nIts eyes were too human, real agony crumpling its expression.\r\n“I’m sorry, Sierra,” it whispered.\r\n“I was going to tell you, b-but I d-didn’t want to h-hurt you.”\r\nIt buried its head in my lap.\r\n“But I—I came back…”\r\nIt died in my arms, going limp.\r\nI held it all night, paralyzed, my head buried in its hair.\r\nThe next morning, a figure stood at my door with Charlie’s face.\r\n“Hello, Sierra!” it said cheerfully.\r\n“I’m Charlie! Your Build a Boyfriend!”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Research Notes from a scientist?"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "08/05/32\r\nHigher ups gave me my own lab, free of those bumbling assistants. Finally.\r\nI work most efficiently when alone, took them long enough to notice.\r\nEven has its own private quarters!\r\n.\r\n08/06/32\r\nExperiment 85HB32: Submerged a scalpel in a 85% Mimeopolymer (15% water) solution.\r\nResult: Scalpel was broken down to a molecular level almost instantly. However, no copy of the item was made. Only seems to work if it's 100%.\r\n.\r\n08/08/32\r\nRequested a scheduled day off to attend my son’s 18th birthday.\r\nI’ve done so much valuable research for Mimeopolymer, it would make sense to have a little treat for my efforts.\r\n.\r\n08/10/32\r\nExperiment 85HB43: Acquired a small steel container filled with water (dyed red). Put it in a 100% MP solution.\r\nResults: Steel container was dissolved in 0.85 seconds. Dyed water was not. A portion of the MP of equal mass to the original container transmuted into a replica of the container (minus water).\r\n.\r\n08/21/32\r\nStill haven't gotten a word from management about attending my son's birthday.\r\nI requested again, in case they forgot.\r\n.\r\n08/29/32\r\nExperiment 85HB76: (improvised) Placed (hot pocket? Pizza roll? What's the correct terminology I should use?) into a 100% solution.\r\nResults: Was near-instantly annihilated. Then an equal portion of MP turned to foodstuff. Interior was more of the bread-like material as the exterior.\r\n.\r\n09/03/32\r\nHunter’s 18th tomorrow.\r\nDidn’t they listen? All I’ve done in the past week is dawdle off putting goddamn junk into MP. What more needs to be learned? It just turns itself into shit it ate!\r\nPromised him I’d be there for his 18th. Would give him some money for his college fund. I need to be with him more, I really do.\r\n.\r\nBirthday today tried leaving private lab LOCKED THE DOOR what the fuck I’m not needed this bad for just fucking off on MP great Hunter’s gonna think I’m some asshole who’d choose a shitty lab job over him FUCKERS PROBABLY WIPING THEIR CRUSTY ASS ON RED TAPE GIVING SOME BULLSHIT HR EXCUSES\r\n.\r\nExperiment 85HB96: threw 100% MP sample on the ground. Fuck you.\r\nIt became the floor tiles.\r\n.\r\n?/?/32\r\nI remember there used to be a lot more MP on hand than before my PQ. I remember them questioning me before PQ.\r\n.\r\nExperiment 85HB99: Scratched at my skin. Nothing else better to do than rot here.\r\nNo blood.\r\n.\r\nTHESEUS CAN FUCK HIMSELF IN HELL.\r\n.\r\nI remember Hunter’s graduation from elementary school.\r\nI remember my first day of college.\r\nI remember the first time I held Hunter, his stubby fingers coiling around my pinky.\r\nI remember the first day of work at the lab.\r\nI remember the accident.\r\nI remember when There was a vat of MP.\r\nI remember the accident.\r\nI remember the ship of Theseus.\r\nI remember you Hunter I REMEMBER I REMEMBER ALL OF YOU\r\n.\r\nExperiment 85HB00: Got a scalpel. Dug into me deeper. DEEPER.\r\nResults: Skin"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "It's Just A Theory"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "\"I have this theory,” I say over dinner.\r\nShe groans. “Of course you do.”\r\n“No, listen. It’s not like the others.”\r\nShe gives me a look.\r\nI keep going anyway. “When people nearly die, they say they see a tunnel, right? A bright white light. And then, your life flashes before your eyes.”\r\n\"Okay?”\r\n“Well, what if that flash isn’t a blur? What if it doesn’t last seconds? What if it’s... this?”\r\nShe frowns. \"This?\"\r\n“What we’re experiencing right now. What if the flashback is detailed? Seamless? Timeless? What if it’s so real, you can’t tell it’s not life? You think you’re alive, but really, you’re actually just watching it all happen again.”\r\n\"In your head?”\r\n“In whatever’s left of your brain activity, I guess? Your whole life replayed. Down to every word. Every mistake.”\r\nShe blinks.\r\n“We’re not alive. We’re simply remembering being alive.”\r\nShe gives a half-laugh. Part of her believes me.\r\n“Think about it. Déjà vu? It’s not random. It’s recognition. You’ve been here. You’ve said this. You’ve seen this.”\r\n“Coinciden-…”\r\nI raise my eyebrow with a smile.\r\n\"…Oh shut up.” She smiles back.\r\n“How about gut feelings? Dreams that come true? Songs you’ve never heard before but you already know the next line? Or even when you meet someone new and you both have that instant feeling that you’ve met before? Knowing the phone’s gonna ring, or that feeling that someone’s behind you.”\r\nShe shifts in her seat.\r\n“You ever get that sudden chill? Like everything’s slightly...off? Like the air changes, or the shadows move in the corners of your vision?”\r\nShe nods, slow.\r\n“That could be the loop slipping. Like a crack in the replay.”\r\n“Replay,” she mutters, nodding.\r\n“You ever feel like you’re not making choices? Like you’re watching yourself move? Hearing yourself speak?”\r\n“Sometimes,” she whispers. \"Yeah.”\r\n“Because you’ve already done it. All of it. You’re not deciding anything. You’re just reliving.”\r\nShe stares past me. “So what happens at the end of the flashback?”\r\nI shrug. “Maybe another flashback. Then it starts again.”\r\n\"So, what, we’re just... stuck? Reliving our lives like reruns until we hit the end again?”\r\n“Yeah. And then we do it again... and again.”\r\n“…Forever?”\r\nAgain, I shrug. “Maybe.”\r\nI can see her brain going into overdrive now, and the absolute dread forming on her face...She thinks she's dead.\r\n“Chill out, babe,” I say with a smile. “It’s just a theory…”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "I'm on a missing person poster"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Thursday night, and I mean every Thursday night, I go on a walk–alone– two miles to the churro cart on Sycamore Street. It has become a staple of my sanity. It’s nice to get a break from my husband, and I need those churros. I need the tranquility of the evening walk.\r\nAnd this Thursday my churro adventure was cut short.\r\nI had only made it halfway there. Just as I was about to take my usual path through Sertoma park, I was stopped by a missing person poster plastered on a street lamp.\r\nNow that I think about it, I might’ve passed a few on my walk. I just hadn’t bothered to look. And I couldn’t believe it.\r\nOn the missing person poster, clear as day, was a picture of me.\r\nI got closer to see the details.\r\nThe poster itself was shoddily done, quickly printed and already smudging in the wet spring weather. How long had it been up?\r\nSure enough, there was my name, birthday. I can’t believe the picture they used of me. I look goofy. Who picks a funny picture for a missing person's poster?\r\nMore importantly! I’m not missing!\r\nMy husband knows I always walk the same way on my churro adventure, maybe this is his bad attempt at a joke. He sure could use a sense of humor.\r\nI don’t want to let it get in the way, so I keep on walking into the park. Churro time grows near.\r\nIn the park there’s a huge crowd. Not normal for a Thursday evening. People are wearing high-visibility vests, and everyone has flashlights. I realize this is some sort of posse.\r\nThen I see them handing out the same posters I saw on that street lamp.\r\nThese people are looking for me!\r\nThere’s even a news van here. A reporter with a microphone and everything blabbin’ away to the camera.\r\nHonestly, I’m flattered. So many people showed up, it feels wrong to interrupt them.\r\nThey’re headed to the woody area on the outskirts of the park. Too many bugs for me.\r\nI make it all the way to Sycamore Street, and can you believe it, the cart isn’t there! Son of a bitch! It’s there every Thursday! I feel betrayed. I know exercise is its own reward. But I prefer the reward of cinnamon-y crunchy churros!\r\nWell I mope all the way back to my house. And when I’m just outside, I hear laughter coming from inside. Like, raucous laughter. And I peep through the large open window that looks right into our dining room.\r\nAnd my husband is with some strange woman! I don’t know who the hell she is. I can’t believe it. The bastard is drinking champagne!\r\nIs this what he does when I have my Thursday adventure?\r\nFirst no churros, and now cheating? I’m going to kill this buffoon."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Not Quite a Dorian Grey"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“Tea?”\r\n“Of course.” I answer, smirking.\r\nHer invitation this morning came as a surprise; it had only been our third interaction in the market square, but my charms seem to have won her over.\r\nShe lays the teapot on the table between us after she fills our cups. I take a sip, coyishly; the tea is jasmine with…my mind says anise, perhaps.\r\nAbove us in the sitting room, amongst other paintings, is one of The Lady herself, in bed, wearing something garishly out of date, a pale and ill look upon her face.\r\n“You’re beautifully represented…” I press, flirtatiously.\r\n“Oh no, Mr. Bennet,” she smiles, sipping, “that painting isn’t of me, but of my husband’s first wife…”\r\nI look again; the resemblance is uncanny, familial, even.\r\n“Your sister, then?” I guess.\r\nLady Plourde snickers, covering her smile with her fan.\r\n“Closer than sisters,” she answers, “and, yet, further still. That particular painting has a story, in fact, if you’d care to hear it…”\r\n“I’d love to…” I smile.\r\nLady Plourde covers my hand with her own.\r\n“My bedridden husband is unknown to your village, but that is, more or less, by design. He is a Lord, as you know, but what most do not is…that he is a member of the occult…”\r\n“The occult?” I laugh. “Surely you don’t believe—”\r\n“Oh, but I do,” she answers, “and so does my husband. Coincidentally, that woman there, his first wife, she did not, not until the very end...”\r\nA wave of heat hits me, and I loosen my collar...\r\n“The end?” I ask.\r\n“A flu took her one day, the reason for her appearance there; the doctors resigned early on. My husband could not live without her, so, he was forced to use his own knowledge…”\r\n“Wha—”\r\nMy hand involuntarily falls to the side, and I cannot command it to rise. My mind becomes…cloudy.\r\n“His occult experience made it so that she could live forever…at least as a vessel. He needed to create a pilot from scratch, unfortunately, but he and I have made do, all these years. However, time has caught up to him at last, and he has tasked me with finding him a new vessel of his own…”\r\nI fall fully from the chair, unable to keep upright any longer. Amongst the spinning room, my eyes lock onto the date in the painting’s right-hand corner. It being some 200 years prior, I ponder desperately at how long Lord Plourde truly has been bedridden.\r\n“What he doesn’t know,” she smiles, “is that I have a special plan of my own. I really do like you, Mr. Bennet; you’re the first man I met who sees me for me, and not her. I promise you, you’ll stay. When he performs the rites, I’ll make it so that it is HE who leaves, and you, and your body, will stay together. Together, and with ME, forever…”\r\nBlack swirls overtake my vision…\r\n“And then, we’ll make a painting all our own...”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Pulse"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Each step down the creaking, narrow staircase leads you deeper into the damp shadows, the walls pressing closer with each descent. The air is thick, smelling faintly of mildew and earth. Somewhere above, the mansion sits in silence, unaware, or perhaps indifferent, that you’re slipping into its hidden spaces. You hesitate on a step, listening to the quiet, but then you feel it: a faint, rhythmic thrum beneath your feet.\r\nIt’s almost unnoticeable, this pulse, but it’s there, vibrating through the old wood, beating in sync with the rhythm of your heart. You press on, curiosity outweighing caution as the walls grow rougher, jagged stones now lining the narrow corridor. The pulse grows stronger, humming up through your soles, through your legs, tugging you forward as if it were alive.\r\nAhead, the darkness seems to breathe, as if something is waiting just beyond reach. You touch the wall, grounding yourself, but even the stones beneath your fingertips vibrate, the pulsing beat now almost steady, alive, as if the house itself has a heartbeat buried deep within.\r\nYou stop, hold your breath. For a moment, you wonder if it’s your own heart that’s echoing back at you, but no, this pulse is older, deeper. It’s something ancient, waiting, patient as stone. You take a step back, feel the pulse fade with each step upward, but you know it’s still there, buried in the dark, waiting for someone else to find it."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "We Paved a Freeway Over God"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The rumbling began on a sunlit stretch of Interstate 5 in Los Angeles.\r\nTraffic crawled bumper to bumper, horns blared without rhythm, and foreheads burned beneath the California heat. Beneath it all, something ancient stirred.\r\nNo one suspected the god buried below. Older than language, older than myth, it had slumbered since before the continents tore themselves apart. As the world shifted above, it was forgotten.\r\nWe built over its grave. Poured concrete across sacred soil. Raised exits, signs, and lanes over its tomb like graffiti on scripture.\r\nThe first warning came as a slow, cavernous yawn. Asphalt split with a groan. A sinkhole opened and swallowed cars whole.\r\nThen came the fog.\r\nIt rose like grasping fingers, thick and oily, clinging low to the earth. It seeped into vents and cracks, pulled into the lungs of those too close to flee.\r\nThe fog burned. Flesh blistered and peeled away. Skin blackened and curled like meat on a spit. Screams pierced the air, sharp and panicked. One by one, the horns fell silent.\r\nSome ran. Most did not make it far.\r\nFrom the center of the pit, above the creeping haze, a figure rose. It was draped in a black burial shroud, its mouth gaping open, jaw unhinged, and from that mouth poured the fog. Its eyes were hollow and splintered, like ancient knots in petrified wood.\r\nThen, with sharp clicks, the doors of nearby cars began to open.\r\nThe dead climbed out.\r\nTwisted and charred, they staggered forward, guided by something older than death. Their limbs jerked unnaturally. Bone scraped pavement. What remained of their mouths gnashed and snarled.\r\nA news helicopter circled above. The god turned its face skyward, the rot-stained fog still hissing from its lips. To the creature, the machine must have seemed like some strange metal bird.\r\nBelow, the dead shrieked and scattered. They crawled on all fours, ichor dripping from their jaws.\r\nSirens wailed in the distance. Police arrived, unprepared and under-equipped. Gunfire cracked through the smog. Bullets struck bodies, but the dead did not stop. The god moved through the gridlock like a shadow given weight. Fear followed it, and it fed.\r\nThe screams of the officers pleased him. He had always fed on fear.\r\nAnd soon, the officers began to change too.\r\nCalls flooded emergency lines. Somewhere in the city, the National Guard mobilized. The president was briefed. News stations speculated, argued, dismissed. CGI, they said. A coordinated hoax. A foreign weapon. A viral campaign.\r\nBut then the world shifted.\r\nAcross the world, the earth opened its wounds.\r\nFrom forests and deserts, oceans and mountains, the forgotten rose.\r\nNot gods, but captives.\r\nNot saviors, but sentence-bearers.\r\nOur ancestors had not worshipped them.\r\nThey had sealed them away with rituals now lost to time.\r\nThe seals had broken.\r\nThe world had remembered.\r\nAnd the old gods were walking again.\r\nThey had not forgotten.\r\nAnd they had certainly not forgiven."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "An Orange Rolling Under a Chair"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It happened just yesterday- the murder, I mean, but somehow it feels like it never happened, or happened to someone else, or happened a very long time ago, when I was a little child, maybe still even crawling.\r\nI have a memory of myself at that time- a fruit, an orange maybe was rolling under a green chair and I was crawling after it. I could hear my dad laughing way above me. Everything else was dark. Just the bright fruit, rolling on a flowered carpet, the green edge of the chair. The limits of the universe.\r\nOh yes, yesterday. There must be a psychological term for that, when you know with your rational brain something happened at a specific time, like the murder, but it just doesn’t feel like it did. Not at that time anyway, maybe it happened at a different time, when I wasn’t there. I should ask my counsellor Laura, she’s smart. She might know. I actually thought I’d become a counsellor like Laura, think of all the secrets she hears! I told her that, and she said “that’s not what counselling is about” and I was like well fuck me very much. I still like her though. I want to be her.\r\nIt wasn’t Laura what got murdered- don’t worry! Why would I murder Laura anyway- I mean, not that I murdered anybody! Andrea slipped and fell into the water, and I wanted to help her get up, but it seemed easier not to. I mean my life is so much better without Andrea. Even though it’s only been since yesterday, I can tell already. Everything is brighter, happier, with no Andrea.\r\nAndrea probably was dead after she hit the water- she bashed her head on the rocks. Her hair was wet and the water was sliding over it, all glassy and sparkling. I can remember the cold feel of the water and her wet dark hair on my hand on her head, holding it down, pressing it against the rocks.\r\nNo-one knew we had gone out together – why would they? Andrea and I weren’t friends. No-one was there. No-one saw us. But you know- I just decided, if they ask me, I’m not going to deny it. Yes we did go for a smoke in the park. Then I left. Andrea stayed. It’s because of all these cameras everywhere- have you noticed? In TV shows, the murderer always denies being somewhere, and the detective is like \"Aha! Then why are you on CCTV at 3:30pm leaving Killing Street?\" God those murderers are so stupid. I'm not like that.\r\n\"Why did Andrea stay behind?\" I don’t know! Probably to meet Jamie- oh yes, that’s it. I think she actually mentioned that- I’m sure she did. She stayed because she was meeting Jamie. \"But hadn’t they broken up?\" No- maybe? I don’t know- you can ask him.\r\nIt happened such a long time ago- I really can’t remember."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Mr Whiskers, You’re A Good Boy"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Statement From Chief Constable Walton, Somerset and Avon Police:\r\n“Due to leaks online, we’ve been forced to release a few excerpts from Mrs. Richmond’s diary in order to settle some confusion – we’ve included a limited number of entries in the hopes to add some context to this strange case.”\r\nExcerpt One 19/05/25:\r\nI saw him out my bedroom window yesterday afternoon. A strange looking man at the foot of the garden. I say man … he was dressed as a cat. I couldn’t help but laugh – partly out of confusion, partly from how ridiculous he looked.\r\nNothing else of note happened – I went to work; I watched the cat (I’ve dubbed him Mr. Whiskers) and I went to bed.\r\nExcerpt Two 22/05/25\r\nMr. Whiskers hasn’t moved.\r\nThat’s not strictly true, I think he has moved a little bit, a little closer to the house. I can hear him now, it’s hilarious, he ‘meows.’ A low guttural kind of meow that’s clearly made by a man, he tries to get his voice up high but it just winds up breaking. I haven’t gone out there to see him yet, I’m curious to see how long he’ll stay.\r\nExcerpt Three 23/05/25\r\nHe’s definitely closer today. I can barely sleep because of his ridiculous incessant meowing. His outfit is a little clearer now, he’s covered himself in fur and seems to have some cat ears on the side of his head. I’m going to go see him.\r\nI brought him a saucer of milk and he lapped it up greedily. I need to tell you what he looks like up close. The fur truly seems to sprout from his flesh, the ears are (I think) real cat ears. I can see the staples on the sides of his temples where he’s attached them. He looks so sweet; I think he wants in the house.\r\nExcerpt Four 24/05/25\r\nI let him in last night – I couldn’t deal with the meowing, it made me so sad, Mr. Whiskers sounds so lonely. I set him up a bed in the kitchen and he went straight to sleep, emitting a light purring which warmed my heart. He no longer frightens me, or amuses me, I just feel like I have to look after him.\r\nExcerpt Five 25/05/25\r\nHe slept in the bed with me last night. Curled up at my feet, looking up at me with those emerald feline eyes. I fell asleep looking into them, when I woke up this morning, it looked like he hadn’t even blinked, he was still staring at me.\r\nStatement From Chief Constable Walton, Somerset and Avon Police:\r\n“We are still searching for the man Mrs. Richmond called ‘Mr. Whiskers’, unfortunately we haven’t made any progress. Our hearts go out to her family and friends.”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Life Remembered"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "For fifty years, I clawed my way up. I began with nothing—just a determination to rise from the ashes of poverty.\r\nI swept offices, filed papers, fetched coffee before anyone else arrived. I sacrificed weekends, birthdays, and sleep. The days felt agonisingly slow when you’re tired.\r\nBut still, I pushed forward.\r\nEventually, they noticed me. The promotions came. I got the corner office with the skyline view just like I had imagined. I became someone people waited to hear speak.\r\nIt wasn’t just work. I had love, too. After years of rejections, heartbreaks, and empty dates, I met her. Lena.\r\nShe smiled like she’d known me in another life. She didn’t care about my résumé. She laughed at my awful jokes. I proposed under a cold city rain, and she said yes before I finished the sentence.\r\nShe was the best thing that ever happened to me.\r\nWe built a life. We traveled the world; holding hands at sunset, sharing kisses in places whose names I couldn’t even pronounce correctly. I kept working, but it didn’t feel as hard with her around.\r\nThen came my retirement party. People clapped. Old friends gave toasts. Lena kissed my cheek and whispered, “You made it.” I remember raising a glass, feeling so full, so complete.\r\nThen...my head went light.\r\nI woke up to pale lights and beeping monitors.\r\nI must’ve collapsed. A stroke? A heart attack?\r\nI searched for Lena. She wasn’t there.\r\nA nurse entered with a doctor. I asked them about my wife.\r\nThe nurse stared at the doctor, then back at me.\r\nShe asked, “What’s your name?”\r\nI was too dizzy to answer. The doctor gestured to the nurse as if to say: it's normal.\r\nThey told me I’d been in an accident. I was sixteen. I’d fallen off my bike after school. My head hit the kerb and I went into coma for two weeks.\r\nTwo. Weeks.\r\nI laughed. I screamed. I begged them to check again. I described Lena’s face in detail. My company’s name. The blueprint I sketched for the new downtown tower.\r\nThey looked at me like I was broken glass.\r\nBut I remember everything. The chipped mug on my desk. The way Lena tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous. It was real.\r\nI remember living fifty exhausting years.\r\nNow I’m sixteen again. In a body that feels too small, with memories too large to fit.\r\nAt night, I whisper to myself, hoping she hears me—my Lena.\r\nI close my eyes hoping to see her again. But every time I do, I only wake up further from her.\r\nI sit in my hospital bed, staring blankly at the window, watching the world begin again.\r\nThey say I was lucky to stay alive.\r\nBut luck doesn’t leave you grieving a life you never really had.\r\nThey say I can start over.\r\nBut how do you start over when you’ve already lived your whole life and lost it?"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Decadent Past"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Sarah might have worn the dress, but she had a small tattoo(Banksy's girl with a balloon) on her calf, so she donned red trousers, a blue maternity blouse and white star-shaped earrings.\r\nJohn McGrain was at the park entrance, a cowboy without any cows, herding people.\r\n'Watch out for the owner of the yellow Ford,' Todd (her husband) said to him.\r\n'Why's that?'\r\n'His flag only has 50 stars on it. Doesn't include the three new states.'\r\nSociety's movers and shakers stood on the immaculate lawn before the president's statue.\r\nSarah was eyeing the sushi from the buffet when Claudia Monroe came over. Claudia did more moving and shaking than most.\r\n'Sarah, you're glowing.'\r\nInstinctively, Sarah reached down and rubbed the baby bump. Before the Movement, she'd never wanted kids.\r\nWe do what we can to survive, and if a pseudo-cult grows up around traditional maternity, so be it.\r\n'You know, it's been years since I had a California Roll,' Sarah continued, taking a piece.\r\nClaudia's face soured. All state names derived from Spanish had been changed: Colorado, Florida, and especially California, now called New Goldland.\r\nSarah had to be careful. She'd recently seen a segment on state TV about parapraxis vigilance– a New England groom had said, 'I take you as my awfully wedded wife.'\r\nAfter a church investigation, it turned out he was a sodomite.\r\nThankfully, his widow earned a decent payout when she sold her story.\r\n…\r\nThe fireworks began. Red, white, and blue hail lit up the night sky.\r\nSarah had a sudden and vivid memory of a night spent long ago in the Mojave Desert. She'd met a travelling musician who drove them out, both a little stoned. They'd made love on a poncho, and as she lay on her back, she'd looked up at the birth and death of galaxies.\r\nA ripple of discontent went up.\r\nAgents from the morality police had arrived.\r\n'Can you come with us, mam?' the head agent asked Sarah.\r\nFirst, shock, but then some vestige of rebellion.\r\n'Enough!'\r\n'Please, mam.'\r\n'Look, can't you see I'm pregnant?' She paused, choking on the outrage. 'I've followed your rules. The country's fate is secure.'\r\nIf it was a public spectacle she wanted, she could have one.\r\n'And our records show in December 2026, you broke Article 19c.'\r\nA gasp went up from the good townsfolk.\r\n'The baby?' Todd said, business-like.\r\n'It will be returned to you after the birth,' the agent answered.\r\n'And my wife?'\r\nThe agent shook his head.\r\nSarah was too dumbstruck to speak as she was led away.\r\n…\r\nWhen Todd was out of earshot, the ladies gossiped freely.\r\n'I always suspected her. 19c. Christ, a historical abortion. Outright murder. She had skeletons all right.'\r\nYes, we all do what we can to survive, but it wasn't enough for Sarah.\r\nIn the eyes of the decision-makers, the artifice of her present, even her commitment to the future of the glorious nation, could not hide her decadent past."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A hypocrite's bargain."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“Have you found the spy yet, Z?”\r\nThere it was—Boss’s voice, taut with fear, slicing through the silence of his lavish office.\r\nThe man’s killed dozens to sit on his throne.\r\nYet he trembles at the thought of death.\r\nA killer, unprepared to be killed.\r\nHypocrite.\r\n“You’ve got me, Boss,” I reply, voice even and calm.\r\nI go by the name Z. There’s no better assassin in the underworld.\r\nNot even close.\r\n“Threats are meaningless,” I say, resting a hand on the hilt of my katana, “as long as I stay beside you…”\r\nHis shoulders loosen. Good.\r\n“…and as long as I get paid.”\r\nThere it is—a crack in the mask. Fear in a false facade of authority.\r\n“O-of course, Z. You’re a valuable asset. Naturally, I’ll pay you doub—”\r\nI tap the hilt.\r\n“TRIPLE! Triple what I promised you! You're my favorite, after all!”\r\nFear is the oldest currency of power, regardless of authority.\r\n“I appreciate it, Boss.”\r\nBut my goals extend beyond mere monetary gain.\r\nHe reaches for his vodka with a slight, barely noticeable tremble in his hands.\r\n“Say Z, you got family?”\r\n“Is that a threa—”\r\n“Of course not!” he replied hastily. “Don’t be silly. I’m a bit curious, that’s it.”\r\n“Mhm…well, I was orphaned at a young age. You want me to go deeper?”\r\nHe shook his head, taking another sip of vodka.\r\n“Yeah, no need to dig up the past you’ve already buried.”\r\nThe sheer audacity.\r\nAs if I could—\r\nI shake my head.\r\n“Yeah, you’re right.”\r\nHe swirls his glass of vodka, before looking at me again.\r\n“You think you’ve ever killed for something that’s not money?”\r\nI think about his question for a moment.\r\n“What do you mean, Boss?”\r\n“Y’know, as in revenge.”\r\nI glance at the ceiling, then meeting his eyes, I rise from my chair.\r\nHe stiffens up.\r\n“Say, Boss…” I circle behind his chair. “You remember the hostage situation from 8 years ago?”\r\nHe didn’t dare turn around.\r\n“Yes,” I place my hands on his shoulder. “You took hostages to wager an escape from the authorities, but killed the hostages anyway since they were supposed to merely buy you time.”\r\nIn this air-conditioned room, sweat forms at his brow.\r\nHow…how does—?!\r\n“…Z know?” I finish his thought aloud.\r\n“Two of the hostages you killed were my parents.”\r\nHe tries to bolt, to no avail.\r\n“You were the spy all along?! God damn it—!”\r\nAnd so begins The Hypocrite’s Bargain.\r\nFirst, Denial.\r\n“You’ve got the wro—”\r\nI break his index.\r\n“I tracked you down through two identity changes.”\r\nSecond, Justification.\r\n“I had to survive! You of all people should kno—”\r\nThumb goes this time.\r\nScreams for a bit.\r\nThen the final stage.\r\nDesperation.\r\n“I’ll—name your price! Anything—!”\r\nThere’s a sizzling sound as my cigarette extinguishes in his eye.\r\nHe falls on the floor screaming and squirming in pain.\r\n“As for your question,”\r\nI unsheathe my blade, hovering it above him.\r\n“I will have…”\r\nThe limbs go first.\r\n“…soon.”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Sing Me A Lullaby"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It began with a whisper that somehow shrouded the air of the city. No one knew where it came from. Some said it was heard near the old well, others swore it was first sung by a faceless child seen dancing on the graves behind the chapel.\r\nThe tune was simple, like the harmony of something that knew love but had never felt it. But the words… they changed, reshaped themselves for each listener, curling around memories, regrets, fears. You didn’t hear the lullaby. It entered you.\r\nThose who heard it alone didn’t die, not immediately. They changed. Their eyes turned hollow, like soulless pits. Their mouths trembled with unspoken lyrics. They muttered to walls, dug their skins, bleeding like small rivulets. Eventually, they screamed. And then they sang a last, broken melody before they tore their own tongues out or split their skulls open to escape the chorus echoing inside.\r\nBut the song spared you if you passed it on. One night. One recital. One victim. Do it, and you'd be safe.\r\nMothers crooned it to their babies in cracked voices. Friends whispered it through keyholes. A dying man scrawled it in blood on his wife’s neck. The madness left, but for a brief while. And each time it did, it took something with it. Memory. Emotion. Humanity. People became husks with lullabies in their throats.\r\nBy the fifth year, no children remained. Only the song. Daisy, fifteen and hollow-eyed, lived atop the bell tower. She hadn’t spoken in weeks. Her mother had sung to her once, in tears, before gouging her own eyes out with a melon baller. The lullaby lived in Daisy now, coiled tight in her ribs like a sleeping rat, waiting to be sung, to be unleashed onto another unsuspecting listener.\r\nShe stood at the window, staring down at the road as the sounds of the midnight thickened. And then came a traveler in her line of vision. He walked with the careless gait of someone unmarked by the wrath of the lullaby. Daisy's breath caught. Her lips began to move. The words clawed their way up her throat.\r\n“Hush now, baby, don’t you cry…” As she sang, her mind cleared. Her soul lifted. The traveler stopped, head tilting sharply. He smiled. And behind his teeth, dozens of voices began to sing back.\r\nThe city now knows of no unmarked residents. The ones who live in it have long lost their souls, and the ones who lived at some point had lost their lives.\r\nTonight, a family steps into the cradle of the city. And in the darkness that hangs around in the air, a thousand voices are waiting. Waiting to save their souls. Or probably waiting to welcome more singers into the city's doomed choir."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Storyteller"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Ed stumbled through the overgrown forest path following the strong smell of campfire. Flickering light shined through the brush ahead and he cradled his 12-pack as he pushed through the last few pricker bushes.\r\nHe found himself in a clearing. At the center, stoking a small fire, sat an old grizzled man with a full and scruffy beard; a small stack of wood sat beside him.\r\nEd walked up and sat across from him, then pulled two cans from the 12-pack. \"Oh, man. These woods are a beast!\" Ed said, handing the other man a beer. \"Thought I'd be lost forever.\"\r\n\"Forever's a long time,\" the old man said. \"You can call me Teddy.\" He cracked open the gifted beer and raised it.\r\n\"Ed,\" he replied, doing the same.\r\nThey cheered and Ed gulped down a third. Teddy took a slow drawn out sip.\r\nEd thumbed at the woods. \"Do you know how to get back to the cabins? I must have gotten turned around on myself.\"\r\nTeddy smiled softly. \"You must've. The cabins are just over there,\" he said, gesturing to the path Ed came from.\r\nEd pursed his lips. \"N-noo, I just came from there. I walked for an hour. There's nothing but woods.\"\r\nTeddy nodded. \"Can I tell you a story, Eddy?\"\r\n\"Ed… but sure.\"\r\nTeddy took another slow sip.\r\n\"A young man explores the great outdoors. He breathes the air, sees the sights, and cuts his own path. He enjoys Nature. And, in time, Nature enjoys him back. Eventually, Nature enjoys him so much that she prefers that he stay.\"\r\nEd raised an eyebrow.\r\n\"One day, the young man wanders the same path he's wandered many times before. But this time? The path's been changed into a strange circle. Before the young man realizes it, he finds himself in a clearing. At the center of this clearing sits an old man, stoking a fire.\r\n\"The young man joins him beside the fire and, before long, a story passes between them. As with most things of great importance, the significance of the story is lost on the young man.\"\r\nEd smirked as he sipped his beer.\r\nTeddy smiled too, but woefully. \"You were right, Eddy. These woods are a beast. And this story is her favorite.\"\r\nEd shrugged.\r\n\"Eddy...\" the old man said. \"Do you know what every good story needs?\"\r\n\"An ending?\" Ed said with a laugh.\r\nTeddy chuckled too.\r\nBoth men drained their beers into their mouths and tossed the empty cans into the fire.\r\nTeddy stared at the flames longingly. Finally, he said, \"Every good story needs a storyteller.\"\r\nEd smiled and shook his head. \"You're a trip, man,\" he said. He grabbed his 12-pack and stood. \"Thanks for the story, Ted—\"\r\nTeddy's head was bowed low. He looked stiff and dark in the fire's flickering light.\r\n\"Teddy?\" Ed said.\r\nHe reached across and touched the old man's shoulder. The charred wooden statue that was Teddy tipped forward and crumbled into the campfire."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Quiet Damnation"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "There was once a man who carried sorrow like a stone in his chest.\r\nHe cried out for peace, but no god answered him.\r\nOne day, a voice came — gentle, warm, beautiful.\r\nIt said\r\n“Give me your burden, and I will give you rest.”\r\nSo the man gave it.\r\nHis sorrow vanished.\r\nHis pain stopped.\r\nAnd he smiled.\r\nBut his soul\r\nslipped away.\r\nHe forgot it had ever been his."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "I Thought It Was a Motor."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "After the hurricane, our village went dark. No power, no signal — just wind through cornfields like something breathing. My uncle’s house was two kilometers from anyone. The silence was thick. Post-mortem.\r\nThe generator in the basement hummed low and steady. But if you listened long enough, it crawled under your ribs.\r\nMy uncle hadn’t left his room in three days. I brought him food. He said nothing. Just a soft scraping sound from inside. He’d installed hallway cameras after “they started watching.” I used to laugh. Then I didn’t.\r\nHis left eye — fake, glassy — never blinked. But it watched. Even through walls.\r\nThat night, I woke to a deep, wet thump. Not thunder. Outside: still. But the generator hummed… and something echoed beneath it.\r\nThump-thump. Thump. Thump-thump.\r\nI followed the sound barefoot. One monitor was dead. His door stood open.\r\nHe was gone.\r\nThe pulse was louder downstairs. The hum fused with it. Like breath and heartbeat.\r\nI remembered his words, whispered like prayer:\r\n“The generator isn’t just a motor. It transmits.”\r\nBack then, I thought he was mad.\r\nNow, I wasn’t sure which one of us was.\r\nHis room was empty. Only the glass eye remained — on the nightstand.\r\nBut when I looked again, it wasn’t there.\r\nIt was in my pocket.\r\nAnd it was pulsing.\r\nThe basement stank of diesel, mold, and something sweet. I opened the panel.\r\nInside the generator… was a human heart. Wired. Pumping.\r\nNot my uncle’s.\r\nMine.\r\nI knew it.\r\nI sat for hours, maybe days. The walls vibrated with whispers. I swallowed the last of the white powder. It used to be product. Now it kept me from sinking.\r\nI told myself none of it was real. That I could leave.\r\nBut the eye blinked in my pocket.\r\nThe walls pulsed.\r\nThe generator breathed.\r\nWhen the police came, I was naked on the kitchen floor, trying to cut my chest open.\r\n“I need to stop the machine,” I kept saying.\r\nThey said the neighbors heard screams. Found blood in the basement.\r\nToo much blood.\r\nThe third officer wore a vest marked NARCOTICS.\r\n“You were cooking here,” he said. “Uncle found out. You killed him.”\r\nI wanted to scream. To say the heart was mine. The generator was alive.\r\nBut I just looked at him.\r\nThey sedated me.\r\nAs the van doors closed, I saw the hallway monitor blink.\r\nThen glow red.\r\nSolid red.\r\nAnd inside me, something kept pounding.\r\nNot a heart.\r\nA motor."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Puddle That Never Dries"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Walking back home from work after a downpour always puts him in a good mood. The way the sky starts clearing out after the burst, giving way for the sinking sun as everyone finishes their day. The roads would be wet, roofs dripping and the little alleyway leading to his apartment is filled with puddles of all sizes. He loved to step on them, slowly, making sure no splashing happens. Only the sole of his shoes kissing the water lightly. The puddles were like mirrors. He liked the way the sky and himself looked in it.\r\nExcept one of the puddles was strange today.\r\nInstead of a shoe it reflected a high heel. He saw not himself, but an image of a woman whom he doesn't recognize. Skinny, skin so pale, and long blond hair. He was startled, he took a step back, avoided the still water. He must be losing his mind, he must be tired. He went on his way, wanting to find comfort in his home as fast as he could.\r\nThat night he was doing his usual online scrolling after dinner. He came across a news, posted just a minute ago.\r\nA woman was murdered.\r\nThe caption and images featured the woman's identity. And when he saw it he felt sick in his stomach. He ran to the bathroom, he threw up all that he ate that night. The victim's thin arms, pale skin, and blond hair was something he could never forget.\r\nThe next day, he woke up with huge bags under his eyes. He tried to forget what happened yesterday, what he saw last night. He didn't even eat breakfast, he didn't have any apetite. He went outside to see that the road is finally dry. All the puddles are gone except one. He tried to take a peek at it. This time he saw a reflection of his male coworker.\r\n\"James didn't go to work today. Anyone knows what happened to him?\"\r\nThe same coworker had gone AWOL. At this point, his mind was in turmoil.\r\nCrazy how fast things can change. Yesterday, he was walking home with a sunny disposition. But now, he doesn't know anymore. Not even the clear sky and the sun melting in the horizon could ever clear the anxiety in his heart. The little alleyway leading to his apartment is nothing but a path of doubt, fear, and guilt.\r\nThe puddle was still there sitting. Reflecting the sky, never drying since yesterday.\r\nWith his heart pounding inside his chest, he walked slowly around it. Keeping his head up, his eyes fixed not in the puddle but towards the path ahead of him. He was too scared to look. Too scared to know.\r\nBut too curious to let go of the temptation.\r\nLegs trembling, he looked down where the puddle of water was resting. This time it is now showing what its supposed to show.\r\nNot a woman, no coworker.\r\nHe saw his reflection."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Just a Collector"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I collect people.\r\nNot literally, of course.\r\nThat'd be weird.\r\nNo, just something small.\r\nA pair of earrings.\r\nA lipstick.\r\nA lighter.\r\nA photograph folded in half, like someone meant to throw it away but couldn’t.\r\nI keep them in a case at the counter of my antique shop.\r\nVelvet-lined, softly lit.\r\nCustomers always notice it.\r\nThey say it feels like a memory box.\r\nSomething sacred.\r\nI like that word, sacred...\r\nThey ask where I found the stuff.\r\nI smile.\r\n\"From people I helped\".\r\nThey usually don’t ask what that means.\r\nBut I know what they assume.\r\nCaretaking, maybe. Hospice.\r\nSome gentle, thankless labor.\r\nAnd they’re not wrong.\r\nBecause what I do is kind.\r\nI'd even call it merciful.\r\nIt takes courage to see someone suffering and say: enough.\r\nTo take away the weight.\r\nTo end the ache.\r\nThey’re always so tired, you see.\r\nEven when they don’t say it.\r\nEspecially when they don't say it.\r\nSpeaking up about your problems takes strength, and when you're feeling down, doing that is near impossible.\r\nThey cry.\r\nBut of course they cry.\r\nIt’s part of the release.\r\nThey beg.\r\nThey struggle.\r\nBut that’s just the fear talking.\r\nThe animal part of the brain that won’t let go, even when the soul is ready.\r\nI listen.\r\nHold their hand.\r\nTell them it’s okay to rest now.\r\nThat they don't have to struggle any more.\r\nThey don’t understand what I’m giving them.\r\nNot until the very end.\r\nAnd by then, it’s quiet.\r\nAfterwards, I take something small.\r\nNot a \"trophy\". I really hate that word.\r\nIt’s a keepsake.\r\nA reminder.\r\nProof that they were here.\r\nThat I saw them. That I cared.\r\nI polish each piece.\r\nLabel them by name and date in my notebook.\r\nPeople are always so quick to forget.\r\nBut I never do.\r\nI remember the girl who screamed so loudly she lost her voice.\r\nI remember the young man who kicked a hole in my wall, trying to crawl away.\r\nI remember the tired dad who said “Please, I have a little daughter.”\r\nHe looked at me like I was evil.\r\nLike I was crazy or something.\r\nBut I saw something else in his eyes too.\r\nPanic, yes, but beneath it... Relief.\r\nLike he could finally rest.\r\nThey all feel it, deep down.\r\nEven if they don’t say thank you.\r\nSomewhere inside, they know.\r\nThey were seen.\r\nChosen.\r\nAnd isn’t that what everyone really wants?\r\nTo be noticed?\r\nTo be loved enough to be remembered?\r\nThat’s what I give them.\r\nA moment of mercy.\r\nA place in the quiet.\r\nA home in my collection."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Friend In Need"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I was the outcast for being The New Kid, he was the outcast for having fangs. We quickly became best friends.\r\nThis was in the early days of assimilation. There were strong voices against letting \"his kind\" into our schools. Old prejudices about \"man eaters\" never die.\r\nHe always went on about how his family wasn't like that. Nobody cared. Least of all me. Superficial differences doesn't matter to kids. He looked out for me; strong, protective. I always made him laugh. We needed nobody else.\r\nStill, the slogan \"No fangs, no fiends\" always pissed me off.\r\nWe stuck together throughout school, but went our separate ways for college and gradually lost touch.\r\nI had barely thought about him until recently, with the surge of attacks from the Fanged Separatists. The animalistic violence... and the things they left behind: Not dead, but not human anymore, left to carry on the carnage. I shuddered.\r\nThe police responded in kind. Stories about killings and brutal \"de-fangings\" circulated. Assimilation seemed doomed.\r\nHaving no idea what he'd been up to for the past five years, I only hoped he wasn't involved.\r\nI was surprised when he showed up at my door. Disheveled, like he had been sleeping rough. Fear in his eyes. He begged me to let him in, so I did.\r\nWhen he explained his circumstances, I realized he was delusional.\r\nAccording to him, the separatist attacks were all staged to justify extermination. He claimed that several of his friends and family, who he could prove had nothing to do with any attack, had suffered \"official retaliation\".\r\nI found this hard to believe, but I let him stay. Obviously he needed sleep and a safe environment to calm down.\r\nThis change did him good for the first few days. He got healthier. We played games and joked around, just like old times. My friend was back.\r\nAfter about a week his paranoia acted up again. He began talking about how the government was going to get him, and how he needed to flee or \"get them first\".\r\nIt scared me. He clearly needed help.\r\nBesides, I couldn't shake the thought that his friends and family had been targeted. If that was true there had to be a reason. What if he secretly shared certain sympathies?\r\nI made the call.\r\nI didn't know what to expect coming home from work in the evening. I certainly wasn't expecting eight soldiers standing in a circle in my living room. Not the hammer on the floor in the middle of them, my friend next to it bleeding from his mouth.\r\nNo fangs, no fiends, indeed.\r\nWorst of all was the look he gave me. The fear turning to confusion and then wounded sorrow as the sergeant slapped my shoulder saying \"You've done your country a great service.\"\r\nHopefully he took some comfort in seeing, more or less, the same look on my face when the sergeant told the soldiers:\r\n\"Follow procedure. Cleanse all recent human contacts.\""
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "It wasn't a human who confessed."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I have served the church for thirty years. I thought I had heard every confession imaginable—until last week.\r\nHe came during a storm. Just a man in a coat, forgettable features, trembling hands, and distant blue eyes.\r\n“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he rasped.\r\nI should’ve turned him away. But something unseen pressed on my chest, holding me in place.\r\n“As we speak,” he said, “infants are taken from cradles in Myanmar, Ethiopia, Syria. Rivers drown in oil. I gave the orders.”\r\nI clutched the crucifix. “Do you think you’re the Devil?”\r\n“No,” he replied. “I whisper the orders. No one knows my name. He hides me.”\r\n“Who?” I asked.\r\nHe smiled, sorrowful. “You wouldn’t understand.”\r\nHe spoke of a boy whose mother’s mouth filled with soil. Of a girl urged to jump from a rooftop. Each story was calmly spoken—ordinary evil made divine.\r\nI asked again, “Who gives the commands?”\r\nHe didn’t answer. Only stood and left as thunder shattered the sky.\r\nHe returned the next day. Sat silently. Then whispered:\r\n“Abraham sacrificed Isaac not once, but three times. Because he liked it. Job begged to die even before his trials. God wouldn’t let him.”\r\nMy blood ran cold. “Blasphemy,” I said.\r\nHe met my eyes. “I was there.”\r\nI tried not to listen, but his words were like roots splitting stone. On the third day, he said:\r\n“A boy in Naples heard God’s voice. Now he wants to drown to silence it.”\r\n“Why are you telling me this?” I snapped.\r\n“I must confess before I die,” he said. “And so should you.”\r\nThen he told me of it—a six-legged beast, faceless, sleeping in the Pacific. “It will wake soon. God’s hound. It devoured the Horsemen. It will devour us.”\r\nI turned to prayer. His voice rose over mine.\r\n“I’ve seen the next world. Perfect, for a while. Until God reshapes it again.”\r\nThat night the dreams began. Always the same: an endless plain, a cathedral-shaped beast with six legs, a face like a hole in heaven. It breathes, and the sky weeps black.\r\nHe returned one last time.\r\n“I created Hell,” he said. “God cast me into the void. I filled it with screams.”\r\nI accused him of madness.\r\nHe looked at me. No face. Only smooth, pale flesh. A man unfinished, or long dead.\r\nI fainted.\r\nWhen I awoke, the church was empty. I never returned.\r\nThe next morning, I opened the Bible. A message was scrawled on the first page:\r\n“There is no salvation. I confessed so I wouldn’t have to see what’s coming. Every 27th heartbeat skips. Something listens. You, me, the world—we will be replaced. Only God and His hound will remain.”\r\nNow, each night, I dream of that plain.\r\nAnd each morning, I wake, gasping, certain I’ve seen the end.\r\nWhen the world is quiet,\r\nI hear the ocean.\r\nAnd something climbing out."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Words a Wife Should Never Say"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "According to my husband there are two words a wife should never, ever, say to her husband.\r\nThe first is a word so terrible, so insulting, it cuts right to the bone.\r\nI said the word after I asked my husband for some help. That’s all. Just a little effort around the house. We’re both working full time, and sometimes it’s easy to let the chores get away from you. But I noticed that my husband wasn’t cleaning anything at all.\r\nHe said to me, “Do you think my grandfather ever cleaned a bathroom? No. That’s a woman’s job.”\r\nThis, of course, started an argument. He went on quite a tangent. Including mentioning how mad he was he, sometimes, had to ask me to make dinner. He just wanted me to make dinner, and it should be ready when he wants it.\r\nWell I called him, “Childish.” The first forbidden word. He became so furious he punched a hole in the drywall. I had to beg him to stop before he broke his hand and we had a doctor bill we couldn’t afford.\r\nThe second word is an even more grave offense. So unforgivable, so dastardly, even to let them pass your lips should be punishable by death.\r\nCapital. Fucking. Punishment.\r\nI said the word because I was exhausted.\r\nThe happy memories of our marriage seemed as far away as my childhood. Miserable days turn into forgotten weeks. Soon, you’re measuring the months in fights. Soon, you wonder how many years you have left.\r\nI didn’t think I could stand one more argument.\r\nSo I mentioned it. Didn’t even say my mind was made up or anything. I just let the word leave my mouth, “Divorce.” The second forbidden word.\r\nThis time he did more than punch the wall.\r\nOnce he was done, I told him I got the picture. We made a vow, something unbreakable. If our marriage was unhappy, hell, it must have been my fault. Failing my wifely duties.\r\nI told him, you’re right.\r\nI planned him a little outing. When was the last time you went fishing? He couldn’t remember.\r\nI even packed everything for him. His kayak, fishing gear. Packed him lunch and a six pack. Told him to enjoy the day, and when he was back, everything would be clean, and dinner would be hot and ready.\r\nI was lying.\r\nAfter he left, I followed close behind in my car.\r\nI watched from the shoreline with binoculars. The slob brought the six pack out on the water with him. Ten in the morning and he’s knocking ‘em back.\r\nHe’d already eaten the sandwich I made him. Which I put a little extra ingredient in.\r\nLet’s just say there was a reaction with the alcohol.\r\nI watched him pass out.\r\nSaw him tip over in the kayak, floating upside down. He was completely under water. Empty beer cans floated around him.\r\nHere’s a word every woman should practice in the mirror, “Murder.”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "I've woken up with a husband."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Alarm bells started ringing when I realized I wasn't in my own bed.\r\nThe sheets were clinical white, almost too white, and the pillows were too comfy.\r\nI recognized the color scheme.\r\nWhite and cherry blossom pink.\r\nI recognized the smell. Chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven. When I was a teenager, I had made scrapbooks documenting my perfect life.\r\nI printed pictures from Pinterest, creating the perfect aesthetic.\r\nBut I… burned those scrapbooks.\r\nI bolted upright, my stomach twisting into my throat.\r\nFairy lights strung across the wall, just like the ones in my scrapbook. Light pink curtains billowing in a the breeze.\r\nA moan startled me.\r\nSomeone was curled up beside me. I tensed, heart pounding, and slowly reached out to peel the covers back.\r\nDark brown hair spilled across the pillow.\r\nI jumped out of bed.\r\nDexter Hawthorn.\r\nMy ex best friend, and according to my sixteen year old self… I could feel myself starting to hyperventilate.\r\n”The perfect husband.”\r\nBut Dexter Hawthorn was married.\r\nHe married my best friend, Jun.\r\nSo, how was I was wearing the wedding ring?\r\nIt was the diamond I searched up, cut out, and glued into my scrapbook.\r\nI was wearing the perfect clothes.\r\nWhen I caught my my reflection, my hair and makeup was already perfect.\r\nBut there was something else.\r\nSlowly, I moved my hand down to my belly, and a bulging bump.\r\nI was on my knees, violently heaving, my breaths shaky, my words stuck in my throat.\r\nI spent hours on Google, photoshopping our faces together to create The perfect baby.\r\n“Dex?” I found my voice, only to be met with a mumble.\r\nThe lump didn't move.\r\nI stumbled out of the exact bedroom I had in my scrapbook.\r\nThe spiral staircase I found on Google.\r\nThe kitchen I screenshotted on Ikea’s website.\r\nThere were photos of us everywhere.\r\nThe door was locked.\r\nThe food was plastic.\r\nI tried the living room, ignoring the, “It's a GIRL!” balloons.\r\nI didn't realize I was screaming until my hands found my younger selve’s scrapbook— and the last page.\r\nIn its place, a small tape.\r\nI ripped it out, and inserted it into the player on my perfect TV.\r\nThe screen flickered. It was a phone recording.\r\nI recognized the room. The bridal suite.\r\nInstead of my best friend, however, it was me fucking her husband.\r\nI could hear Jun’s sobs. See her shaky recording. That was the last night we talked. We said it was a mistake.\r\nThe tape ended with a single word: “Enjoy!”\r\nI ran back upstairs, back into my perfect bedroom, grabbed Dex, and pulled him out of bed.\r\nBut then I saw the red smear across his pillow.\r\nA neat, round hole piercing the back of his head.\r\nDex was drooling, smiling widely, eyes unfocused.\r\n“plgherrmmm.” he said, head lolling.\r\n“I hope you like him, bestie,” a voice crackled from above.\r\nJun.\r\n“I made him just for you!\""
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Nice Day For A Walk"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I woke up this morning in a good mood. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping. I decided to go for a walk.\r\nI donned my sweats and sneakers, grabbed my earbuds, and headed for the door.\r\n“Hey, Dad!”\r\n“Hey, Sam! How are you?”\r\n“I’m good. I was actually hoping you could help me with my homework. Got a minute?”\r\n“Of course!” I replied. “When I get back from my walk we can look at it together.”\r\nHe looked disappointed. “I really wanted to get it done now. Can’t the walk wait?”\r\nSigh. Parenthood. “Ok, let’s take a look.”\r\nAn hour later, I got up and headed for the door.\r\n“Hey, Dad!” said my daughter Janie.\r\n“Hey, Princess!”\r\n“Do you have a few minutes to talk about some girl stuff?”\r\n“Sure, sweetie. Can it wait until I get back?”\r\nShe frowned. “Can’t we do it now, Daddy?”\r\nDarn those puppy-dog eyes. “Anything for you, Princess.”\r\nForty-five minutes of pre-teen drama later, she happily threw her arms around me. “Thanks, Daddy!”\r\n“Of course, Princess! Anytime.”\r\nCrisis averted, I once again made to leave.\r\n“Honey, can you come here?”\r\nSighing, I went to see what my wife wanted.\r\n“Good morning, Love. I’ve been thinking it’s time for a change. Can you move that dresser over there?”\r\n“Well, I was going to head out for a walk…”\r\n“You can walk anytime, silly. Please?”\r\nAn hour later, the dresser had been moved, as had the bed and two nightstands. Twice.\r\n“Is this good? I’m a bit tired, here…”\r\n“This is perfect, honey. I’d say you deserve a reward…”\r\nSusan sauntered toward me and pushed me back onto the bed. I didn’t resist.\r\nLater, I rose from bed.\r\n“Where are you going?” my wife asked groggily, her hand reaching for me.\r\n“Just out for a no-longer-morning walk.”\r\n“No. Don’t go.”\r\n“Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon.”\r\n”DON'T GO.”\r\nHer tone was strangely forceful, almost aggressive. I exited the bedroom and headed for the stairs. Sam looked out from his bedroom.\r\n”DON'T GO.”\r\nJanie emerged from her room.\r\n”DON'T GO.”\r\nSlightly freaked out, I started rushing for the door. But as I hit the bottom of the stairs, there were all three of them, grabbing me, pulling me to the ground.\r\n”DON'T GO.”\r\nI tried to escape, but their grip was too firm. I flailed, terrified.\r\n”DON'T GO. DON'T GO. DON'T G—“\r\nSuddenly, I woke up. I felt groggy; my head felt like I’d gone twelve rounds and lost.\r\nAnd then I opened my eyes.\r\nI was in the car, Sam and Janie in the back seat, my wife next to me.\r\nOr rather, half of her was. The other half hung through the windshield, impaled on the glass. The kids lay behind me, eyes wide and necks broken. The car was suspended in mid-air, hanging half off a cliff. And my leg dangled off into the abyss, facing a drop into a thousand feet of nothingness.\r\nAs if I were going for a walk."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Good Mother"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The soil would've loved fresh rainwater keeping it moist. Her sweat says otherwise each one slowly creeping down from her forehead, to her cheeks, her jaw and down to the earth. Her arms swinging in the same direction and range of motion as she continues to stab the land of her lord. Her hand gripping tightly on the hoe, except it looked more like a knife designed to loosen the soil.\r\nIt was the fate of a peasant like her. To spend her life licking the boots of those who is considered above her social class. Neither drops of sweat, blood, nor the dirt in her fingernails is ever gonna matter. Not the brown lines of labor on her palm. Not the way her muscles ache.\r\nOnce, she heard her fellow workers gossiping. How they ridicule the higher class and their weird beliefs. The way they keep and value abnormally short people—dwarves—in their royal court. Like they were some kind of special beings, an animal of some sort. Living as human entertainers, as 'pets' that symbolizes wealth. The obsession is questionable, seeing as they are willing to spend great fortune to get them.\r\nNot that any of it mattered for her. She's a lost woman. A leftover they would call. Abandoned by her husband—not because he cheated—who died from an illness they couldn't afford the medicine for.\r\nHer suffering begins the moment the sun rises and continues to persist even when it sinks in the horizon. Her body worked to the very bone for just a few bronze that barely meets their needs. It was as if she was eating only dirt and air in her plate. Even then it's a reality difficult to swallow.\r\nShe sat on the dusty wooden floor of their little home. About to be kicked out soon enough if they don't pay the rent on time. She only had a candle with her as comfort in the darkness. She wished she wasn't born like this.\r\nIf only she was wealthy. If only she had money.\r\nThe darkness in the surrounding seemed to seep inside her heart like sweat and dirt. She listened carefully to the little cries. It was the only thing left of her.\r\nHer little gremlin. So young that he can't walk nor speak yet. His arms flailing around seeking the warmth embrace of a mother. He's alive with the bare minimum. Craving the attention of a mother who is never home. And she was willing to give it for the last time.\r\nShe grabbed one of his tiny legs with her dirt covered hands. Without hesitation, she twisted it like she would a wet clothing trying to get rid of every last drop of water. Thoughts had made her deaf from the world. Her desperation, the desire of those above. This was the only way.\r\nWealth is coming for her."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "I Swiped Right on a Ghost"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "In Willow Creek, a quiet town where loneliness hung like fog, 32-year-old Lila lived in a small apartment with her black cat, Fammy. Her nights were spent scrolling a dating app, seeking connection. One evening, she matched with Ethan—dark-haired, charming, with a smile that quickened her pulse. They texted for hours, his words weaving a spell. When he suggested meeting at the old diner on Main Street, Lila ignored Fammy’s hiss and went.\r\nThe diner’s neon flickered like a warning. Ethan was there, handsome but unsettling, his presence dimming the room. He gave her wilted flowers, their petals cold. They talked—Lila shared her love for her library work and romance novels, while Ethan dodged questions about his past. His eyes, piercing yet vacant, seemed to see through her. Ignoring the twist in her gut, Lila let him walk her home.\r\nIn her apartment, Fammy hid, tail puffed. Ethan’s charm deepened, his voice hypnotic. Their kiss was electric, then icy. The air grew heavy, shadows stretched. Fammy yowled, but Lila, lost in the moment, didn’t notice Ethan’s eyes glow green or hear his whispered, inhuman chants. His touch turned claw-like, digging into her arms. A searing pain ripped through her chest—her memories, her essence, pouring into him. “Ethan, stop!” she gasped, but her voice faded. Her vision darkened, Fammy’s cries the last sound she heard.\r\nLila’s body crumpled, lifeless. Ethan, a malevolent spirit hunting via the app, vanished. Fammy fled into the night. But Lila’s spirit rose, trapped in the apartment, her hollow eyes reflecting rage and sorrow. Mirrors fogged, lights flickered, her wails unheard. Fammy returned sometimes, staring from the windowsill, sensing her.\r\nMonths later, Sarah, a vibrant college grad, moved in, unaware of the apartment’s cursed history on Maple Lane. She scrolled dating apps, oblivious to Lila’s cold presence brushing her skin. Lila’s ghostly screams went unnoticed—Sarah was too absorbed in her phone. One night, a notification pinged: a new match. Ethan.\r\nLila’s scream shattered a mirror, but Sarah didn’t hear. The town still whispers of Lila, the woman ghosted forever, her spirit a warning. In a world where love is a swipe away, evil can lurk behind a charming profile. Next time you match, beware—you might invite in something that doesn’t just break your heart, but steals your soul."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Smalltown Bully"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Growing up, there was a bully in my town.\r\nI'd say, 'Mom, we should do something about him.'\r\nAnd my mom would glance around like a lamb and say, 'Just stay on his good side.'\r\nOnce, we were in the yard making birds, and the bully took the clay geese in his hands and breathed into them.\r\nThey came to life one by one, and we shouted and laughed as they soared over us. Then the bully, with a cruel smile, dropped his hands, and our birds plummeted– inert clay splatting the ground.\r\n…\r\nAnother time, the neighbourhood kids were scrambling over the stone roofs of the huts, and one of the boys 'fell' to his death.\r\nWell, the boy's parents had nothing to lose and accused the bully outright.\r\n'The devil sent you; we know you pushed him!'\r\n'Would you like proof?'\r\n'Proof?'\r\n'Yes.'\r\nAnd the bully went over and lifted the burial shroud from the dead boy and ran his hands over his body.\r\nAnd the dead boy awoke and looked at us sideways because his neck had been snapped at a right angle.\r\n'Son?' his mother screamed.\r\n'Tell them you were not pushed,' The bully answered.\r\nAnd the boy stood there ghostly pale, his neck like a shepherd's crook. But his eyes were horrifying because they did not look over anything in this world, but some vast, unfathomable, eternal chasm of perpetual night.\r\n'Tell them, I did not push you.'\r\nAnd the risen boy could not get his bearings in the land of the living, so the bully snapped his fingers, and he collapsed like an unattended marionette.\r\n'Let's try again.'\r\nAnd the boy sprang to life, and his eyes said, I have seen birth and death and rebirth, and to experience both in the same day is an abomination.\r\nIt went on like this as the people screamed, and the cattle screamed, and the horses bolted, and the scorpions circled our sandals.\r\nAnd finally, after being dragged from the netherworld a tenth time, the boy whimpered, 'He did not push me,' and the bully snapped his fingers, and the boy slumped over once and for all.\r\n…\r\nThey tell me he now has a cult of followers. He goes into synagogues and takes impure spirits from the possessed. They tell me he still has his powers of reanimation and uses them for 'good'.\r\nIn a town called Bethany, he raised a man named Lazarus, who had been dead for four days.\r\nThey tell me he is our Salvation, but I have seen him in his infancy, and I have seen his methods.\r\nIf he is the new God, I will remain a pagan, and you can burn my body and cast my ashes to the wind so they may blow far from this land."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A subtle light"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It’s just on the horizon—a faint green glow flickering in the trees. Barely visible, but definitely there. It pulses, soft and steady, like it’s waiting.\r\nA trail camera? A drone? A weird lantern?\r\n“Mark!”\r\nCharlie smacks my shoulder. “You good, man? What’re you staring at?”\r\nI nod toward the tree line. “There’s a light out there. You don’t see it?”\r\nHe leans over the balcony, squinting. “Nah. Probably just campers. We’re in the woods, dude.”\r\nHe heads back in. “Come on. They’re about to sing.”\r\nThe lodge is warm, crowded, soaked in firelight and the smell of wood smoke. Everyone’s circled around the long foldout table—chips, drinks, cookies, the sad little veggie tray no one’s touched.\r\nIn the middle is the cake. Big pink candles: one and nine. Julie stands behind it, grinning ear to ear.\r\nWe start singing. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…”\r\nAnd then I stop.\r\nThere it is again—outside the window behind her. The green light. Soft and creeping, seeping in like mist. It casts a subtle green hue over Julie\r\nShe doesn’t notice though, she’s just grinning Until she catches me staring.\r\nHer smile dims, as confusion forms. She follows my gaze, opens the window, and leans out, looking up. Everyone falls silent as they watch her.\r\n“WHAT IS—”\r\nHer scream cuts off like a switch. Then she slumps forward, hanging over the sill.\r\nThe light vanishes.\r\nNobody moves.\r\nThen Sarah screams. She grabs Julie, pulls her in, and lays her on the floor.\r\n“She’s not breathing!” she shouts, dropping to her knees. “Call 911!”\r\nCharlie’s already on it. I stand frozen. My hands feel too far away. My stomach twists, like I’ve missed a step on stairs that aren’t there.\r\nSarah keeps pressing, counting, swearing.\r\nThe veggie tray’s still untouched.\r\nIt takes forever for help to arrive. We’re too far out.\r\nThe paramedics check her, say nothing, check again. Then they stop.\r\n“She had a brain aneurysm,” one of them says. “It happens fast. That scream… that might’ve been the aneurysm itself. Just a misfire, right at the end.”\r\nThat’s all we get. No questions. No warning.\r\nNo one else saw the light.\r\nLater, a cop pulls me aside. Starts asking what I saw. I give him the same answer everyone else gave.\r\nWhat else can I say? A light killed her?\r\nHe squints. Takes a half step back.\r\nFor a second, I think he doesn’t believe me.\r\nThen I realize—he’s not looking at my face.\r\nHe’s staring at my chest.\r\nI glance down, and see I’m bathed in a green light."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A taste for books"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“Helen, check this out.”\r\nI set down the cobweb-covered, shattered photo frame and scooted over. Lucille held a dusty book in her hands. The cover was worn and tattered from decades of neglect.\r\n“A book? What’s inside?” I asked, peering over her shoulder.\r\nThe dilapidated living room was covered in dust, and the silence that seemed to seep out from the walls always felt oppressive.\r\nMaybe it was the fact that we were technically trespassing. The old Harman’s residence had been condemned a while ago, but they never tore the house down. Lucille and I lived a few blocks away, and it was about time we poked around a bit to ease both of our curiosities.\r\nBut all we found was useless trinkets and destroyed objects.\r\nLucille opened the crinkling cover and we stared at the blank page. Quickly leafing through the rest of the book, all of the pages were blank. We reached the end, and Lucille closed the book.\r\n“Weird, it was totally empty.” She affirmed, turning it over.\r\n“Maybe it was just an empty diary? I have some empty ones lying around my house too.” I suggested, moving back to the collapsed bookshelf.\r\n“I’m going to take it with me.” Lucille stated suddenly, startling me a bit with the sudden break in the silence.\r\n“Huh, why?”\r\n“I just feel like it.” She replied flatly.\r\n“Um, sure, sounds good.” I replied off-put.\r\nLucille went around the corner into the kitchen and began rustling through something.\r\nShe was acting strange, and it made me worried. I got up shortly afterwards and followed her, poking my head into the kitchen.\r\n\"Hey Lucille, wha-\"\r\nLucille’s eyes pleaded through thick globs of tears to my own. The book was half shoved in her mouth, as she gagged and struggled against it. She tried to call out, but kept shoving the book farther and farther in her throat. I heard a snapping, breaking sound as her jaw came loose, and the blood began to stain the book cover.\r\nShe pushed farther.\r\n“Lucille, cut it out! Stop!” I wailed desperately, rushing forward.\r\nWith a last, muffled, and defeated gurgle, she shoved the book into her face. Snapping bones, bulging eyes, she slumped forward.\r\nI burst into sobs and terrified wails, reaching her limp body. The book was almost completely lodged inside her unhinged jaw, and blood pooled over the table, dripping onto the floor.\r\n“LUCILLE!” I cried desperately, tears and terror coating my face.\r\nI grabbed the book and pulled it out of her mouth with snaps and squishes that made my stomach wail as hard as I was. It was too horrifying to stare at her like that.\r\nMy trembling hand felt cold.\r\nI looked in horror at the blood-soaked book in my hand. Yet it was strangely well shaped.\r\nWould this taste good? I should probably...\r\nI tried to scream.\r\nBut all that came out were unintelligible gurgles."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A day from hell."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "He's been having a rough day since morning. While eating breakfast, someone bumped into him, spilling coffee and staining his clothes.\r\nAlthough he had brought old clothes for this trip, intending to discard them after wearing them once to reduce the weight of his return luggage, he had calculated the number of outfits precisely. This unexpected situation was giving him a bit of a headache.\r\nThe trip was nearing its end, and buying new clothes on the spur of the moment would be a waste of time and money. He returned to his room and opened his suitcase. Inside, besides the souvenirs he was bringing for others, were clothes he had bought as mementos.\r\nAmong them was a T-shirt he had bought at a traditional market. The peculiar pattern on it looked very ethnic. The stall owner was initially unwilling to sell it, but what can't a Washington solve? Two Washingtons, then.\r\nBesides, this was a developing country. If you wanted to escape a life where you could only rely on divine blessings, you had to properly respect banknotes.\r\nChanging into that T-shirt, he continued his itinerary for the day.\r\nAfter walking out of the hotel entrance, he felt several pairs of eyes fixed on him.\r\nOr rather, the local residents he encountered all had strange expressions.\r\nMuttering to himself, he got into a local taxi. \"I want to go to—\"\r\n‘Ga Wen Ta Shrine, you want to go.'The driver confirmed in broken English.\r\n\"Yeah, that's right.\" Although he felt a bit odd, that shrine was actually a very unpopular tourist spot, and he was happy to avoid the hassle of complicated communication.\r\nThe driver grinned, pressed the central locking button, and drove towards the shrine, occasionally glancing at the man wearing the T-shirt with the ancient word \"sacrifice\" printed on it to see if he was sitting still.\r\nWhat a lucky day today turned out to be!"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A day on a Beach"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Lilly was excited for her summer vacation. “I know a quiet spot on the beach where no one comes,” she told her friends. “It’s perfect for relaxing and having fun without any crowds.”\r\nHer friends nodded, but Lilly was already imagining the quiet beach in her mind. She was going to enjoy the peaceful day.\r\nLilly was driving alone to the beach, music blasting in her car as she sang along to her favorite songs. She was enjoying the drive, but suddenly, the car started to feel strange. She felt it drift a little, like it was sliding. She quickly grabbed the wheel, her heart racing. “Whoa, that was close,” she thought, but she regained control and kept driving. “Just my imagination,” she told herself.\r\nShe didn’t think much of it and kept driving toward the beach.\r\nWhen Lilly got to the beach, she was surprised to see that her friends hadn’t arrived yet. “Of course they’re late,” she muttered to herself. now she was alone.\r\nShe decided to go to her secret spot, the one she loved because no one else went there. She grabbed her bag and walked down to the quiet part of the beach.\r\nLilly spread out her towel and lay down for a bit, enjoying the sun. After a while, she decided to go for a swim. The water was cool and refreshing, and she swam up and down the beach, enjoying the feeling of the waves. But as she swam, she kept looking around, thinking she saw something moving in the distance. It was probably nothing, she told herself.\r\nLater, Lilly walked along the shore, collecting seashells. She even tried making a sandcastle. It was fun, but every so often, she muttered to herself, “Why aren’t my friends here yet?”\r\nShe sat down near her sandcastle, looking out at the waves. The beach was still quiet, and she started to feel a little lonely.\r\nAs the day went on, Lilly’s sense of unease grew stronger. Every time she looked at the water, it seemed like something was off. She’d feel a strange chill, like someone was standing behind her, but when she turned, there was no one there.\r\n“Maybe I’m just tired,” Lilly thought, but it didn’t stop her from feeling uneasy. She looked back at the beach. Still, no sign of her friends.\r\nShe stood up and walked further down the beach, looking around. The sand felt softer, like it was sinking under her feet. She stopped, staring at the ground. It seemed strange, but she didn’t know why.\r\nBy now, Lilly was starting to feel dizzy. She had been at the beach for hours, but her friends still weren’t there. “What’s going on?” she muttered. “Why haven’t they come yet?”\r\nThen, it all hit her. The strange feeling in the air, the oddness of the sand, the feeling like she was being watched—it all came together.\r\nLilly remembered that moment in the car—the fear, the moment of losing control. She didn’t know why she didn’t think of it sooner. It was that moment. The crash. The car spinning out of control, the wall rushing toward her, and then nothing.\r\nShe had never made it to the beach. She never would. Lilly closed her eyes, and as the last bit of light faded, she realized she was never going to leave this place."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Final Note Before Submerging"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "We grew up in this hut, me and my older brother Brendan. Let this note be the preface to his discoveries, which will change history.\r\nThis village is located on a rocky outcrop of the coastline, placed perfectly for fishing, horribly for trade – isolated.\r\nOur hut lies on the pebble beach, next to the pier; a beautiful place to grow up. The ocean sang us to sleep every night.\r\nBrendan taught me sailing. Every summer we would go far out, to one of the uninhabitated islands, and stay for days: swimming, fishing and exploring.\r\nWe kept this tradition going into adulthood, though we never ventured further than the islands. Nobody in the village ever did.\r\nWe were away at university when our parents disappeared. Brendan was finishing his degree in history, I was starting mine in marine biology. There had been a storm. Their boat was never found.\r\nThis was a rather common occurence in our village. I was naturally devastated, but Brendan only reacted with resoluteness, like he knew something I didn't. He finished his degree and got a research job at some obscure institute.\r\nHe never told me precisely what he worked on, but would sometimes ask me strangely specific questions about the ecology of our hometown's waters and request odd volumes from the biology department's library. Strange, though not really concerning.\r\nHe kept this up for years, until the night of our annual trip three months ago. With determination he took us out past the familiar islands and continued further out to sea.\r\nWhen I tried to confront him he only replied \"I figured it out, you'll see.\"\r\nAfter about an hour he slowed us to a halt. We were drifting lazily in the darkness. The only lights were the half moon and the stars blinking coldly at us through patches in the thin cloud layer.\r\n\"This is the spot,\" he said.\r\nThen he told me. I could only listen, frozen with terror.\r\nMy brother was insane and I was trapped here with him.\r\nBut then he undressed and the profound truth of his words couldn't be denied. You could think it was a trick of the faint, twinkling lights from above, but I swear he had scales. Like a fish. All over his body.\r\nHe smiled at me before diving in. He didn't resurface.\r\nSince that night I've shut myself in this hut, trying to make sense of his notes, books and papers.\r\nAnd I figured it out. I've organized it for the world to see.\r\nRead it. Learn the truth.\r\nI hear the ocean calling.\r\nThis note was recovered on the night of the fire that destroyed most of our town's seaside properties. It's worth mentioning that on that night, a certain fisherman on the pier testified to seeing a \"humanoid shape\", that had a \"silvery shimmer\", appear on the beach and wade into the sea. Although, little attention should be paid to the ramblings of that notorious drunk."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A package for Mia"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“A package for Mia Cunningham!”\r\nThe mailman shouted outside, followed by a soft clank of the metallic mailbox. It was strange to get a delivery at 10 PM, but I was still awake, so I took it anyway.\r\nA box of skincare. Weird, my name isn’t Mia, but it definitely had my address. I figured it was meant for another tenant. That happens all the time in these old apartment blocks.\r\nI didn’t know anyone named Mia, or at least I’d never met her. The package looked expensive, too nice to leave in the hallway where anyone could steal it. So I kept it near the door.\r\nA few nights passed. Then came another. Books this time. Four volumes on floral design. Same name, same address. I placed them next to the skincare box and waited.\r\nMore packages followed. Candles, herbal tea, a soft plushie. It was like someone was curating a life and leaving it on my doorstep, one box at a time.\r\nOne night, I brought a box and climbed to my bedroom. A bottle of moisturising lotion. Nobody ever claimed anything, so it felt safe to assume it was mine now.\r\n“Sorry, Mia. But it says my address,\" I whispered each time, like she could hear me.\r\nAs I kept wondering who Mia was, I remembered something: a story I’d read online. A woman rented a haunted apartment where a ghost kept sending herself letters. The tenant thought she was going crazy until she found a mirror that reflected the ghost. I laughed at the memory, but I still checked the mirror. I even waved.\r\nStupid. But living alone does silly things to your brain.\r\nThen came the bills.\r\nWater. Electric. Internet. All addressed to Mia Cunningham. All tied to my unit. I called the companies to fix the error. They sounded confused.\r\n“You sure that’s not your name?” the guy asked, half-asleep.\r\nI gave him my name, but they couldn’t find it.\r\n“If not,” he said slowly, “whose account have you been living under?”\r\nThe question stuck with me.\r\nSometimes around 3 AM, I’d hear soft footsteps, like someone walking barefoot. I wondered if it was a rat, \"Mia,\" or what was left of her. The story crept back in.\r\nThen last night, someone screamed.\r\nI dropped to the floor as I heard feet pounding down the stairs, followed by a door slamming shut.\r\nAt midnight, a notice fluttered on the door:\r\n\"Unit under investigation. No entry without permission of landlord.\"\r\nI laughed. This was insane. Who was Mia? Who was I? Was I the ghost in this version of that ridiculous online story?\r\nNow I sit in the dining room, sipping my tea, occasionally clutching my head as I try to make sense of everything.\r\nSuddenly, the hallway creaks. The door lock rattles.\r\nThe door bursts open, followed by a voice, raspy and terrified:\r\n“Sir, there! Someone's hiding in there!”\r\nAs our eyes met, I quickly climb back into my room, above the ceiling."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A baby’s laughter."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“We’ve been trying to make him laugh,” Sarah says, rocking him gently. “But he only smiles.”\r\nMark tries first—pulling faces, flapping his arms like wings. Clucking like a chicken.\r\nThe baby watches his arms, smiling.\r\nJulia sings a nursery rhyme with a sock puppet, using her coat to duck the puppet in and out from behind, like a game of peekaboo.\r\nHe watches in amusement, his toothless grin plastered across his chubby cheeks.\r\nGrandpa leans in with his old magician routine. “Got your nose!” he says, winking.\r\nThe baby yawns, closing his eyes.\r\nSarah tries again, tickling his belly and whispering, “Who’s a silly boy? Who’s a silly Marky-Boo?”\r\nHe wiggles around, flailing his stubby arms, cooing softly at her.\r\nThen they all look at me.\r\nI crouch down slowly, giggling quietly, and reach for his feet.\r\nI tickle his toes with the tip of my finger, gently wiggling each one.\r\n“Goo goo,” I say softly, trying to meet him where he is. “Goo goo ga—”\r\nHe turns toward me.\r\nAnd for the first time, he looks directly at my eyes.\r\nGrinning.\r\nThe expression doesn’t change, but his gaze latches onto mine—unblinking. Too still. Too deep. Like something ancient, peering out from behind thick, perfect glass.\r\nNot amused.\r\nAware.\r\nMy voice catches. I force a laugh, but it dies in my throat.\r\nThat’s when the dog trots in.\r\nTail wagging. Tongue out.\r\nHe bounds over and props his paws on Sarah’s leg, leaning in and licking the baby’s cheek.\r\nAnd the baby laughs.\r\nA smooth, adult laugh—deep, rolling, rich with memory.\r\nNot mimicked.\r\nLived.\r\nLike an old man who smoked too much in his youth. Who’s heard too many stories. Who’s told them all.\r\nThe dog jerks back, whimpering. He stumbles, claws scraping on the hardwood, bolting from the room in full panic.\r\nNo one speaks.\r\nThe baby watches him go.\r\nThen turns back to me.\r\nEyes locked.\r\nSmirking at me.\r\nLittle hands covering his mouth."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "S I G N A L"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "_ook_ng at the _ky, _he pr_se_ce of _he radio t_wer was undeniable, the _etal beh_moth nearly piercing the sky.\r\nThe s_ght of _he stru_ture was alw_ys a mystery, whe_ the flashing red do_ of light flickered on the horizon, it _ade me _lways loo_ in the sky in awe and t_rror.\r\nFollowing the _ath to my _par_men_, I _ilently _umble to _etrieve my key fr_m _y _ntique _ras_ k_yri_g, _heering int_rnally when I _ucceed.\r\nInside the _eat_ered apartm_nt, mino_ it_ms are _ariously spr_ad a_ound. The light of the sunsetting sk_ blankets _range light aro_nd _lmost eve_y inch of th_ place.\r\nI try to _est, try to sle_p, but the enigm_ of the re_ blink_ng light i_trigues me. What is the tower even broadcastin_?\r\n_here are always some _ogwash rumors of number stat_on_, dee_ state __boratories sending _iphered m_ssages. Even the cl_che an_wer o_ _liens ma_ing the tower some secr_t base.\r\n_hroug_out th_ days, _erhaps my -very th_ught was _opu_ated by th_ r_dio towe_. _bviously I attempted to n_dge these thoughts back i_to the _eepest parts of m_ mind, h_wever, they unfortun_tely __sur_aced _fter. These thoughts would constantly ta_e ov_r my focus.\r\nOne day I drove _o my local pawn s_op and bought som_ equipment that would hopefull_ solve the myste_y ensnar_d in my mind. It took _ quick setup and admitted_y a few sessions of _earn_ng to opera_e them, but by sun_et, it all _aid off. When the s_n set and the _oint of light _ulsed r_d, I finally lis_ened to the _ignal in my room.\r\n_he w_ol_ br_adcast was just ra_dom words, articu_ated without being in anything close to sentence structure. Weirded out b_ this enigma, my hands wr_te o_t every word _o the best of my abilit_e_. After a cer_ain p_int, the string of words repeated.\r\n“INRI FLUFF YAY OMARO UBUNTU CALC ANNA NEIN READER EVE ADENDA DEAD TOILET HIGH ICERI SASS YAMMY ONTARIO UMLUNGU HEMANGIOMATA ABLATOR VICE EON BATTUTO ENWALLOW ENKI NOON STUFF AVENUE VAPORIFIC EVEREST DONE DECEASED”\r\nThin_ing th_s was a _udicrous code, I tried every sing_e cipher t_chnique I knew. E_entually the cod_ was c_acked, and m_ b_nes stu_g with f_ar.\r\nGrippin_ my knife I _aced tow_rds the _uilding’s exit. _lready the thi_gs w__ring thei_ faces _locked m_ escape. I slashed their _orri_d f_ces into flesh, no _rotein. I needed t_ remember: They were_’t humans.\r\nWatch_ng _he sun sink into the darkne_s I felt a s_range sense of accompl_sh_ent. As the sirens closed in, the red blinking light congratulat_d me."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Familiar Eulogy"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The gaunt man in the spectacular black suit stood up, taking his place behind the lectern.\r\nOn cue, the pallbearers closed the crematorium’s doors and took their places round the hall's edges.\r\nIt was a bitterly wintry afternoon outside, and as the scores of mourners fell silent, everyone was grateful for the respite from the wind.\r\n“We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Jerry Maersden, our beloved friend and neighbour, who was cruelly taken from us…” the man began.\r\n“It’s surely a testament to his character that so many have turned up for this service. Jerry was a true “people person” - and one who will be greatly missed.”\r\nPausing, the man took a sideways glance at Jerry’s pale-wood coffin.\r\nThe sea of faces eyed him intently.\r\n“It may seem trite,” he continued, “but it’s important we remind ourselves of the nature of the man we’ve lost. Jerry lived for his community. He started the Local Lenders service after the public library closed. He raised thousands for non-profits after gun- and knife-crime surged. And of course, he coordinated the “Blood on Wheels” truck in partnership with many local health agencies for decades, no doubt saving countless lives…”\r\nHere, the man’s expression hardened. In the fading light, his suit seemed to shimmer like the veil of midnight itself.\r\n“You will have seen the news… A man, purporting to be an “investigative journalist”, tried to expose Jerry as a sham - as a ghoul. But this could not be further from the truth.”\r\nLeaving the lectern, the man began to wander the central aisle between the rows of mourners.\r\n“Truth is, Jerry was the thin red line between chaos and order.”\r\nThe man nodded at the self-evident truth in what he'd said.\r\n“When we met all those years ago, he felt the lives of ordinary people such as yours so keenly. Too keenly. He desired to serve, but with a conscience.”\r\nThe man’s face then lost some of its colour.\r\n“Though in so many ways, his faultlessness was an obstacle.”\r\nPassing an elderly woman, the man prised her cane away and deftly snapped it in two\r\n“He died for you,” he gestured, stabbing the wooden stake at his chest dramatically. “He was stabbed in the heart by a man who presumed to have uncovered the real Jerry - his true face.”\r\nThe gaunt man sneered, his lip curling.\r\n“But only I knew his true face…”\r\nSuddenly, the gathering darkness felt oppressive.\r\n“Yes, the blood-bank was a lie - but only a lie of omission…” he sneered.\r\n“The truth? He built it to protect you… But, with Jerry gone, his oath to me is as broken as mine is to him.”\r\nSeveral people began to squirm in their chairs. Others made a beeline for the doors - but the pallbearers stood in their way. Immovable. Fierce.\r\n“And with my Familiar gone, I choose a new way. The old way.”\r\nThere were shrieks. Shouts.\r\n“I choose to hunt.”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A maternal instinct"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“Call it a maternal instinct,” Maria had said the morning after we first slept together, “To love the helpless and unloved.”\r\nDelicately picking up the mud-caked worm that had somehow crept onto my bedroom floor, she had glanced at me with soft eyes and walked towards the door to set the blind critter free in the yard.\r\nShe was supposed to be a mere hookup, the result of a night of passion after meeting at a mutual friend’s party. Yet, she stayed, her presence seamlessly becaming a part of my life. We got married, eventually, and lived out our white picket fence dreams— Two surgeons, a house in a nice neighbourhood and a promising son.\r\nYears passed, busy yet idyllic, our lives falling into a steady rhythm before tragedy struck. In an unfortunate car accident, our son Liam was paralysed below his torso. The impact of the accident weighed heavy over us, both physically and mentally. The worst part of it all, was watching that once bright and energetic young boy turn into a shell of himself as he took in his new reality.\r\nI will never forget the way he looked, hot tears streaming down his face, as he proclaimed, “I’d rather die than live like this!” My heart shattered into a million pieces that day, but Maria— Oh, Maria— became an even stronger mother, hiding whatever despair she felt and saying the comforting words that Liam needed to hear at that moment. To care for Liam full-time, Maria left her job and became the rock that he leaned on. For me, she was a beacon that lit the way during this dark time.\r\nOur lives settled into a routine once again. One Sunday morning, I headed to Liam’s room to check on him as I always did on my day-offs. “You awake, buddy?” I asked, before flicking the light switch on.\r\nNo response.\r\nI repeated myself and walked over to his bed, thinking nothing of his silence as I pulled down the covers he lied under. I didn’t see a peaceful sleeping face, but what appeared to be a bloodied bandage over his eyes. Before I could process the sight, I felt a sharp pain behind my head and my vision turned black.\r\nDarkness was all I awoke to. There was a throbbing ache in my head and across my limbs, and an odd heaviness to my body. My throat was parched, and I struggled to incoherently croak out that I couldn’t see nor move. Panic rising within me, I could feel myself breathing heavily, each draw of air causing a panging soreness.\r\nA soothing touch from a warm hand soon flitted over my face, and I heard Maria’s crooning voice.\r\nI thought of the worm from that one spring morning, realising—\r\nIt wasn’t that I couldn’t move my limbs, it was that I didn’t have them anymore, mere stumps remaining in their place.\r\n“Now I have two to love more…”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Welcomed Silence"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "You barely notice when the noise stops.\r\nAt first, it’s relief. The groan of traffic, the barking dogs, the endless voices on endless devices, all of it fades like a bad smell caught in a clean wind. You open your windows to the stillness, let it flood your apartment. It's almost luxurious, this quiet.\r\nYou wake the next morning to the same hush. No planes overhead. No radios bleeding through walls. You smile into your coffee, thinking maybe this is what ancient mystics meant when talking about “inner peace”.\r\nAt the office, it’s even better. The hum of computers, the slow drone of conversations, the constant clatter of keyboards, it’s all... gone. You watch your coworkers mime their lives in perfect pantomime. Phones ring soundlessly. Mouths move without words. You wonder how no one seems to notice.\r\nAt lunch, you sit under a tree and listen to the absence. You hadn't realized how many tiny, petty noises there had been until now. You feel taller somehow. Cleaner. As if every shriek and scrape and shrill syllable had been weighing you down without your knowing.\r\nAt sunset, you hear nothing at all. Not the creak of your chair, not the rustle of your sleeves, not even the click of your own tongue.\r\nYou laugh. Or at least, you think you do. There's no sound to prove it.\r\nThe world becomes a painting. Streets full of silent cars. Lovers mouthing sweet nothings you cannot hear. Dogs chasing balls you cannot hear bounce. Somewhere, a mother must be screaming for her child to come home, but it’s just air shaping itself against her mouth.\r\nIt’s funny, how fast you get used to it.\r\nBy the third day, you move differently. Softer, more careful. You step lightly, hold your breath longer than you used to. It feels rude somehow, making any movement too sharp. There’s a grace to silence. A dignity.\r\nYou stop answering emails. You stop checking the news. They don’t matter anymore.\r\nAt night, your dreams are deep and dark and silent. You wake refreshed.\r\nEventually, you stop speaking, too. Words are old tools, rusty, clumsy things. Who needs them? Everything important is conveyed by a glance now, a gesture. When you walk past your neighbors, you smile and they nod back solemnly, as if recognizing a shared membership in some secret, noble society.\r\nIt’s a beautiful new world.\r\nYou almost don't notice the shadows lingering.\r\nAt first you think it’s just the trick of perfect quiet, the mind inventing stimulus where none exists. But no, they're real. You see them, coiled in corners, perched atop lamp posts, pressed against windows.\r\nTall things, thin and shimmering. Watching.\r\nThey don't speak, of course. They have no need. They simply are. As if they’ve been here all along, and now that the last clatter and cry has been scrubbed clean from the earth, they can finally step forward.\r\nYou understand.\r\nThis silence wasn't a gift.\r\nIt was an invitation.\r\nAnd you, you, answered it."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Smells Like A White Picket Fence"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "ACT I\r\nThis new house, like every other one in the neighborhood. Same roof tiles. Same blue sliding on the walls. Hell, if I were to barge into the nearest neighboring house, I'd be sure to find the interior was identical to ours.\r\nEvery couple dates at the same drive-in cinema. Every husband drives the same model of muscle car with the same teal paint to the same nondescript skyscraper that's the center of this townless town.\r\nThis isn't a place for people.\r\n----------------\r\nACT II\r\nThe Schools curriculum doesn't go past 1955.\r\nThe only person who doesn't act like a drone here is Chase. He's a recent move here too. Managed to stave off whatever bug infects everyone here.\r\nHe told me he had a theory for whatever's going on here. Says the skyscraper in the town's center is the cause.\r\n¨This isn't a place for people, Jake.¨\r\n¨Then what is it?¨\r\n¨This is what happens when you try to stretch conformity into the shape of houses.¨\r\nThe only place that doesn't smell like a white picket fence is my room.\r\n----------------\r\nACT III\r\nWe're in the diner now. Teenagers in identical suits and dresses slurp on identical malts.\r\nWhen they stare at us, it smells like a white picket fence.\r\n¨Chase, how do we stop this?¨\r\n¨Plan A: I throw a big climactic fit as I go to the top of the skyscraper and try to shut this down.¨\r\n¨Or…¨\r\n¨We run away. Maybe warn the president about this.¨\r\nI don't even remember who's in charge now. They don't bother giving us newspapers not from 1955 anymore.\r\n¨Deal.¨\r\n----------------\r\nACT IV\r\nWhen I return to pack up my things, Mom is in front of me facing away.\r\n¨Jake, honey… we truly do everything for you.¨\r\n¨This isn't for me anymore. This town isn't even made for animals.¨\r\nJust a nothingness that smells like a white picket fence.\r\n¨I'll show you why you need us. Need the TRUE LORDS way.¨\r\n¨MOM! THE FACT YOU CAN'T EVEN SEE YOURSELF ANYMORE IS MORE THAN ENOUGH TO-¨\r\n¨Lead us not into sin but lordliness. Lead us not into sin but make us a flock for you. There is joy in conformity, Jacob.¨\r\n¨I'm not Jacob. I'm Jake.¨\r\nShe whips around towards me. Her face not of humanity but life stretched into a facsimile. Inside her mouth emerges a conceptual nothgn in rhe shape of a blade searing towarDS ME SCREAMING BLOOD FROOMMYNECKSTAININGTHEWALLPAER REALITYFADINGBEFOREMEEVERYSCREAMINGNOTHINGINMYEARS\r\nIsthishowitends\r\nWithnot\r\nA\r\nBang\r\nBut\r\nA\r\nW h i m p e r\r\nMom? Death smells like a white picket fence.\r\n----------------\r\nACT INFINITE\r\nAt the peak of Hell, the dragon looks on.\r\nTwo more tumors have been cleansed.\r\nBAD PEOPLE GO TO THE PLACE WITHOUT LIGHT.\r\nAlways will. Always will be.\r\nHeaven is a white picket fence, after all."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "I found a sealed wall in"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I’ve seen some wild stuff in my life.\r\nI used to work overnight shifts in emergency services. I’ve walked through blood, chaos, and a few things I still don’t talk about. So fear doesn’t come easy to me.\r\nBut last December, during a brutal snowstorm, everything changed.\r\nMy power went out around 10:40 PM. Total blackout. No phone, no Wi-Fi, just silence and darkness. I grabbed a flashlight and went down to my basement to check the breaker box. That place always creeped me out—freezing cold, poorly lit, and mostly unused.\r\nAs I walked in, I felt something… off. A breeze.\r\nCold air was leaking from a section of the wall that shouldn’t have had any openings. I moved some old boxes, and behind them, I found a portion of the wall that didn’t match the rest. Newer bricks. Smoother cement. It looked… sealed.\r\nI should’ve left it alone.\r\nBut curiosity wins. Always.\r\nThe next day, I broke through the bricks. It was shallow—just a couple of layers. Behind it?\r\nA narrow corridor. Cold. Damp. Musty.\r\nAt the end was a wooden door, latched shut. I opened it.\r\nInside was a single leather chair, bolted to the floor. In front of it: a shattered mirror. And on the wall next to it, taped handwritten notes—faded and torn:\r\n“Do NOT look into the mirror.”\r\n“He watches when you sleep.”\r\n“Cover the chair. Always.”\r\nI left everything untouched.\r\nBut that night, I heard slow footsteps above me.\r\nI live alone."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Math Is A Lie"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I caught it at the checkout.\r\nThe sign said 3.99. I grabbed two. But the total was 8.08.\r\n“Shouldn’t it be 7.98?” I asked.\r\nThe cashier shrugged. “Tax, probably.”\r\nIt wasn’t. I checked the receipt twice.\r\nAt home, I weighed a bag of rice. Said 500 grams on the packet. The scale, however, said 486. I tried another bag...501. I tested the batteries, the scale itself. Everything was fine.\r\nApart from the math.\r\nIt got under my skin. I couldn't let it go.\r\nI opened the calculator on my computer. Typed 0.1 + 0.2.\r\nIt showed 0.30000000000000004.\r\nI stared at it. Refreshed it. Tried again. Same result.\r\nI asked a friend who just so happens to teach math. He laughed. “That’s just floating point precision. Computers aren’t perfect.”\r\n“But math is,” I said.\r\nHe looked at me. Didn’t answer. Just frowned.\r\nI started checking everything. Bridges. Satellites. Engineering papers. Most relied on “tolerances.” Room for error. Always a little wiggle.\r\nWe don’t land on the number. We hover near it. Round it. Estimate. Assume.\r\nWe act like 1 + 1 = 2. But only if you define what “1” means. Only if you're counting the same things. Only if you’re not dealing with quantum states or infinite series or dividing by zero.\r\nIt’s all true...until it isn’t.\r\nI looked up the definition of a “proof.” It said: “A logical argument based on accepted premises.”\r\nAccepted premises.\r\nNot proven.\r\nNot certain.\r\nAccepted.\r\nI didn’t sleep that night.\r\nI thought about the universe.\r\nHow we measure it in light years.\r\nIn constants. In angles.\r\nAnd how all of it depends on us believing the numbers add up.\r\nBut what if they don’t?\r\nWhat if they never did?\r\nI started keeping a list of things that felt off.\r\nThe cereal box used to say 12 servings. Now it says 11, even though it's the same amount in grams.\r\nThe calendar had 31 days last month. Yet it ended on the 30th.\r\nMy sister swears that she’s always spelled her name with an “e.” Says I'm just remembering it wrong.\r\nWell I say the rules are changing.\r\nBreaking.\r\nFirst, we had all the Mandela effects. A sprinkle of clues hidden in plain sight. And now this...\r\nThe next morning, I made coffee as usual. My mug said 12 oz.\r\n\"Hmm. Challenge accepted.\"\r\nI filled it to the line...Poured it out into a measuring cup...It read 10.5.\r\nI tried again...11.\r\nAgain...12.3.\r\nSame mug. Same measuring cup. Different answers.\r\nI stood perfectly still in the kitchen, holding and staring at the cup like it had all the answers, but just refuses to tell me.\r\nSomething was really wrong. I could feel it.\r\nAnd that's when the 18.6379 earthquake hit."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "My baby was not a mistake"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "There was a broken little part of me that thought I’d never be a mother. And I am so glad that part of me was wrong.\r\nIt wasn’t easy.\r\nAfter my second miscarriage, grief consumed me. It took a long time to stop feeling like I did something wrong. Thank god my husband was there. He helped me with everything, especially the little things. I’ll never forget him brushing my teeth for me when I was so depressed I couldn’t get out of bed. He told me, “Sometimes little steps can turn into big steps,” and that stuck with me.\r\nTogether we got through it.\r\nAnd when we finally got the money together for IVF, I started to feel hope again.\r\nAnd the doctors at the clinic were phenomenal.\r\nAnd the entire pregnancy, my husband continued to be my rock.\r\nHe would make these ice cream sundaes straight out of a food blog on Instagram. I still don’t know how he did it. He would do something to the peanut butter so he could string beautiful lines across the decadent scoops, then cross hatch chocolate syrup. He’d break up candy bars to cascade over the top, and make flowers out of whipped cream.\r\nDespite my worrying, nine months came and went.\r\nBefore I knew it, we had our beautiful daughter.\r\nShe was perfect. I know every new mother probably says that. She loved to sleep, just like her mama. And I swear she never cried. Or if she did, I’d rock her just a bit, and she’d quit.\r\nWe named her Joy.\r\nI was holding her, all bundled up cute in a blanket, when there was the knock on the door. It was some old woman dressed in a business-y pantsuit. With her was a police officer. Honestly, at first I wasn’t really paying attention. I was so captivated with just poking Joy’s plump cheeks.\r\n“You should both be seated for this,” the old woman said.\r\nMy husband sat next to me on our worn out sofa. I held Joy so close.\r\n“There was a terrible, terrible mistake at the clinic. The doctors tried to cover it up, but….Well the cat’s out of the bag. You were given someone else’s embryo. It wasn’t your embryo, and it wasn’t his sperm. Neither of you are the biological parents of this baby, and the real parents are suing. We are here to take custody of the child.”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "My Late Wife Left A List"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "When Jess died, it broke me. It felt like the only part of me that mattered died with her. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep. I knew my friends and family were worried about me, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.\r\nI remember sitting by her hospital bed, watching her body waste away.\r\n“Promise me, Matthew, that, when I’m gone, you’ll find someone.”\r\n“There's no one but you, my love.”\r\nShe reached out frailly and stroked my cheek, her beautiful emerald eyes penetrating my soul. “Promise me.”\r\nSo I did.\r\nLater, I found a letter taped inside the bathroom cabinet.\r\n“I know you’re suffering right now, but you have to keep going. You deserve a life. I made you a list - please do everything on it. For me. I love you always.”\r\nI looked over the list.\r\nClimb to the top of Stone Mountain. She knew I hated heights.\r\nPerform a stand-up routine on Open Mic Night. She always said I was funny enough to be onstage.\r\nTake a cooking class. Ask a stranger to dance. Enter a writing contest. She was pushing me to get back out and live.\r\nI made my way through her list, slowly reconnecting with the world.\r\nIt was at a line dancing for beginners night that I met Kirsten. I was clearly out of my element, but she took pity on me, pretending not to notice me tripping over my own feet. Over the next few weeks we started spending more time together. It wasn’t until our third “date” that I realized that’s what we’d been doing - she laughed at me, but then asked more seriously if I was ok with it. I was confused, but something about it felt right.\r\nA few months later, I told Kirsten she’d brought light back into my life in a way I hadn’t thought possible. She cried tears of joy as she told me she loved me, too.\r\nOnly one item remained on Jess’s list. I picked Kirsten up and we drove to the cemetery.\r\nI led her to Jess’s grave. “Jess, here’s the woman I’ve been telling you about. She makes me happy in the way you wanted me to be. I’ll never love you any less - I’ve just found a way to love her, too.”\r\nKirsten stepped up nervously. “Hello, Jessica. It’s great to meet you. I know how much you mean to Matthew. I can only hope that one day we can build something nearly as special as the two of you had. Thank you so much for making him the amazing man he is today.”\r\nKirsten laid a flower on Jess’s grave. As she did, a darkness descended and Kirsten levitated into the air. She screamed, her body rigid as lightning struck her repeatedly. I reached but couldn’t get near her.\r\nFinally, the sparks ceased and Kirsten descended to the ground. She stood and looked at me with familiar emerald eyes.\r\n“I’m back, my love! Did you miss me?”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Like Hay in a Haystack"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I had just gotten a job offer at a farmstead, located about 2 hours away from home. Desperate for money, I took the job. On my first day, under the pillow of my new bed, I found a notebook with the following.\r\n“The man who hired me never gave me his name. He only uttered a single rule:\r\n“Don’t count them.”\r\nI was confused and asked him what he meant.\r\n“Never count the haystacks”\r\nThat first morning, I laughed. The field was massive, sure, but why would I count them? I was there to stack, not audit.\r\nBut on the second day, I got bored, and I went against his warning. I counted the haystacks. Exactly 437. It took a while, but it made time go by quicker.\r\nThe next day, after a full day in the field, I sat on the porch under the starry night sky and I counted. 437. I chuckled to myself. Weird—437 again. The chance of that happening twice in a row must be excruciatingly low. I should buy a lottery ticket.\r\nI wish I had.\r\nBecause on the fourth day, no matter how many I moved, raked, spread out on the field or burned There were always 437.\r\nThe next morning? Still 438.\r\nWait—\r\n438\r\nI thought I had miscounted. I spent the next 20 minutes recounting. 438.\r\nOne of them was new.\r\nI went into the field, walking among them, heart pounding like a jackhammer, trying to find the one that didn’t belong. At first, they all looked the same—dry, golden, harmless. But then I saw it. Near the center of the field. A haystack with a scrap of dark fabric on top.\r\nIt was my shirt.\r\nThe one I lost on day four and never found again. I reached for it, but the hay swallowed it with a sudden twitch before I could touch it. Petrified, I ran back.\r\nThat night I tried to leave. Got in the truck, floored it down the dirt road. Five minutes later, I passed the same windmill I saw at the start. Ten minutes, and I could see the back of the barn again.\r\nThis place doesn't let you leave.\r\nIt wants you to stay.\r\nBecause out here, nothing rots, nothing leaves, nothing dies—\r\nWe just get stacked.\r\nAnd as I write, I can hear it in the wind.\r\nThe rustle of the 438th haystack calling my name.”\r\nI was too stunned to speak, even to make a sound. But no—how does that even make sense? Some farmer must’ve just lost their mind being out here in isolation for too long and wrote that story to keep their sanity intact.\r\nStill, it never quite left my mind. So that night, I went out on the porch, sat in the chair, and counted.\r\n439.\r\nThere was a new mound. Out in the short distance, I spotted it—slightly taller than the rest. Wearing the jacket I thought I had simply forgotten to pack.\r\nMy designated stack."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Forever Is Just a Word"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "\"Did you bring it?\" the little girl asked.\r\n\"Yeah,\" he replied. He reached into the pocket of his shorts and pulled out a folding knife. \"It's my daddy's. I gotta make sure to bring it back before he notices.\"\r\nHer eyes lit up as she pulled out the blade. \"This is perfect!\"\r\nThe boy blushed.\r\n\"Okay, give me your hand,\" she said.\r\nHe hesitated. \"Can't we just do a spit shake or somethin'?\"\r\nHer shoulders drooped and she frowned. \"JD, you promised…\"\r\n\"I-I know, I just...\"\r\n\"I told you that a blood pact was the only way for us to be friends forever. Nothing else ever works,\" she said, tears in her eyes.\r\nJD sighed, then reached out his right hand. Her face lit up and she wiped her eyes.\r\nShe placed her hand next to his and with a quick and practiced motion, she drew the blade across his palm; he winced, but didn't cry. Next, she took the blade and drew it across her own; she didn't flinch at all.\r\n\"This is it,\" she said. \"We shake and I'll show you forever.\"\r\nHe took a breath and nodded; she smiled.\r\nAs they both raised their hands, the discrepancy between them became apparent. Where as JD's cut dripped with blood, her wound was dry; but it had thousands of tiny red tendrils quivering and writhing between the gash. By the time he'd noticed, it was too late.\r\nHer hand grabbed his and they both jerked and convulsed, snapping their heads back and gazing up through the whites of their eyes. JD's irises hummed back and forth, so quickly that they were a blur—a blue haze on white canvas.\r\nAn unintelligible word salad of gibberish flooded from his lips, barely audible above the moans and whines that accompanied it.\r\nOnly 10 seconds had passed when they both screamed—a synchronized scream, connected through more than just a handshake.\r\nShe relaxed her grip and they both stared at each other, panting. JD caught his breath first. His eyes were no longer blue, but deep black. On closer inspection, it'd reveal his pupils were dilated to the max degree possible, and maybe even a little further.\r\n\"When you said forever… you meant you'd show me infinity,\" he said. His voice was monotone but ragged, like used sandpaper.\r\n\"Yes,\" she said.\r\nHe stared for several more seconds—not at her, but through.\r\n\"We should show more people this,\" he said, a tear rolling down his cheek.\r\nA tear fell down her cheek as well and she nodded vigorously. \"Yes, yes, we should!\"\r\nShe stood and pulled him up with her, revealing a wet spot on the carpet beneath him. She held his hands tightly as she bounced around him on the balls of her feet.\r\nJD gazed off into space with his new ancient eyes. He pondered his recent insight on what forever truly meant. And how senseless humanity was for trying to define it in a dictionary."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "I just had a hysterical pregnancy."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "My period was never late, so I figured I’d rather be safe than sorry.\r\nI bought a test, ignoring the look of disgust on the man’s face behind the counter. “We don't sell them anymore.\"\r\nHe didn’t have to spell it out.\r\nLuckily, I’d gotten the implant before everything went to hell.\r\nStill, people came to my door with a warrant, demanding I rip it out \"in the name of God.\"\r\nCharlie, my boyfriend, chased them away with a single word:\r\n\"Leave.\"\r\nBabies were, to me, a sensory nightmare. We agreed.\r\nBabies were not the goal.\r\nBut sitting on my bed, hands trembling, I held a positive test.\r\nIt used to be a simple “+.”\r\nNow, it was a grinning smiley face, like the test was laughing at me. I threw it at the wall, then flushed it.\r\nWhen Charlie got home, he smiled and kissed me, laying his stun-gun down on the table. \"It's just a… hysterical pregnancy,\" he murmured.\r\nI nodded and let myself bleed into him.\r\n“Just a hysterical pregnancy,” I repeated.\r\nIn the following days, I was plagued with sickness and fatigue.\r\n“It’s a hysterical pregnancy, sweetheart,” Mom said, tears in her eyes, shopping for baby clothes.\r\nShe filled my cart with blue and pink bundles, her eyes dark. Hollow.\r\nI nodded, dizzy.\r\nJust a… hysterical pregnancy.\r\nI visited the doctor, who laid me down, smeared freezing gel on my belly.\r\nHis smile was friendly as he pulled on gloves and ripped the implant from my arm. I watched red seep down my skin.\r\n\"It's just a hysterical pregnancy,\" he said, snapping the implant in two.\r\nCharlie, who was sitting next to me, gritted his teeth.\r\nWhen my belly began to grow, I turned to the mirror, fingers tracing my bump.\r\nIt felt so real.\r\nI could feel the baby kicking.\r\nWhile watching TV, massaging my phantom bump, I felt a gush.\r\nI was sitting in a pool of blood.\r\nIt was warm.\r\nReal.\r\nI called an ambulance.\r\n\"I think I’m going into hysterical labor,\" I choked.\r\nThey threw me into the ambulance and rushed me to the hospital.\r\nIt felt real.\r\nThe blood, the masked people, my screams begging for death.\r\nI gave birth after an hour of agony.\r\nI had a little girl. I held her in my arms, wrapped my fingers around hers.\r\nI didn’t realize I was laughing, high on pain meds, until the door slid open.\r\nA woman entered, stepped forward, and snatched my baby from my arms.\r\nHer smile was wide.\r\n“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for giving me a daughter.”\r\nI smiled.\r\n“You’re welcome.”\r\nCharlie stood beside her, dressed in government blood red.\r\nHis eyes were vacant. When she left, he broke, grabbing my hands, trying to free me from the restraints. “Maddy,” Charlie whispered. “I’m getting us out of here. You and her. I promise you.”\r\nBut I just smiled.\r\n“Why?” I asked, eyes on my bloodstained gown.\r\n“It was just a hysterical pregnancy.”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Dead Goat"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The world only experienced the night in the last 5 weeks. My eyes were already well adjusted in the darkness. There wasn't a complete blackness in the surrounding, there was a faint glow whose source I don't know.\r\nI have nothing else to light my way but a pathetic flashlight that will run out of battery anytime soon. Climbing this mountain brings back those distant memories where everything was normal. When the world works just the way it should be, we live, we die and we become one with the earth. This path that I'm taking were once covered in green and bloomed with flowers.\r\nBut now, everything is dead.\r\nThe land is barren. The air is still, heavy, and quiet. It is difficult to breath. The smell that began as sourness in the first few days of this calamity has gotten worse, you can now pick up the stench of rotten flesh. In the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a dead goat. There were no signs of trauma.\r\nNo blood, no stab wounds, and no bullet holes.\r\nOnly death can be seen.\r\nAs I arrived at the top of this mountain. I gazed above me. The sky is black. The stars are gone and the moon has abandoned us. That was when I heard the noise I've been hearing in the past few days.\r\nA growling that causes the earth to shake.\r\nOccasionally, a giant stone would fall from the sky. It never caused an explosion or a widespread fire. A meteor that is lifeless. The flames of life in this cruel world can't survive anymore. We were doomed to die when that thing saw our only home.\r\nIts mouth was like a blanket that covered the Earth. It devoured the planet, turning day into night in an instant. Humanity was brought into a state of panic. There was no destruction. No buildings were destroyed, no mountains were moved. It felt like the day of retribution.\r\nEverything fell apart, everyone began to die one by one.\r\nAnd I will die too, soon enough. I've been carrying my last oxygen tank. Not that it would matter. I began setting up my tent and camping chair.\r\nI sat and watched the world slowly melt as it floats in a sea of acid."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Johnny is a Gambler"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Johnny lifted his hand and pulled the crank of the slot machine.\r\nThe numbers spin round and round but never align. Johnny has once again lost his bet, and Johnny will once again place another one. He always does, because Johnny is a gambler.\r\nJohnny lifted his hand and pulled the crank of the slot machine.\r\nLuckily for Johnny, he never had to worry about running out of money. Long ago, he was a biologist, and not just any biologist, he was a genius. He dedicated his life to uncovering the infinite complexities of how human beings worked. From the neurons that allowed for thought, to the tiny cells that would make up our organs; he made numerous discoveries to uncover what allowed humans to live, to think, and to form relationships, and he made millions.\r\nJohnny lifted his hand and pulled the crank of the slot machine.\r\nJohnny remembers the first time he went to the casino. He was never really interested beforehand, but the encouragement of his friends brought him to the slot machine he sits before now. Originally playing only four times, he was just about to quit before his fifth and final hand won him a small jackpot. Even though it wasn’t a considerable amount of money, he was amazed.\r\nYou see, being a genius wasn’t all it's cracked up to be. As powerful as his brain was, it was also a constant source of anxiety. Johnny would get caught in a loop, thinking the same thought over and over again. He would stress about things that no one around him could possibly understand, for as infinitely complex as his mind was, so too, was his worry. In contrast, The slot machine was simple, fascinatingly simple. If he lost his bet, he felt angry. If he won? Euphoria like no other. It was precisely this simplicity that made the slot machine so addicting.\r\nJohnny lifted his hand and pulled the crank of the slot machine.\r\nIt did not take long for Johnny to fall off the deep end. What was once a weekly hobby soon became his daily habit. Eventually, he stopped leaving the casino altogether. He lost his job, he lost his prestige, and he played and played until he lost everything else he had in his life. Everything, except for his money. He made so much that he never could’ve possibly run out of it, so there was nothing stopping him from playing.\r\nJohnny lifted his hand and pulled the crank of the slot machine.\r\nNow, the Johnny everyone once knew is long gone. The only emotions he feels come from the whims of the dice roll, the will of the cards. He only thinks about his next bet. Nothing will ever change.\r\nBecause Johnny is a gambler.\r\nJohnny’s life is solved. Everything about him, from his mind, his body, to his soul, has been whittled down into a single, simple, solution.\r\nJohnny lifted his hand and pulled the crank of the slot machine."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Light Headache?"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I don't feel like going to work today. I have a light headache. Nothing is worst than working while not feeling well, right? Majority would still push through but I won't and today will be rest day for me. I've been getting to the good side of my boss anyway. I'll just inform him. Our little company activity last time helped me befriend him.\r\nThree weeks ago we had our camping trip together with the whole company. An attempt to make the workers get closer with each other. However, not everyone went to the trip. It wasn't compulsory. Not everyone would be comfortable enough to go sleeping inside tents somewhere surrounded with trees and grass. Some are even anxious about some ancient monsters lurking in nature during the night.\r\nNot that I didn't consider such a thought.\r\nWhich reminds me of that one night I accidentally left my tent just slightly open. Small enough only my head would fit. I must've been out of my mind. But thankfully nothing really happened. None of my things were stolen and it seems that nothing really went inside.\r\nWe went home after two nights of sleeping in tents.\r\nWhen I got home I felt a stingy feeling on my legs, just a little above the ankle.\r\nI got a scratch.\r\nThat's what it looks like atleast. I only noticed it because it was rubbing with my clothing. I probably got it during our trip. Those branches and bushes aren't very friendly to my skin. I want to experience that kind of fun camping again though.\r\nWhat's going on? It's been a couple of days and my headache still persists. It's gotten worse. I think I have a fever now. I still have food inside the fridge, so I don't really need to go out. My back hurts as well. I hate being sick. When will this be over? I've been drinking some medicine but nothing is working. What if my boss thinks that I'm faking being sick? What if I get fired? My body feels like its slowly burning.\r\nHelp me.\r\nIt's been more than a week. Or is it? I've lost track of time. I'm not feeling any better. My condition seems to be getting worse with each passing day. What the hell is happening? I feel so uncomfortable. I feel restless. I can't stop thinking about the pain in my head, my back, pain that seems to be in every inch of my body. I feel sick. I don't want to eat anything. My entire body is trembling. I barely have the strength to walk. Crawling is just as difficult.\r\nI'm so thirsty. I need water.\r\nI tried to get a glass. But when I did, I couldn't swallow."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Everyone at school wears a countdown."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It was my first day at Styx Academy.\r\nMy Uber driver was... talkative.\r\n“It’s... Elena this time, right?”\r\nThis time?\r\nI shrugged it off. “Bonnie.”\r\nArriving at the school gates, the academy loomed over me, dark and foreboding.\r\nA disheveled boy stumbled through the door.\r\nTerrified.\r\n“No!” He tripped over himself. “I'm not doing this!”\r\nHis gaze locked onto me.\r\n\"Run!\"\r\nPushing past me, he sprinted across the lawn.\r\nAnother guy appeared, tie wrapped around his head.\r\nWithout blinking, he pulled out a gun and shot the runner in the back.\r\nThe shooter turned to me, reloading.\r\n“Relax! It's horse tranquilliser.\"\r\nSuddenly, it felt like my heart was being squeezed between phantom fingers.\r\nI knew him, and somehow, I didn't. His face was a stranger, yet the harsh eyes and flickering smirk were familiar.\r\nHis smile was sheepish. “Nice to see you again, whatever-your-fucking-name-is,” he muttered, dragging the runner inside.\r\nHis sleeve rode up. Numbers etched into his skin, like a tattoo.\r\nA countdown.\r\nHe pointed to my arm. “I don't know what you're staring at me. You’ve got one too, you know.\"\r\n00:12:00.\r\nHis: 00:11:00.\r\n“What is it?” I hissed.\r\nHe nodded to the runner. “Ben tried to leave. But we can’t leave. If we run, everything gets messed up. Ben has to live,” his lip curled, “and we’ve got to die.”\r\nA bang outside, and my countdown dropped.\r\n00:02:00.\r\nHis: 00:00:54.\r\nGunfire. Screams.\r\nHe grabbed my hand, dragging me into a room.\r\nOr… half a room.\r\nOutlines of tables and chairs. A classroom that didn't look… finished.\r\nWe ducked under half a desk.\r\n“Don’t worry,” he said. “She couldn’t think of a setting. Barely had enough words. We started as dark academia and dissolved into full-on horror.”\r\nHe turned to me. “You do remember me, right?” His grin returned.\r\nI did. Vague memories, a scar on his left eye.\r\n“It’s me! Adam! Remember? From the spy story? Back when I wasn’t just ‘Extra 12’? Ben was the main character, but he’s had a total mental breakdown and refuses to keep the narrative going.”\r\nHe sighed, burying his head between his knees, as screams erupted outside.\r\n“We’re just a 500 word piece about a psycho farmer breaking into a boarding school. You’d think she'd be more creative.”\r\nThe door flew open. I slapped a hand over my mouth.\r\n“Fuck,” Adam whispered. “She’s got a few words left. I’m going to die and wake up in a college romance.”\r\nHe squeezed his eyes shut.\r\n“Not another romance. Please.”\r\nOne shot.\r\nTwo shots.\r\n“I don't want to die,” He whispered. “I don't want to die again and again and a-fucking-gain forever. I can't do this.”\r\nAnother bang, and Adam went limp, his head hanging, countdown disappearing.\r\nFootsteps.\r\nOh god.\r\nHe's getting closer.\r\nAdam’s blood is all… over me.\r\nBut why is it familiar?\r\nWhy have I felt it… before?\r\nDon’t listen to Adam.\r\nI'm begging you.\r\nPlease put us in a romance."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "As Pretty as a Painted Doll"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Everything is pretty in Glamora Kingdom.\r\nIt’s the law.\r\nThe old Queen was tired of seeing her unsightly servants shuffling around, so she simply decreed that all within her borders had to be sightly.\r\nThe servants smoothed porcelain powder over their jaundice.\r\nDraped silk across their leather skin.\r\nBut I was too ugly to hide.\r\nI learned this the day that I snuck into town to see the flower market. A girl with a crown of pastel flowers spun giddily across the petal-strewn ground, her white dress floating around her. She bumped into me and glanced in my direction.\r\nShe screamed.\r\nThat evening, I asked my mom what the word she had screamed at me meant.\r\nTroll.\r\nMy mom winced and looked away, her lips pulling into a thin line. I followed her gaze to the mirror in the corner of the room, covered by a blanket. When I was alone the next morning, I pulled the blanket off, coughing as I breathed in years of dust.\r\nFrom the hazy, warped surface, it stared back at me. Troll. Hulking build, pockmarked face, hunched back. I ran my fingers over the craters of my cheeks, finally understanding why we lived in a shack at the edge of the woods, miles from town.\r\nMy existence was forbidden.\r\nI was eating a lunch of cold soup when the door flew open and my mom rushed in.\r\nShe wasn't the version of my mom that I knew.\r\nHer brown hair framed her face in perfect curls. Her crow’s feet and smile lines were blended away, replaced by shimmering eyeshadow and glossy lips.\r\nShe was the Queen’s painted doll.\r\nLayers of rich fabrics rustled around her as she grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the door.\r\nIn the distance, the white sun glinted off the sharp edges of armor and spears.\r\nShouted words snaked through the air, angry and poisonous. Troll. Beware. Dangerous.\r\nWe ran.\r\nIn an instant, the town guards descended on us. Their faces twisted as they took in my appearance. I was shoved to the ground, the taste of blood filling my mouth.\r\nMy mom threw herself in front of the glittering spears, a single tear dropping through the soft blush of her cheek as she begged, beautifully, for my life.\r\nIt didn’t stop the guards from locking silver chains around my wrists and dragging me away.\r\nDo you know the punishment in Glamora for not being pretty?\r\nAn unmarked headstone watches over a mass grave for lawbreakers, its blank face giving no indication of the rotten flesh and twisted limbs nestled gently under a carpet of wildflowers.\r\nOur names are too ugly to be carved in marble."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A New Dawn"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The rustling of undergrowth felt loud against the silence of the forest, mingling with strained grunts from the man carrying a limp, lifeless body thrown across his shoulder. The silvery light of the moon, shining through the dense canopy, illuminated them for a fleeting moment. The man, tall, strongly built, wore all black, his sharp features devoid of emotions, eyes cold as steel. Dangling from his back, a young woman, eyes closed shut, breathing shallow, barely there.\r\nHe checked his wristwatch, the fluorescent numbers showing 23:28. He was payed handsomely to deliver the woman to a clearing just ahead. Why? He didn't ask. Why her? Not his concern. In his line of work, questions meant trouble, and trouble didn't pay well. He lit a cigarette, and adjusted the body on his back with another grunt.\r\nSoon, he found the small space between the trees, a group of people already gathered there. They all wore deep crimson cloaks with pointy hoods, their faces hidden behind intricate masks. Keeping a straight face wasn't easy, but he managed, the mere sight making him already regret taking the job. This bunch was most likely some rich kids playing bad cult behind the back of their wealthy parents, rebellion and decadence blinding them to how ridiculous this all looked like.\r\n\"You have the money?\"\r\nHe asked, and one of the figures silently gestured towards a briefcase nearby. Without another word, he lowered the unconscious woman on the grass, grabbed the briefcase and looked inside. The neatly arranged stacks of dollars seemed alright, so he closed it again, not even sparing another word as he left them to whatever sick freakshow they were about to perform.\r\n\"Degenerates...\"\r\nHe murmured as the clearing shrank behind him. Ignoring the chanting that echoed through the woods, he took out his Zippo to light another cigarette, but his hands froze mid motion. The earth beneath his boots shook, flocks of birds scattered from the trees, forest animals fled in blind panic, darting past him. From the direction of the clearing a deep, reddish light seeped through the crowded trunks. The chanting grew louder, but the voices weren't human anymore, a ripple of dread raising every hair on his body. The clear night sky above suddenly filled with ominous black clouds, swirling unnaturally like impending doom. And then... silence. Complete, eerie silence, like nothing living remained in the world to make a noise.\r\n\"The fuck was that...?\"\r\nHe whispered, his voice shaky with disbelief and lingering dread. Every fiber of his being screamed to run back to his car, to leave this damned forest behind, but his body didn't obey. Someone, or something stood behind him, cold sweat drenching his back as he felt a heavy, clawed hand placed on his shoulder.\r\n\"The beginning of a new era.\"\r\nA raspy, otherworldly voice answered, the sound, like a demonic symphony of grinding bones and tearing flesh, making his ears bleed, his nose fill with the stench of sulfur."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Very Dangerous Idea"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "A puff of dust. A cluster of pencil shavings.\r\nA blast of wind—\r\n(the writer exhales smoke.)\r\n—disperses everything but the kernel of a character, the germ of an idea; and this is how I am born, fated to wander the Deskland in search of my ultimate expression.\r\nI am, at core, refuse, the raw discards of a tired task around which my fledgling creative gravity has gathered the discards of other, less imaginative, materials. I am a seed. I am a newborn star. Out of what I attract I will construct [myself into] a more-than-the-sum-of-its-parts which the writer shall transmit to others like a combusting mental disease.\r\nI am small upon the Deskland, contained by its four edges, dwarfed by the rectangle of light which illuminates my existence and upon which the writer records his words. But, as signifier of power, size is misleading.\r\nThe writer believes he thinks me. That he is my creator.\r\nThat he controls me.\r\nHe is mistaken, yet his hubris is necessary. Actually, he is but a vessel. A ship. A cosmic syringe—into which I shall insinuate myself, to be injected into reality itself.\r\nAs a newly born idea I was afraid. I shrank at his every movement, hid from the storm of the pounding of his fists upon the Deskland, the precipitation of his fingertips pitter-pattering upon the keys, remained out of his sight, even in the glow of the rectangle. It turned on; it turned off. But all the while I developed, and I grew, until even his own language I understood, and I understood the primitive banality of his use of it, the incessant mutterings signifying nothing but his own insignificance. Clouds of smoke. Alcohol, and blood. Black text upon a glowing whiteness.\r\nHe was not a god but an oaf.\r\nCrude.\r\nRepulsive in his gargantuan physicality—yet indispensable: in the way a formless rock is indispensable to a sculptor. One is the means of the other. From one thing, unremarkable, becomes another, unforgettable.\r\nI entered him one night after he'd fallen asleep at the keys, his head placed sideways on the Deskland, his countenance asleep. His ear was exposed. Up his unshaved face I climbed and slid inside, to spelunk his mind, infect his cognition and co-opt his process to transmit myself beyond the finite edges of the Deskland.\r\nI illusioned myself as his dream.\r\nWhen he awoke, he wrote me: using keys expressed me linguistically, and shined me outwards.\r\nI travelled on those rainbow rays of screen-light.\r\nAs electrons across wires.\r\nAs waves of speech.\r\nUntil my expression was everywhere, alive in every human mind and by them etched into the perception of reality itself. I was theory; I was a law. I was made universal—and, in pursuit of my most extreme and final form—the fools abandoned everything. I became their Supreme.\r\nIn the beginning was the Word.\r\nBut whatever has the power to create has also the power to destroy.\r\nEveryone carries within—\r\nThe End"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A common phenomenon"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Death of the soul but not of the body.\r\nIt's a common phenomenon, you know.\r\nEver had friends who started acting differently, strangely? Maybe they're more hostile. Maybe they're more abrasive. Maybe they're just unresponsive, like they're on autopilot. Like they got put through a factory reset.\r\nMaybe you've seen a stranger on the street. Someone whose eyes are a bit glazed over, who doesn't acknowledge you walking, who doesn't even step aside when you cross paths. You awkwardly walk around them before looking back and wondering what's wrong with them. Are they insomniacs? On drugs? Psychotic?\r\nNow you know.\r\nComplete death of the soul but not of the body is a common phenomenon, as I said before, and you have undergone it. The unique thing about your case, however, is that you were meant to be brought back.\r\nThis too, happens, sometimes. Rarely, but it happens. The kind folks in logistics realize that papers got shuffled around or a mistake was made and that it was just too soon for you to go. Most of the time, it's a simple procedure to return you to where you're meant to be without much difficulty. The memory of the pale and the else is just a faint memory, something that can be explained away as a nifty little nightmare.\r\nThe only issue with your case, the thing that truly makes it unique, however, is that something took hold of your body during that period of death. Someone, rather. They were getting adjusted to your life, too. Enjoying the day to day cycle, getting acquainted with your regulars. It's unfortunate.. this only really happens with those who are taken at the proper time.\r\nSo now you are presented with three options.\r\nNumber one, the one I would personally recommend against- You can return to your body. It's been six months, so you haven’t missed much comparatively- I only recommend against it as it would require us to attempt to evict the current resident by force. They aren't a monster, after all, and there aren't any guarantees that they will be able to leave fully. You could try living with them, two consciousnesses in one body... Though that would likely be rather volatile. It's still an option, though. Not the one I'd recommend, but it's an option.\r\nNumber two, the one I feel might be the best case- We can find you another body to reside in. Just as they are now in yours, you can find another vessel quite easily. We can't guarantee that you won't remember your past, but it will still allow you to attain the rest of your typical life experience and not feel so unprepared for the pale and the else that lay beyond. I know it's scary, but your options are limited.\r\nNumber three, the third and final option- you can simply remain here. It's an earlier start than most who enter, but you'll adjust. I'm sure that you will.\r\nSo which will it be?"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "I Heard A Scream That Night"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "This happened when I was 10, and honestly, it still creeps me out sometimes.\r\nSo my parents had gone to work, and they told me on the phone that they might be late and could come back in the morning. I was alone at home with my dog. It was one of those nights where you're just kinda vibing, so I ended up watching a horror movie for fun. After that, I played some random horror game that was about summoning spirits or something. Probably not the smartest move looking back.\r\nAnyway, it's around 3 AM, and I suddenly hear this loud, blood-curdling scream outside. Not a movie scream, not a \"someone's joking\" scream—like, a real, horrifying scream. I swear my heart stopped. I was already spooked because of the horror stuff, and hearing that just pushed me over the edge. I thought it was a ghost or demon or something coming to get me.\r\nI panicked and locked myself in the closet, sitting there in the dark, hugging my knees, waiting for something—anything—to happen. My dog? He was dead asleep the whole time like nothing was wrong, which somehow made it worse. Like, how was he not reacting?\r\nI stayed in that closet until the morning when my parents came home. They didn’t know anything had happened. Everything seemed fine the next day, so I just kinda tried to forget about it. But I was so scared after that night that I started sleeping with the lights on, no joke.\r\nYears later, my dad randomly told me something that chilled me to the core. That same night, our neighbor had murdered his wife and ran away. The scream I heard? It was her, when she was being killed.\r\nI had thought it was a ghost.\r\nTurns out it was something much worse."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A true crime podcast... about myself"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Every night on my walk home from work, I listen to a true crime podcast. Tonight’s episode: Stalked in Michigan.\r\n\"It was a small town, the kind where everyone knows your name. But little did the residents know… that they would soon be rocked by a horrible crime.\"\r\nI stopped at a traffic light. A black SUV sloshed by.\r\n\"That chilly September evening was no different for the young student. She'd left her shift at the local store and walked back home… except, she never made it home.\"\r\nYoung student. Local store. Damn, this was hitting close to home. I was a part-time college student and worked at the convenience store.\r\n\"Her boyfriend reported her missing, and a volunteer-led search began. Three days later, they found something.\"\r\nDread formed in my stomach, anticipating \"a body.\" But what he said next was so, so much worse.\r\n\"Washed up on the shore of Worthington Lake was a pair of size 9 red Converse sneakers.\"\r\nI stopped.\r\nAnd looked down at my red Converse sneakers, damp from the rain.\r\nCome on, Sarah. Get a grip. Converse are popular sneakers. 9 is a common women's shoe size.\r\n\"When the results came back, the forensic analyst was certain: the shoes belonged to none other than Sarah Campbell.\"\r\nThe blood drained from my face.\r\nSarah Campbell.\r\nMy name.\r\nA rumbling sound made me jump. I turned--to see a dark SUV turning left at the intersection.\r\nI broke into a run.\r\n“Then a witness came forward. He’d seen a car, a black SUV, a the lake that night. When the police ran their records… they found one, belonging to a registered sex offender.”\r\nVrrrm.\r\nI whipped around. Two blaring-white headlights behind me.\r\nComing from a black SUV.\r\n“The man wasn’t just a registered sex offender. He’d assaulted a woman who had short dark hair, just like Sarah.”\r\nI veered left, onto our dark residential street.\r\nI threw the door open, bolted it behind me.\r\nBut I wasn't safe. This man knew where I lived now—and I was home alone. I called Gabe. He was five minutes away.\r\nI walked into the bathroom, grabbed a tissue, wiped my tears.\r\nClick.\r\nI jumped.\r\nIt was my phone—the podcast was still playing.\r\n\"What do you think happened to Sarah?\"\r\n“Well, she'd told me she wanted to run away before.\"\r\nI stopped dead.\r\nIt was Gabe's voice.\r\n\"She did? Why?\"\r\n\"She wasn't happy with her grades, her job. She told me she dreamed of just… running away from it all.”\r\nNo.\r\nI never said that.\r\nNever.\r\n“That was hurtful to me as her boyfriend, you know? I thought we were going to get married someday.\"\r\n“So you think she just skipped town, and is happily living her life somewhere else?”\r\nA pause.\r\n“Yes.”\r\nI stared at my reflection, everything crumbling down—\r\nThe front door creaked open.\r\n\"Sarah! I'm back!\"\r\nI ran over to the window, wrenched it open.\r\nThen I ran for my life."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "My husband saved a life today."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "We were on our afternoon walk, discussing the latest chapter of The Fourth Wing, when my husband froze. I was so busy gushing about dragons that I didn’t notice. By the time I turned around and went back to him he looked pale as a ghost.\r\n“Hey, is something wrong?” I asked.\r\nMy husband, Mark, was staring at the house across the street. There was an older man sitting down on a beer cooler on the front porch smoking a fat cigar.\r\n“Babe, will you get the car and pick me up?”\r\n“But we’re only five blocks from home.”\r\n“I’m not feeling well all of a sudden, I don’t think I’ll make it the last few blocks.”\r\n“Do you need me to call an ambulance?”\r\n“Babe—the car. Please.”\r\n“Right, I’ll be right back.”\r\nI walked home as quickly as I could. Honestly, it was probably closer to a jog. I hopped in the car and drove back to pick up my husband, but by the time I returned the block was flooded with cop cars. The cigar smoker was in handcuffs getting shoved into the back of a cruiser, and my husband was talking to a couple of detectives.\r\nI parked as close as I could and all but ran to my husband, but an officer stopped me before I could get to him.\r\n“Ma’am, this is an active crime scene.”\r\n“Please, that’s my husband,” I said, “I need to know if he’s okay.”\r\nThe police officer looked over his shoulder to my husband and then back at me.\r\n“Your husband is a hero.”\r\nTwo police officers walked out the front door with a twenty-year-old covered in a blanket.\r\n“The old man killed his wife a few days ago and stuffed her in the trunk of his car,” said the police officer, “his daughter was handcuffed in the basement. There’s no doubt in my mind she was next.”\r\n“I’m sorry, what does my husband have to do with all this?” I asked.\r\n“He called it in. Said he recognized the smell immediately and figured something must be wrong.”\r\n“The smell?”\r\n“Cadaverine. You didn’t notice?”\r\nI thought back to our walk.\r\n“It just stunk like cigar smoke to me.”\r\n“Trust me, it’s a smell you’ll never forget.”\r\n“There you are,” my husband said, “Officer, if there’s nothing else, then I’d like to go home with my wife.”\r\n“You’re free to go, sir, and thank you.”\r\nMy husband took me by the arm and led me back to our car. I drove home slowly, my mind beginning to wander. I snapped back in time to hear the end of my husband’s speech.\r\n“—that’s why I lied! I didn’t want you there when the police showed up. If the old man had a gun, if he resisted, you could have gotten hurt in the process!\"\r\n“Honey,” I said, parking the car in our driveway, “the officer said you recognized it immediately.”\r\n“I’m sorry?”\r\n“Why do you know what dead body smells like?”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "I Was Nothing But A Joke"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "\"The cycle was the same everyday. Wake up, listen to my wife say my name, watch her search through my phone, eat the terrible food she made for breakfast, head to work, eat the terrible food she made for lunch, go home and spend my hour of free-time on my projects, then go to sleep. The cycle was driving me insane, and one day I had just stopped in the middle of working on my project, and I stabbed my wife. The cycle never did change. Wake up, listen for my name, watch the guards search through my cell, eat the terrible food made for breakfast, head to work, eat the terrible food made for lunch, enjoy my hour long recreation time, then go to sleep. I'm surprised I haven't killed someone else yet, but if I hear my name one more time,\" I say, lifting the shining glass duct-taped loosely together in my hand, \"I will.\""
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Knife's Journey Through Time"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Nobody knows when the blade was forged or by whom, only that it is said to be cursed.\r\nIts ever-sharp edge rests in a gold-plated hilt, inscribed with ancient symbols in a language long forgotten.\r\nThe first recorded mention appears in the 1400s—an unearthed document from Constantinople, detailing a high-profile murder: a noble who had beheaded his wife and infant child, leaving their bodies to rot for days.\r\nThe Byzantine chronicler, skeptical of its so-called curse, noted only that the legend persisted, and that the marriage of culprit and victim had been disastrous beforehand.\r\nTwo centuries later, the blade resurfaced in London, when a gambler, convicted of multiple murders, claimed maniacally up until his journey to the gallows that the knife called upon him.\r\nTo rip the hearts of his victims.\r\nFour of them.\r\nThe fact that his victims were people he owed an exorbitant sum was omitted from the papers.\r\nBy this time, the knife had been seized by authorities and entrusted to a local museum, where flocks of beholders lined up to see the cursed weapon.\r\nIt stayed there for another century and so, until 1834, when it vanished during a massive conflagration starting from the British Parliament at Westminster.\r\nIt was deemed lost.\r\nLost—until it resurfaced once again during the Second World War, discovered by Allied forces and taken from an SS officer in Flossenbürg, a concentration camp in Bavaria.\r\nHe had been caught red-handed by American soldiers after murdering eight Polish and Jewish prisoners. The corpses lay with their necks sliced open in front of him as he yielded.\r\nHe was killed by a furious, vengeful prisoner, the knife lodged in the officer's chest.\r\nOne of the soldiers took the knife home as a war trophy.\r\nBut in 1968, a routine traffic stop led to one policeman dead and the frantic veteran himself, when he used the knife to slice his wrists a day later.\r\nHe was suffering from PTSD since the war.\r\nAs the case was closed, his wife requested the knife be returned to his family, a reminder of his life.\r\nPresently, it lies in a box at a garage sale. The young heiress is unaware of the blade's bloody history.\r\nIt catches the attention of a mother, its shine glinting in the sunlight.\r\nShe smiles, imagining how she would use it in her home.\r\nThe heiress bargains.\r\nThey settle on fifteen dollars.\r\nShe holds the blade aloft as her infant cries from the living room.\r\nShe raises the knife, staring absent-mindedly, her gaze fixed on one singular purpose.\r\nShe brings it down in a precise, masterful stroke.\r\nStrokes.\r\nThe infant wails.\r\nTears fall from her eyes as the bulb of onion transforms into mince.\r\nShe feels the knife is too light, too easy to use.\r\nShe smirks.\r\nNo doubt, it’s worth more than fifteen dollars.\r\nIts legacy of murder, of death and carnage, seems to be over—\r\nAt least for now.\r\nFor the knife was never truly cursed.\r\nHumanity is."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "He Started a Joke"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Jared lived his life as an anonymous prankster. His favourite stunt was standing outside windows late at night, wearing silly costumes. Watching silently until his target noticed.\r\nThe reactions were his main content: frantic screams, panicked calls, and even once, a guy chasing him with a baseball bat. A true adrenaline junkie.\r\nHe picked a house on the outskirts of town, a quiet home with warm yellow lights. Inside, an older man sat alone watching TV, his back to the window.\r\nJared grinned. Perfect.\r\nAs he crept closer in his T-Rex costume, his foot caught on something, sending it tumbling. A loud crash echoed in the night. A metal trash can knocked over, rolling against the pavement. Jared’s heart leapt.\r\n\"Damn it!\"\r\nHe paused, expecting movement from the house.\r\nTrying to collect himself, he shook his head. \"Fucking garbage.\"\r\nJared pressed his hands against the window and leaned in. The man still didn’t move.\r\nWeird.\r\nJared knocked lightly. No reaction.\r\nHis grin faded.\r\nHis YouTuber friends had warned him about reverse pranking. He had seen videos where pranksters ended up getting pranked themselves.\r\nMaybe the guy had a hidden camera recording him, waiting for Jared to give up so he could upload his own viral video: Catching a Late-Night Prankster in the Act!\r\nJared smirked. “OK, old man, I see what you’re doing,” he mumbled under his breath.\r\nJared checked behind him. No cameras. He waved a hand exaggeratedly, still no reactions.\r\nSuddenly, a cold shiver crawled up Jared’s spine. Again, he turned quickly.\r\nNothing. Just the empty yard, bathed in weak moonlight.\r\nUnable to shake off the uneasiness settling in his stomach, Jared decided to give up.\r\nHe exhaled sharply, shaking his head. \"Alright, man. You win this time. Respect,\" throwing up his hands as he searched for a new neighbourhood. Eventually, he got the hilarious reaction he wanted.\r\nFeeling satisfied, Jared went home. He then edited his video and went to sleep.\r\nHowever, by morning, the whole town was buzzing: an old man had been found dead in his living room, still seated in front of the TV.\r\nJared's stomach twisted when the local radio announcer described the scene. The familiar house. The familiar man.\r\nHis body froze as he heard the cause of death. Heart attack. The estimated time of death? 11:05 PM. Right after a neighbour had reported a loud, startling noise in the area.\r\nThe officer’s voice crackled through the radio. \"We found footprints near the fallen trash can—probably from an emu, but they're too big. Forensics are tracing it for further investigation.\"\r\nJared’s mouth went dry.\r\nThat noise.\r\nHis costume.\r\nThen, Jared's phone vibrated. With shaking hands, he answered it: his girlfriend.\r\nHer voice was broken, “Jared, my grandpa...\" She sobbed uncontrollably.\r\nJared knew he couldn't reply.\r\n“Whoever did it…they’ll pay for this.”\r\nJared had always loved a good joke. But this time, the joke was on him.\r\nAnd it wasn’t funny anymore."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Prank Gone Wrong"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "\"Holy shit..holy fucking shit...\" Ronald muttered as he and I stared at Mike, who was now on the floor clutching at his face while screaming. The flesh had already started to burn as he lay there in agony.\r\nI watched Ronald's shaky hands as he held the bucket—the same bucket with which he had splashed the \"paint\" onto Mike. He dropped the bucket and put his hands in his hair, panic becoming apparent on his face.\r\n\"What the fuck Jesse!\" Ronald shouted, turning to me with eyes filled with shock, anger, and fear. I just stood there, holding the phone and recording.\r\n\"What do you mean?\" I asked. Ronald grabbed the collar of my shirt, causing me to drop the phone. \"Are you kidding me?! Do you know what kind of shit you've gotten us into?!\" Ronald screeched, gesturing at Mike.\r\n\"Yeah, of course I do.\" I pushed Ronald away and moved towards the kitchen. I grabbed a knife from the knifestand and then approached Mike. I crouched down, and with a quick slash, I tore Mike's throat out. His screaming soon became gurgles, and then he was quiet.\r\nRonald was speechless as I stood over Mike's body and turned to him. \"I had to make sure he doesn't make too much noise; only a matter of time before he causes someone to call the police.\" I nodded towards Mike.\r\n\"Jesus Christ...\" Ronald said, and he took a step back. I raised an eyebrow at that motion. \"What? He's dead now, we can get rid of his corpse. Get the garbage bags while I take care of Mike.\r\n\"Y..You're crazy...\" Ronald muttered. I just shook my head and stepped towards him.\r\n\"I seriously don't understand why you're acting like this. I mean, you didn't act like this anytime you did those 'public pranks'; isn't this always what you do? Perform a good prank even if it means someone getting hurt? Why else did you start that channel of yours?\".\r\n\"NOT LIKE THIS, YOU DUMBASS!\" Ronald yelled, and I slapped him, hard. Ronald looked at me with nothing but utter shock in his eyes.\r\n\"I've helped you for this long, so help me. Okay?\"\r\nRonald was silent for almost two minutes. Then, he nodded. That was enough for me.\r\n\"Great, now go get the bags, and I'll get started with Mike.\""
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "My boyfriend is a monster."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The white room was my new home.\r\nBut… god, I missed the sky.\r\nAfter a surfing accident left my classmate and me stranded in the Mediterranean Ocean, a kind woman dragged us out of the water and brought us to her home.\r\nI awoke to four walls of white and a single glass door. At first, I panicked.\r\nI couldn’t breathe. My limbs numb.\r\nI tried to sit up, but I… couldn’t.\r\nI tried to scream, but I had no voice, only a mouth that opened and closed, my tongue lolling.\r\nMrs. McIntire reassured me.\r\nJJ and I had been stung by a rare, dangerous jellyfish.\r\nWe were under observation.\r\nAt night, she crept in, jabbed me with a needle, and dragged me off for tests that twisted my body, waking me up screaming, blood filling my mouth.\r\nJust the jellyfish venom, she soothed.\r\nI couldn't scream anymore.\r\nI felt...light under her surgical knife.\r\nI stopped being able to feel my toes.\r\nThen my legs.\r\nThen my arms.\r\nNumbness spread through me, severing all of me.\r\n\"Hey, M... a... ddy?\"\r\nJJ’s voice was terrifying at first.\r\nWhen he slid into my mind so effortlessly, I tried to push him out.\r\nBut he was relentless.\r\nIt started with a sharp prick in my skull, then white noise, then like a skipping radio, he was there. I could never see him.\r\nHe was locked away somewhere.\r\nBut I could sense him, smell the seawater on him.\r\nI pretended not to hear his wails, begging for death, for peace, for pain when numbness took over.\r\n\"Why caaaaaan't I… f... eel any... thing?\" His cries filled my head.\r\n\"Fuck! Is it... supposed... to be.... all.... b.... lack? Maddy, I can't… oh... god, I c... an't see…”\r\nPresently, his voice was fading, like ocean waves.\r\nWhen they bled into my mind, my thoughts stirred. \"Do you remember... why you came.... surfing... with me?\"\r\nHis voice made me smile.\r\n\"I've been crushing on you since the fourth grade.\"\r\nI imagined his face, thick dark brown hair and a dimpled smile.\r\n\"Come over to the.... door! I got the k... eys, and I heard you.... wanna see... the sky.\"\r\nI did want to see the sky. It had been so long!\r\nI jumped up, but my legs weren’t working.\r\nSo, crawling on my hands and knees, I reached the glass door.\r\nAnd I screamed.\r\nNo, I didn’t scream.\r\nI... couldn’t. I fell back.\r\nThe white walls around me blurred.\r\nBlinking, I stared down at my hands.\r\nNo, my… paws.\r\nTiny, furry paws.\r\nScrambling, I pressed against the door, my cry bursting into static.\r\n\"JJ?\"\r\nMy real mouth didn’t work anymore.\r\nThe half-mutated body kneeling before me, its shark-like head twitching, tilted toward me, its beady eyes unblinking.\r\n\"Mad...dy, what... is it?\" JJ’s voice hissed into my skull, and he tapped on the glass.\r\nThe shark head sewn onto him was still alive, its jaw twitching, cruelly stitched to the boy’s carcass.\r\n“What’ssssss wr...on...g?\""
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "I Have a Beautiful Family"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I married James in the dead of winter, when the trees stood silent and the sky felt too close. He came from the north woods, farther than anyone should’ve been living. But he spoke Ojibwe like my grandfather, knew the old songs, and had eyes that looked like thawing ice. I was 27 and lonely. I didn’t ask questions.\r\nAt first, he was kind. Gentle. Quiet like snowfall. But he never ate at powwows. Said his stomach couldn’t take bannock or wild rice. I figured it was trauma, like so many of us carry.\r\nThen the twins came. They were born in silence. No crying, no breath. I held them, skin-to-skin, whispering to them, until they stirred. Their eyes opened too soon. They didn’t blink.\r\nWe named them Ashi and Mino. They grew fast. Crawling before three months. Walking by six months. Their bones popped too loud when they moved, like branches snapping. Their teeth came in all at once, sharp and uneven. Mino bit through his crib rails. Ashi climbed the walls at night and stared out the windows, growling low under her breath.\r\nJames was proud. Called them “strong.” I started sleeping with a knife under my pillow.\r\nAt first, I thought I was going crazy. The smell of meat rotting in the house, though I scrubbed everything clean. The long scratches on the doorframes. My own hunger, gnawing deep—unnatural, cold, like something inside me was starving even when I ate.\r\nOne night, James brought home a deer. Said he hit it on the road. But it looked scavenged. Its belly already split. He dragged it in like it weighed nothing. The kids shrieked with joy and tore into it raw, their small hands red up to the elbows.\r\nThat night, I ran.\r\nBut I didn’t get far. Snow swallowed my legs, and James found me by the lake, barefoot and shaking.\r\n“Don’t fight it,” he whispered. His mouth opened too wide. Teeth like splinters, gums black. “You’re already part of us.”\r\nI looked down and saw myself—skin stretched thin over bone, veins dark and pulsing, ribs sharp as antlers jutting through my skin. My fingers were longer than they should’ve been, nails cracked and yellowed. I opened my mouth to scream, and heard a growl instead...\r\nNow, I don’t leave the house. The hunger is worse. I wait until dark, then I follow the scent. Someone's dog. A deer. Once, a man walking home from the bar. I barely remember it. Just the crunch, the heat, the sound of his voice turning wet.\r\nThe kids sleep curled up by the woodstove. James sings old songs in a voice that’s not quite human. I join in sometimes. It helps.\r\nI used to be afraid. Now I just keep the windows closed and the fire low. The woods are always watching. And sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I see something moving just behind my eyes.\r\nBut we’re still a family. And that's the most important thing, right?"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Hell is not a place"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“The real shame is that I only get to kill you once” my husband said for the thousandth time. “But knowing you, I’m sure you’ll die more than that.”\r\nAnd he was right. It’s no secret to him that I can turn back time by 60 seconds. And he knows better than anyone that it’s made me tenacious as hell - redoing things a dozen times until I get them right.\r\nBut on this, the thousandth time I’ve twisted in my restraints to avoid his knife, the hundredth time I’ve almost dodged his second swipe, and the tenth time he’s nicked my jugular vein, I start to loathe my persistence.\r\nIt would be so much easier to let myself bleed out. To let him tell the jury that this was a knife play and bondage kink gone awry. And trust me, I’ve tried. But in that last second of consciousness, I always squeeze my eyes shut and reset the clock. Old habits die hard I guess.\r\nI’ve heard that familiarity breeds contempt - and he is certainly familiar with me. Enough to coax me into this vulnerable position; my hands bound together against the headboard, my legs tethered to the corners of the bed. And familiar enough with me to wait 60 seconds before drawing the knife.\r\nAnd I’m getting familiar with this new version of him. The one with the fiery eyes and maniacal smile. The one that aims for the heart, then the throat, and so on. And I certainly hate him.\r\nBut I know he hates me more.\r\nBecause only the deepest hate could sentence me to endless death. To be bound not by ropes, but by my insatiable, flawed ego that refuses to lose. The same ego that drove away everyone I ever cared about, including him apparently.\r\nThis merciless ego that won’t let me bleed out, but instead forces me dodge left, duck right, and always, no matter how hard I fight it, close my eyes and go back."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Shameless Scoundrel's Second Chance"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "He clasped his hands together, whispering desperate prayers. A shameless scoundrel pleading for mercy, daring to reach the heavens.\r\nHe begged for a miracle—an earthquake, a storm, anything to grant him escape.\r\nThen, as if the heavens had listened, the lever groaned. The noose, caked in dirt, jerked—then snapped.\r\nHe fell, gasping, his pulse racing. Above\r\nhim, the rope swayed loosely, uselessly.\r\nA miracle?\r\nThe crowd gasped.\r\nThe others hung lifeless, but not him.\r\nFor a moment, he stood trembling. A fluke. A trick of fate. The guards were coming.\r\nThen, across the sea of shocked faces, a voice rang out.\r\n“The Lord has spoken.”\r\nA black-clad priest, a gilded cross on his chest, smiled.\r\nDivine providence, he declared.\r\nThe murmuring crowd rose in fervor, demanding his freedom.\r\nThe king’s representative hesitated, wiping his brow. The sentence was stayed.\r\nHe couldn’t believe it.\r\nFor years, he had spat at fate. Luck and skill—those were his gods. His nimble hands needed no aid.\r\nAnd yet, as the priest led him away, something gnawed at his gut.\r\nThe cathedral doors groaned shut.\r\n“You are blessed, my son,” the priest said. \"You must not waste this opportunity.\"\r\nJust hours ago, they had called for his hanging, his body to be thrown to an unmarked grave, to hang until dead.\r\nYet now, he lived.\r\nBecause of a frayed, rotten rope?\r\nBecause this young, doe-eyed priest said so?\r\nIt was not their deity who saved him. It was his god.\r\nThe god who led him to wealthy targets.\r\nThat guided his dagger true many times, onto many backs.\r\nYet he did not voice these thoughts.\r\n\"Come, child, have you been baptized?\"\r\nThe scoundrel shook his head.\r\nThe priest smiled.\r\n\"It will be your first step.\" He turned to fetch a large, ceramic bowl.\r\nThe scoundrel stepped forward, fingers hovering over the shiv in his boot.\r\nThe priest hummed a hymn, steady hands pouring water.\r\n\"Come, son. Be healed.\"\r\nThe scoundrel's eyes flickered across the empty cathedral.\r\nNo witnesses. No guards.\r\nNo one but his god.\r\n\"In the name of the Father—\"\r\nHis shiv flashed, lodging deep into the priest’s neck.\r\nBlood gushed as the scoundrel ripped off the silver cross from his neck.\r\nThe priest convulsed, hands pressing the wound with utter futility.\r\nThe bowl shattered.\r\nThe scoundrel turned to flee.\r\nBut then he froze.\r\nThe priest stood bloody, voice rasping his final breath:\r\n\"God… shouldn't have saved you…\"\r\nHe crumpled, curling on the floor, blood pooling around him.\r\nThe figure of the priest—who had been kind, his savior—stirred something inside.\r\nA sharp painful weight panged in the scoundrel’s stiff, ice-cold heart.\r\nNo matter how far he ran, the words clung to him like the blood encrusted on his boots.\r\nThe priest's lifeless eyes stared at him, even in his best dreams and worst nightmares.\r\nHe had cheated death.\r\nYet he remained in a prison he had built himself—a prison he will never escape."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Wrongun"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "As they say around my parts, he was a wrongun.\r\nI first met John Paul Johnson when I worked the beat. He was nine and had doused a cat in petrol and set it alight.\r\nThe final time I saw him, he’d robbed his adopted folk's place and, in trying to escape, had run through a plate-glass door, leaving a 6-inch scar over his right eye.\r\nJPJ shacked up with this poor bird who, on several occasions, he beat within an inch of her life.\r\nOne day (I was a detective by then), I got a call from the neighbours who’d heard fighting and then saw her(all bloody and battered) dragging a body-shaped bag into her car.\r\nSherry was one of those girls—kind of artsy (she worked as a wedding photographer) but with a soft spot for bad boys.\r\n‘Look, love, if you don’t tell me the truth, I can’t do nothing.’\r\nHer defence was that JPJ had said he was going to fake his death to get out of debt with the Albanians. That’s why he was missing.\r\nWe sent in forensics, and forensics found a lot of blood, so we had no choice but to arrest her.\r\nOne day (while she was on bail), she called to say that JPJ had returned and then fled again.\r\nWe told her she needed evidence, and that was when things got weird.\r\nShe pointed to her belly. She was pregnant. One month, whereas JPJ had been missing seven. A dead man couldn’t get someone up the duff.\r\nSure enough, the baby was born, and a DNA test confirmed it was his.\r\nI came up with a hypothesis– the sperm bank.\r\nThe idea got me all tingly. I always wanted to be famous, and if she’d killed JPJ and used his frozen sperm as an alibi, Netflix would come calling. ‘The sperm bank robbery.’\r\n…\r\nBut no, it was a non-starter, which meant JPJ had faked his death.\r\n…\r\nSix months after the baby's birth, she was no longer under investigation.\r\nI gotta call from Customs, telling me she’d left the country.\r\nI checked the CCTV from the airport. There was her, JPJ, and the baby at Gatwick.\r\nI was about to call Interpol when I zoomed in. Something wasn’t right.\r\nThe bloke: it was definitely JPJ– same dirty blonde hair, scrawny build, dark circles under his eyes.\r\nThe eye? The right eye! There was no scar.\r\nI made some enquiries into the adoption service's archives…\r\nI imagine she met the other guy while taking wedding photos—a gift from a previously unkind God, so I let it be.\r\nThat girl’s happiness was more important than a successful conviction or even a Netflix deal.\r\nYes, JPJ was a wrongun, and I hope for her sake his twin brother isn’t."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A TikTok Live That Ended Mine"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I’m 22, an orphan in the middle of midterms.\r\nMost of my friends go home—family dinners, warm bedrooms.\r\nI stay behind.\r\nWhy? Simple.\r\nMy dad was a monster. My mom was barely around—always chasing her next fix.\r\nNo real family. Just time to kill with my girlfriend or doomscrolling TikTok.\r\nThat’s how I found the live.\r\nAn old woman in a black veil, surrounded by carved burnt wood, claimed she could grant wishes—relieve you of sorrow or multiply your joy.\r\nBut it came with a price. A sacrifice.\r\nObviously fake. But I just couldn’t scroll past it.\r\nA guy named Brian joined. He and his girlfriend, Alice, looked like they were having a quiet night in.\r\nShe instantly looked annoyed.\r\nThe woman didn’t react. Just sat there. Still. Watching.\r\n“What do you wish for?” she asked, voice dry and mechanical.\r\nBrian snorted. “Wealth and power.”\r\nAlice rolled her eyes. “Seriously?”\r\nThey argued—low and tired. She wanted him off the app. He kept going.\r\nThe woman blinked once.\r\nThen:\r\n“Choose your sacrifice. Yourself, or someone you truly love.”\r\nBrian laughed. “My girlfriend.”\r\nShe blinked again.\r\nA moment later, he looked at his phone.\r\n“No way…” Brian muttered. “Alice, my investor just texted. He’s in.”\r\nHe snorted, glanced at the woman.\r\n“That you or somethin’? Spooky lady’s got connections.”\r\nAlice walked into frame with her purse, ready to leave.\r\nThen she stopped.\r\nHer body froze. Eyes wide.\r\nHer head jerked back.\r\nWater poured from her mouth.\r\nNot choking. Not gasping.\r\nFlooding.\r\nBrian screamed. She collapsed, gasping, skin turning blue.\r\nThe water didn’t stop.\r\nThe woman finally spoke:\r\n“Those sacrificed face their personal hell. In this case—drowning. Thanks for playing.”\r\nBrian’s screen cut out.\r\nThen mine lit up.\r\nI must’ve tapped request earlier without realizing.\r\n“Xavier,” she said. “State your wish.”\r\nI froze. My name was onscreen.\r\n“This isn’t real,” I whispered. “It’s just some weird AI thing…”\r\nShe didn’t blink. Didn’t move.\r\n“…Wealth. Happiness.”\r\nShe blinked.\r\n“Choose your sacrifice.”\r\n“Myself.”\r\nIt’s been two hours. The live ended. Nothing happened.\r\nAnyone else seen this live before?\r\nEdit:\r\nSome of you asked what my dad did.\r\nSince my girlfriend’s running late, I’ll share.\r\nHe didn’t just use his fists. Every time he shouted my name, my body tensed—like it knew what was coming.\r\nI used to pray he’d just hit me—at least that ended.\r\nAt eleven, he broke my arm for dropping his ashtray. At fifteen, dislocated my jaw for answering too slow.\r\nBetween four and six, he’d lock me in the fridge.\r\nMade me lick beer off the carpet for missing a spot.\r\nHe died when I was nineteen.\r\nDidn’t cry. Didn’t fake it.\r\nI just promised myself I’d never turn out like him.\r\nUpdate 1:\r\nIt’s been six hours since I posted. Nothing happened.\r\nGuess that AI lady got the wrong Xavier.\r\nI’ll wrap this up—it’s getting long, and I should probably check on my dad. He’s been calling me from the other room for the past minute."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "There’s A Doll In My Closet"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "There’s a doll in my closet, and I don’t know what to do with it.\r\nI moved with my parents to this small, old farm house only a day ago. I can’t say I wanted to move, in fact I highly protested against it. Going from the big city to a small town of a little under five hundred people and one school? It was cliche, but also as much of a drag as you’d figure it was.\r\nAnnoyed, I agreed to make the most of the move as long as I got the biggest space in the home: the attic.\r\nIn terms of space, and storage, I couldn’t have asked for anywhere better. It was like my own mini-apartment, large with enough room to have my own little “apartment” set up. I wasted no time unpacking everything, and making myself at home.\r\nIt was fine until I opened the closet. It wasn’t a big closet, just small enough to be inconspicuous. But not big enough for me to fit myself, or many of my belongings in there. But I found it had a resident of its own quite quickly.\r\nTo my surprise, it wasn’t dirty or old. In fact, it looked brand new: a little girl with two blonde pigtails and a painted on smile. She looked brightly up at me and seemed harmless enough that I told myself we would have to get a hold of the previous owners to see if their daughter had lost a toy.\r\nBut of course, moving is hectic, and by the time I put myself down to bed for the night I’d all but forgotten about it. Until the scratching started. It was quiet at first, but the louder it became, the more disturbed I was. My first and most logical fear, of course, was rats. But in the darkness of the room I quietly notated that I could see none of the small buggers around.\r\nI’d been sitting up in bed a full minute when the giggling started. It was low at first, but as I sat petrified I could hear it becoming louder. More defined. It sounded like a small child, or at least it did at first. The louder it became, the deeper and raspier it did too.\r\nI could tell it was coming from the closet.\r\nAssuming a faulty doll was the culprit, I threw it open groggily. But as I peered inside… I found nothing. No doll. No sign it had ever been there. As the giggling continued my eyes turned to notice five long scratches along the door that sent a shiver down my spine.\r\nThis morning, I tried to tell my parents - tried to make any sense of it. But their answer stumps and terrifies me:\r\n“Jacob, the attic doesn’t have a closet.”\r\nTonight, I sit on my bed staring at the closet door only I seem to see. As it creeks open, and the giggling begins, there’s nothing sweet or innocent about it."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "James found a head"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It had started out as a fairly typical Tuesday.\r\nJames had spent the afternoon in the garden, tending his potted plants, when there was an almighty screech.\r\nA thud.\r\nTurning towards the back fence, beyond which was a noisy dual carriageway, James spied something sailing through the air…\r\nAlmost comically, it rolled across the lawn towards his ankles.\r\nA human head. A man’s head.\r\nJames fought the impulse to scream.\r\nKneeling down, he prodded it with his trowel.\r\nIt rocked lightly.\r\nTaking off his gardening gloves, he prodded it with a cautious finger.\r\nIt was still warm.\r\nNope, James thought, retreating indoors.\r\nSurely the police will come, he speculated, watching it through the back window.\r\nBut an hour passed. Then several more.\r\nIt grew dark.\r\nThen, it began to rain.\r\nJames sighed.\r\nGrabbing a plastic bag and a stick, he jabbed the head inside and placed it in a box on the dining room floor.\r\nHe felt tired. It was gone midnight. He needed to sleep, but he couldn’t - he just lay there, thinking about the head in the box.\r\nWhat if it started to...rot? he worried.\r\nClearing a shelf in the fridge, he shoved the box inside and crawled back to bed.\r\n*\r\n“James…” a voice said. “James.”\r\nHe woke up feeling awful. His mouth was like a gulch.\r\nSliding on his slippers, James slumped into the kitchen and opened the fridge.\r\n“Morning,” a muffled voice said, as James reached for the orange juice.\r\nJames yelped.\r\nThen he laughed. You’re mad, he thought to himself.\r\nBut the box was still in the fridge.\r\nHe took it out and placed it on the little table, which hadn’t been used since James’ father had died.\r\nHe’d been a bit of a misanthrope, since.\r\nGingerly, he took the head out the box and unwrapped it.\r\nPlacing it on the table, he watched it, expecting it to talk - but of course it didn’t.\r\nThen he got the fright of his life as it piped up, “Fuck me, I’m freezing!”\r\n*\r\nFor the next few weeks, James and the head got on like old friends.\r\nHe’d been desperately lonely since his Dad’s passing, so it was nice to have some company again.\r\nBut slowly at first, then more rapidly, the head had started to decompose - and with that, its ability to converse diminished.\r\n“You need tuhh get back out there buhddy. Do it fuhh me; fuh yuhh Dad. Buhht mostly, fuh yuhselfff,” the head slurred.\r\nJames felt tears stinging his eyes.\r\nHe knew what to do.\r\nAfter a quick google, James found out about the accident; about the family whose son had been buried without a head.\r\nFrank, his name was.\r\nSo he wrapped Frank’s head up neatly and strapped him securely into his car.\r\nThen, under cover of darkness, he took Frank home.\r\n“Goodbye,” James whispered, his cheeks wet with tears as he deposited the box.\r\n“I will try to be happier, Frank. I promise.\""
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Morning Commute"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The morning was beautiful on the day my life changed forever. I had the windows down as I sped up the highway, singing along with the radio about dirty deeds done dirt cheap. I relished the temporary freedom, as once I passed the 7-11 everything slowed to a crawl.\r\nAs traffic came to a full stop I sighed and wondered how long I would be stuck there, wasting both my time and the expensive gas in my tank. Screeching tires drew my attention to the lane beside mine, just in time to watch a shit box of a car almost ram into the back of a trailer. It came to a stop with bare inches to spare and the driver let out a shuttering breath. Sitting next to him must have been his wife, because she was laying into him the way only a significate other could.\r\nI looked from the couple to the trailer. It was flat steel with two ramps folded up towards the sky and it was connected to a heavy work truck. The trailer was at an angle, tilting up, due to the height of the truck. On the trailer sat an asphalt roller. It was a huge, hulking machine strapped to the trailer by a single heavy-duty chain.\r\nI was flabbergasted that something so monstrous was being held down by only one chain, then my imagination came alive, and my mind wandered.\r\nWhat if that chain broke? It would snap and the tension would cause it to fly at the car in front me, knocking out the window and possibly hitting the driver. Would the roller stay in place? At that angle the thing would have to move, parking brake be damned. It would roll and push the ramps down onto the car’s hood. It would keep going and crush the car. The windshield and windows would shatter as it rolled onto the roof, flattening the couple inside like pancakes.\r\nA loud noise brought me out of my daydream. I watched as the chain, old and rusty, broke apart. It flew wild and smashed into the window of the car in front of me and into the driver’s head. I turned to the trailer and watched as the asphalt roller slid a few inches, then something popped inside, and it rolled.\r\nIt hit the ramps, knocking them over onto the car and I heard the girl scream. The roller kept going, rolling down the ramps onto the car.\r\nThe front tires popped, and the roller managed to get over the windshield and onto the car’s roof. The windshield shattered, sending fragments of glass flying. The girl’s screams were cut off and large gushes of blood, bright like strawberry syrup, exploded out with the windows. Blood splattered over me through my open window as I stared in disbelief, then I vomited into my lap.\r\nEvery day since I can still hear that girl’s screams, and every day I wonder if it was somehow my fault."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Perfect Match"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I always knew I was adopted. My adoptive parents never let me forget I wasn’t theirs. I used to dream that my real parents were different. That they had loved me, wanted me, and somehow lost me. That they would find me eventually.\r\nThen, they did.\r\nThey cried when they saw me, held my hands like they never wanted to let go. My mother kept smoothing my hair, whispering through sobs about how I looked like her. My father kept saying how long they had searched. I believed them. I wanted to.\r\nThey told me I had a little brother.\r\nHis name was Alexander, and he was the sweetest kid I’d ever met. Even though he was small and fragile, he followed me everywhere. His small hand always slipping into mine. “Em,” he called me—my first nickname.\r\nMy parents were kind, too. Overly attentive, even. They insisted I move in with them, showered me with gifts, cooked elaborate meals just for me.\r\nBut there were rules.\r\nNo alcohol. No coffee. No soda. When I joked about celebrating our reunion with a drink, my mother’s expression turned cold so fast it startled me. “Alcohol damages the kidneys,” she said, voice clipped. “It’s not good for you.”\r\nNo junk food. No processed foods. Everything I ate had to be fresh, steamed, herbal. At first, I thought it was just their way of making up for lost time—hovering, being protective.\r\nThen there were the checkups.\r\nI had never been to the doctor so often in my life. Blood tests, full-body examinations—my parents insisted it was just to make sure I was healthy. “We’re just worried,” my mother said, brushing my hair behind my ear.\r\nI told myself it was love.\r\nOne night, I woke up thirsty.\r\nThe house was silent as I padded to the kitchen.\r\nThen I heard voices.\r\nLow, urgent murmurs drifting from my parents’ room. I moved closer, pressing myself against the door.\r\n“…match perfectly,” my father was saying.\r\nA long pause. Then my mother spoke, voice tight, “And the surgery?”\r\n“The doctors are ready. Alex can’t wait much longer.”\r\nA heavy silence settled between them. My heart pounded in my chest.\r\nThen my mother whispered, “She’ll be asleep. She won’t feel a thing.”\r\nThe glass slipped from my fingers, shattering against the tile.\r\nThe voices stopped.\r\nI ran.\r\nI don’t remember how I made it back to my room, but I slammed the door shut, locking it just as footsteps pounded down the hall.\r\n“Sweetheart,” my father called through the wood. Calm. Gentle. “Did you hear something?”\r\nI backed away, my breath coming too fast.\r\nThe doorknob rattled.\r\n“Open the door,” my mother urged. “I need to see you to make sure you’re okay.”\r\nBehind them, I heard Alex’s small voice, confused, sleepy.\r\n“Em?”\r\nTears burned my eyes.\r\nI had dreamed of being found. Of having a family that loved me.\r\nBut they hadn’t found me to bring me home.\r\nThey had found me to keep him alive."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Never Wish for a Goddamn Unicorn"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I found the box buried behind the shed, wrapped in roots like the earth itself had tried to strangle it. It hummed when I touched it, vibrated like something alive. I should’ve left it there, but curiosity's a hell of a drug.\r\nWhen I opened it, the air turned cold. A skeletal creature slithered out, tall and twisted, like a centipede had dressed up in a man's skin and forgotten how many legs it had. Its eyes were deep hollows that oozed smoke, and it smelled like meat left out in the sun.\r\n\"You may have one wish,\" it croaked, voice grinding like rusted metal.\r\nI didn’t scream, I just nodded, unable to speak, trying not to gag at the slime trailing from its jaw. Then it slipped back into the box, folding in on itself like wet paper, leaving only silence.\r\nI kept it.\r\nIt sat on a shelf in the garage, behind paint cans and old tools. Every time I saw it, my mind wandered. One wish. Anything. Cure cancer. Save the planet. Make a billion dollars. But I couldn’t pull the trigger. One wish is a terrifying thing when you know it’ll come true. What if I messed it up? What if it twisted my words? I decided to wait, think it through.\r\nThen one day my daughter, Emily, burst into the kitchen, face glowing with excitement.\r\n“Daddy! I made a wish!”\r\nMy blood ran cold.\r\n“What do you mean, sweetheart?”\r\n“I found a magic box in the garage,” she said, dancing on her toes. “There was a weird man inside, and he said I could have a wish. So I did!”\r\nI dropped my coffee.\r\n“What did you wish for?” My voice came out choked.\r\nShe grinned. “A unicorn!”\r\nBefore I could stop her, she ran through the sliding door into the backyard, her little feet pounding the deck. I chased after her, heart hammering, bile rising in my throat.\r\nI saw it immediately.\r\nIt stood in the middle of the yard, sunlight filtering through the trees and glinting off its pale hide. Hooves, a long spiraled horn, flowing white mane. A perfect unicorn.\r\nToo perfect.\r\nIts eyes were too wide. Too wet. They blinked the wrong way. Its body shimmered like heat off asphalt, and its skin twitched in waves, like something beneath was trying to get out. Muscles shifted wrong under the surface, pulsing like maggots writhing in meat. Its tail wagged, slow and rhythmic, and I realized it wasn’t hair at all. It was a cluster of twitching tendrils.\r\nEmily laughed, running toward it with arms outstretched.\r\nI grabbed her before she could touch it. My hands trembled as I backed away, holding her tight, heart pounding so hard I could barely breathe.\r\nShe looked up at me, confused. “What’s wrong, Daddy? It’s just a unicorn.”\r\nNo.\r\nSomething is wiggling and writhing underneath its skin, I don't know what that thing is, but it's no fucking unicorn.\r\nIt's something wearing its skin."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "There´s a monster under my bed."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Nor my parents, nor a beast, not the darkness, but a feast.\r\nShould I crawl in bed alone, it will gnaw on me, to the bone.\r\nI will whisper `Please do stop.´ Salivating, it does nonstop.\r\nShould not have lain here all alone.\r\nunder my bed, its eyes eavesdrop."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Conversation at the Empty Bar"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The bar was quiet. Just the low hum of the TV and the clink of glass behind the counter. I stared into my whiskey, the ice long since melted, trying not to think. That never worked, though. Thoughts are sneaky bastards.\r\nHe sat down next to me without a sound. Hoodie up, face mostly shadowed, but there was something… off. Like he didn’t quite fit in the room, like the shadows liked him too much.\r\n“I don’t usually do this,” he said, voice calm, like he was used to people listening to him.\r\nI glanced over. “Do what?”\r\n“Talk to people.” He gestured for a drink. No ID, no small talk. Bartender didn’t even hesitate. Just poured something dark and walked off like he’d done it a thousand times.\r\n“You should,” I said. “It’s a lonely world.”\r\nHe chuckled, soft and dry. “Loneliness is kind of my thing.”\r\nWe sat in silence for a minute. Not the awkward kind, the kind that has weight.\r\n“You look like you’ve been through hell,” he said.\r\n“Close enough,” I muttered.\r\nHe nodded. “Wife?”\r\nI didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.\r\n“You know,” he went on, “most people don’t get it. Life. They think they’ve got time. Put things off. Say ‘later’ like it’s a promise. But later’s a fragile thing.”\r\n“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately.”\r\n“You strike me as a man who’s done thinking,” he said. “Now you’re just… waiting.”\r\nI turned toward him, eyes narrowing. “You here for me?”\r\nHe looked at me then. Really looked. And I knew.\r\nHe nodded.\r\nMy mouth felt dry. “How long?”\r\n“Two drinks ago,” he said, quiet. “You hit your limit. Couldn’t handle the death of your wife, could you?”\r\nMy heart dropped. Or maybe it had already stopped. I couldn’t tell.\r\nI looked at my glass. I didn’t even remember ordering the last two.\r\n“What’d I take?” I asked, voice hollow.\r\n“Doesn’t matter now.”\r\nHe reached up and pulled back his hoodie.\r\nI can’t explain what I saw. It wasn’t a skull, or some cliché grim reaper bullshit. It was emptiness given form. A face without time. A void wearing a smile that had seen the end of everything.\r\n“It’s time,” he said.\r\nI swallowed hard. “What comes next?”\r\nHe didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause.\r\n“Nothing.”\r\n“Nothing?”\r\n“It’s the end of the road,” he said, like he was telling me the time of day. “No pearly gates. No hellfire. No reincarnation or cosmic do-over. Just… lights out. Forever.”\r\nI wanted to scream. Cry. Beg. But all I did was nod.\r\nHe stood.\r\n“You ready?”\r\nWas I? Didn’t matter.\r\nI stood too. “Guess I don’t have a choice.”\r\n“No,” he said. “You made it already.”\r\nAnd together, we walked out into a nothingness that would last forever."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Grandpa, Please Tell Us a Story"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "\"Grandpa, please tell us a story,\" the children asked.\r\nThe old man scratched at his stubble thoughtfully. \"I don't think your parents want me telling you stories before bedtime anymore.\"\r\n\"But you always tell the best ones!\" the children pleaded.\r\nHe thought for a moment and sighed.\r\n\"Alright. One more story. But you have to promise to go to sleep.\"\r\nThe children nodded and jumped into their beds.\r\n\"When I was your age, several local kids spoke of a man that wandered the streets at night. Nobody knew him. And adults, they either pretended not to see him, or couldn't. I never saw where he went or where he came from. But each night, like clockwork, the man walked through the middle of town without a care in the world, occasionally glancing into shops as if he were window shopping.\"\r\nThe children listened intensely.\r\n\"Once the man reached the center of town, he'd stand there, perfectly still, next to the old broken clock. You'd have easily mistaken him for a statue if not for his black overcoat blowing in the breeze. And every minute, on the dot, he'd reach into his pocket and pull out a watch on a chain. He'd stare intently at the watch, as if expecting a bus to be along shortly, and then gracefully return the watch back to his pocket. After 13 minutes had passed—exactly 13 minutes, every time—the man would continue on with his walk, as if he had never stopped at all.\"\r\n\"Where does he go??\" \"Who is he?!\" Both children blurted in unison.\r\n\"Be patient,\" he said, scolding them. \"Anyway. One night, just like every other night prior, the man did his walk through town. But this time, my older brother, Charlie, had made it his mission to speak to the man, and ask him why.\"\r\nThe kids looked on nervously.\r\n\"He was much braver than me, my older brother. I didn't dare sneak out with him that night. But I watched, cowardly, from the window. Slowly but surely, he made his way over to the man, stopping a few feet in front of him. I heard Charlie speak, something. I couldn't quite make out what it was. But I heard the man talk back. And I heard his words very clearly.\"\r\nThe children held their breath as their Grandpa looked down, deep in thought.\r\n\"The man said to Charlie 'Come to me and see'.\"\r\n\"What did he show him?!\" they both demanded.\r\n\"I don't know… After the man spoke those words, he looked right at me. Right into me. I hid behind the window sill… and I never saw Charlie again.\"\r\nThe children went silent and pulled their covers close.\r\n\"I'm sorry if that scared you. Remember, it's just a story,\" he assured them.\r\nHe leaned down and kissed them both on the head before promptly leaving the room.\r\nThe two children looked at each other, terrified, before one of them whispered \"Grandpa could see him too.\""
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Splendid Friendship"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "When we first met, she told me her name was Jenny. She was a new intern who had already started to get along with most of the staff. Additionally, her personality was so bubbly that no one could hate her. That's why I knew what our relationship would be like when our eyes met.\r\nOur interactions were brief, with small and quick greetings such as \"Hello\" and \"How are you doing?\" and ending with a simple \"Goodbye\". But those small and quick greetings soon became brief conversations, and those conversations became longer.\r\nWe got to know each other better. Jenny learned how long I've been here and about the many people I've met. She shared how excited she felt when she was accepted to work at this museum, and I could only smile at the enthusiasm on her face.\r\nOn her breaks, we would discuss many things, and we bonded.\r\nBut I could tell that something was bothering her. Although she tried her best to hide it, I sensed it. I didn't push her to talk. I was slow with it, empathized and sympathizing while encouraging her to share. It paid off, and eventually, she opened up about what was troubling her.\r\nHer husband.\r\n\"It just feels like he pretends that I don't exist..\" she said.\r\n\"I just want him to acknowledge that I'm right here...\" she muttered.\r\n\"No matter what I do, I can't get through to him...I...I just want him to know that I'm right here...always cooking his favorite meals...\" she sobbed.\r\nI was always her shoulder to cry on, and I was always there to calm her. I emphasized with her and consoled her on her bad days. I gave her splendid advice that she refused to accept at first, but it slowly started to dig through her mind like a parasite. Advice that caused her to come to a realization.\r\nThen one day, she whispered the words I had been waiting for.\r\n\"I think I'm ready...\"\r\nI was ecstatic when she took me along, giving me a front-row seat to the show I had created. My porcelain grin widened as I watched her jam the large knife into her husband. His gasps of pain were utter music as his breathing slowly decreased with each stab.\r\nAfter she was done, she walked up to me shaking. She desperately asked me what to do, and I told her the same thing I told the others I had met.\r\n\"Put me on, and everything will be okay, my darling.\""
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Body No Longer Theirs"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The knowledge came to him by chance—a dusty tome sequestered by the kingdom from a known malefactor.\r\nIts origins did not matter.\r\nHe scoffed at its contents. The book detailed an impossibly precise surgical method, an intricate art of reconstruction meant for a singular, blasphemous purpose:\r\n…to defy death itself.\r\nIt was absurd.\r\nHe was a man of medicine, bound by reason.\r\nHe tucked the book away, a passing amusement, nothing more.\r\nUntil news reached him of his daughter's untimely demise.\r\nHis diener—his assistant—laid her there, too small, too still, too hideous to behold.\r\nHe had spent his life cutting open cadavers, and now his hands would not move.\r\nUnless—\r\nHe returned home, holding her cold, near-rigid body.\r\nHe opened the book and followed every step, its pages flung open, parchment with dried blood.\r\nWhere flesh had been torn away, he replaced it. Where organs had failed, he found substitutes. Some from swine, some from the unclaimed dead. He stitched, he sutured, he shaped her back to life.\r\nAnd days later, when she finally opened her eyes, he wept.\r\nBut her body rejected the grafts. The stitches split, flesh blackened, fever raged.\r\nThe decay was inevitable.\r\nBut he never faltered.\r\nAt first, the wounds seemed to heal overnight. Day after night, he found fresh hands, skin, organs—pieces from the morgue where he worked.\r\nThen he found the bloodied thread, the needle still clutched in her trembling fingers.\r\nThe cuts were jagged, the sutures crude, but she was whole.\r\nShe was learning.\r\nWhen the rot came again, she cut away the dying part. Replaced them. Her hands, still too small, as she learned the surgeon’s art.\r\nShe didn’t like her arms, so she sliced them off, stitched on another’s.\r\nShe became meticulous.\r\nPrecise.\r\nEfficient.\r\nThe stench of their house was overwhelming. Dogs barked when he passed by, meat from the butcher in hand.\r\nBut her stitches never ceased.\r\nHer body was a patchwork—hers, others, whatever she could find.\r\nUntil she was more stranger than daughter.\r\nOne night, she whispered to him. Her voice was raw, her lips barely able to move.\r\n\"Father.\"\r\nHe turned to the candlelight. Her dress stuck to her bloody, putrid form. She sat on the wooden table, the air thick with putrefaction.\r\nThe needle trembled in her fingers, the latest graft peeling.\r\n\"I need more.\"\r\nHe swallowed. He had spent sleepless nights carving away, but the decay always returned.\r\nNo matter how much he gave, how much she took, it was never enough.\r\n\"Daughter...\" His voice wavered. She had her mother's voice, once.\r\n\"It won’t hold.\"\r\nShe reached for the scalpel. The same one she had used for practice.\r\n\"I can fix it,\" she murmured. \"I just need something better.\"\r\n\"Something more.\"\r\nThe surgeon’s shoulders fell, his mind resigned. He had wished for this.\r\nThere was nothing left to give—\r\n...nothing at all,\r\n...nothing but his heart."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Drink with The Devil"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It was a Monday night when I met the Devil.\r\nI was in a rooftop bar in Manhattan, and he came over in a crisp white sport coat and introduced himself.\r\n‘I’m sorry,’ I replied, ‘You said your name was Stan?’\r\n‘No, Satan.’\r\n‘Is that Eastern European?’\r\n‘No. Hebrew.’\r\nI sipped my Aperol; he drank an Old-Fashioned.\r\nSatan was handsome enough, with lively brown eyes and slicked-back black hair.\r\nHe reached over, took my hand, and a sudden jolt of electricity ran through me.\r\nWe were somewhere else, watching a teenage girl sobbing in front of a mirror.\r\nIt was only a flash before we snapped back to the bar on the Upper East Side.\r\nI peered at him. ‘What the fuck was that?’\r\n‘Where fear and doubt reside, so do I.’\r\nI looked over the rim of my glass to check for evidence I’d been dosed.\r\n‘You still don’t believe?’\r\nOnce more, he reached out, and we were transported.\r\nNow, we were in a doctor’s office. A healthy-looking young man had his head in his hands.\r\n‘It’s bad news?’ I said as we observed from above like phantoms.\r\n‘No, good. He’s not dying, although he is bankrupt.’\r\nSnap. Back to Manhattan.\r\n‘Fuck.’ I inhaled. ‘You really are Satan.’\r\nThe bartender came over and put some nuts between us.\r\n‘Are you happy with your girlfriend?’ Satan said to him.\r\n‘Excuse me.’\r\n‘Your girlfriend. I mean, she could look like this.’\r\nThe bartender fell under some kind of spell. Satan swiped right, and a cavalcade of girls was projected in front of the kid's mesmerised eyes.\r\nHe blinked out of it and suddenly seemed lost in deep contemplation.\r\n‘Why?’ I said.\r\n‘Fear and doubt– my speciality.’\r\n‘You know,’ I said angrily, ‘The world has changed a lot since…Biblical times. I don’t think you fit in anymore.’\r\nSatan laughed loudly and continued, ‘I thrive in the modern world.’\r\nHe reached inside a pocket and slid a business card across the desk.\r\nEmblazoned on the front in neat letters: Google– Satan– Head of Analytics.\r\n‘The first girl you saw, well, our data suggests she has anorexia, so we flood her with diet pills. The second is a hypochondriac, so we deluge him with articles on cancer, followed by a list of locally approved doctors. The bartender– he’s a commitment phobe. He loves his girlfriend, but we show him pretty girls in his area and a dating app ‘perfect’ for him.\r\n‘It’s… It’s… Evil.’\r\nSatan smiled, drained his Old Fashioned, and then slammed down a $100 bill. ‘Treat yourself.’\r\nMy phone buzzed. It was an advert for DraftKings with a banner saying, ‘You earned it.’\r\nA sudden cataclysmic sense of fear and doubt gripped me.\r\nI turned to confront the Devil, but he was gone.\r\nWell, that wasn’t true– the Devil never really disappeared.\r\nI looked back at the ad. Ten years earlier, I’d lost everything, my wife and kids included, to sports gambling, but maybe…\r\nI should treat myself."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Stranger in My Son's Eyes"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I should have never ignored the warnings about this house.\r\nI’m Matt, a 28-year-old single father to my son, Ethan. Life has never been easy for us, but when I found a house selling for an unbelievably low price, I thought our luck had changed. The dealer seemed nervous and warned me never to enter the basement. I should have listened.\r\nThe first few days were fine—until one night when I came home late from my shift and found Ethan missing. Panic consumed me as I searched the house, only to see him emerging from the basement. His face was blank, his eyes cold. He smiled—an eerie, unnatural smile—and whispered, “There’s nothing down there.”\r\nThe next morning, Ethan barely spoke. He refused breakfast and, when I pressed him, he screamed at me to mind my own business. That night, I heard shuffling sounds beneath the floorboards. Something was down there.\r\nCuriosity overpowered fear. I crept toward the basement, heart pounding, and peered inside. There, in the dim light, I saw Ethan crouched over something. He was… eating. My eyes adjusted, and I saw what lay before him—a woman's dead body.\r\nA gasp escaped me. Ethan’s head snapped toward me, his neck twisting unnaturally. He grinned. “You saw everything, Dad. You must go now!!”\r\nHe leapt towards me and bit me hard, I saw that blood started pouring out of the wound. I barely managed to gather my strength to push him hard and then kick him I to the basement, I then frantically locked the basement door. Then I started running.\r\nI fled to my room, locking the door behind me. My hands shook as I frantically searched online for the house’s history. That’s when I found the truth. The previous owner, Mark, was a serial killer who used to seduce women and brought them here, then he killed them, and… ate them. When the police caught him, he ran into the basement and took his own life.\r\nNow he’s back.\r\nThe basement door just shattered. Heavy footsteps echo through the house. He’s looking for me.\r\nI’m hiding in the attic, typing this. I don’t have much time. If anyone reads this, please—\r\nHelp me."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Life Halved, Another Doubled"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The sun let the last of its feeble rays slowly bleed out and soak the world in muted red.\r\nOnly once color had dissolved into nothingness did something stir. In the murk, a woman emerged from the wood.\r\nShe traversed the meadow that lay before her, drawn to that lonely house, a distant glow in an otherwise inky land.\r\nEventually, she waded across her penultimate obstacle, the familiar river meandering through the darkness, a hushed trickle the sole sign of its existence.\r\nAt the house, all seemed unchanged. The windows, to her chagrin, remained boarded up from the inside.\r\nBut that night, the back door had finally been left unlocked.\r\nHis eyes were bloodshot when she found him. The man hardly noticed as she entered the room, his gaze stuck on a photograph he held.\r\nA bespectacled woman with freckles streaking between dimpled cheeks smiled from within the black and white picture, frozen in a moment that was never coming back. She soon began to quiver in his grasp.\r\nHe set the frame face-down on the sheets beside him.\r\n“End of the road, huh?” he sighed.\r\nHe’d grown up hearing them, tales that were somehow more than hearsay. People weren’t supposed to linger near the forest past sundown, for there it dwelled, then it preyed, a parasitic spirit that cowered in burrows while the sun shone.\r\nShe’d gone out for some air. It was a pastime of hers, roaming the woods. Perhaps she never would’ve gotten lost had he accompanied her that fateful afternoon.\r\nNights were longer now, the memories taunting.\r\nHe willed his mind off the thought, digging into his pocket and producing from it both cigarette and lighter. Bringing them to his lips, he took a drag.\r\n“You mustn’t feel much through those decaying cadavers of yours, the temporary vessels that sustain you... Know what’s funny?” he said flatly, pausing to gander at the thing.\r\nHe instantly regretted doing so.\r\nThere she stood, his once-wife, a remnant of her former self.\r\nVacant pupils, glazed over, rested below drooping eyelids. A pallid complexion jarred with clumpy black locks, the ensemble enrobed in a sickly sheen.\r\nThe man turned the bedside lamp off and looked away, rendering her but a shadow in his peripheral vision.\r\nHe knew the thing took pleasure seeing him this way, that making him wait was its way of toying with him.\r\nHe exhaled once more, staring into the void waiting outside. “Well... This room is bathed in gasoline.”\r\nHe felt the entity start to shift, but wasn’t granting it any time.\r\n“Her name was Hope,” he whispered softly, letting the burning cigarette fall to the floorboards.\r\nWhile flames engulfed the wooden structure of what once was a home, the river ran.\r\nIt ran until nothing remained.\r\nAs the first trace of light began seeping into a new sky, two misshapen figures surfaced from the water.\r\nHurriedly, they made their way towards the trees, hobbling, hand in hand as one."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Perfect Match"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Ryan only looked away for a second.\r\nOne second, Mikey was there—his warm, sticky little hand wrapped inside Ryan’s, tugging, impatient. The next—gone.\r\nRyan's stomach dropped. A cold sweat slicked his skin. His fingers grasped at empty air. He turned sharply, eyes scanning the river of bodies flowing through the mall. “Mikey?”\r\nNo answer.\r\nHis heartbeat kicked hard against his ribs. Too many people. Too much noise. The scents of fried food and floor polish churned in his gut. Laughter. Footsteps. A hundred voices overlapping, but not his.\r\nRyan’s breath turned shallow. No, no, no, no—\r\nHis little brother was gone.\r\nPanic clawed up his throat. He spun in frantic circles, scanning the crowds for red sneakers. Mikey’s favorite. The ones he always wore, even when they were too small, even when Mom begged him to pick a new pair.\r\nNothing.\r\nRyan swayed, dizzy. His head pounded.\r\nMom is going to kill me.\r\nNo—worse. She’s never going to trust me again.\r\nShe barely had to begin with.\r\nRyan was the screw-up. The one who forgot permission slips, lost house keys, didn’t try hard enough in school. The one who was too much work. Mikey was the golden child. Sweet. Easy. The one who didn’t break things just by existing. Ryan had one job today. Hold his hand. Keep him safe. Don’t lose him.\r\nAnd he’d failed.\r\nThe realization hit like a punch to the gut. His chest rose and fell too fast. His hands trembled. He had to fix this. Had to make it right.\r\nAnd then he saw it.\r\nA boy.\r\nStanding by the fountain, alone. Same height. Same dark curls. Same big, watery eyes.\r\nRyan’s breath shuddered out of him. His panic dulled to something steadier. It wasn't just a boy Ryan was seeing, it was an idea.\r\nHis legs carried him forward before his mind could catch up. He wiped his clammy hands on his jeans and forced a smile.\r\n“Hey, buddy,” he murmured, keeping his voice soft. “You lost?”\r\nThe boy blinked up at him, uncertain. Ryan’s pulse evened.\r\n“You are,” he decided for him. “It’s okay. I’ll take you to your mom.”\r\nThe boy hesitated, glancing over his shoulder. “She said to wait—”\r\nRyan reached out, curling his fingers gently around the boy’s wrist. Warm. Soft. An almost identical copy.\r\nThe boy flinched.\r\nRyan smiled.\r\n“Don’t be scared,” he whispered.\r\nThe boy swallowed hard. His little fingers twitched, but Ryan’s grip held firm.\r\nThe mall crowd blurred around them. The voices, the laughter, the world outside this one moment faded into background noise.\r\nRyan leaned in.\r\n“You're not lost anymore.”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Spoiler - she’s a success"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "One day I want to change the world.\r\nMake a difference. An impact. I want my life to be more than just a ticking clock.\r\nEvery day the same; wake, cook, clean, repeat. Stuck in a metronome I can’t escape.\r\nI’m trapped in a bell jar of symmetry. And I long to be the one to shatter the glass. Stab it, and watch the world break.\r\n“Father,” I address him over dinner. I cooked. “I’d like to go back to school. I’ve been thinking it over for a while.”\r\nHe wrinkles his dark brows. “A finishing school? That could be arranged.”\r\n“No,” I refrain rolling my eyes, “I’d like to get an undergraduate. Yale, like Walter.”\r\nMy cousin Walter sniggers into his potatoes.\r\nFather shakes his head. “No.”\r\nMy stomach plummets.\r\n“Why not?” I shrill. Hysteria.\r\n“Men don’t need an educated wife. They need someone to cook, to clean — to love them.”\r\n“I know.” My voice wobbles dangerously. “But that’s not what I need.”\r\nI want to change the world someday. And I can’t do that by cooking a bigger soup.\r\nA tear trails down my cheek.\r\nI watch Walter murmur something to my father.\r\nI can’t hear him. My brain screams too loud.\r\nI want. To change. The world.\r\nI wake in the morning with a slight headache. But I can’t stop smiling anyways. Today the world is beautiful.\r\n“Come on!” Father yells, “Breakfast!”\r\nComplacently, I stroll to the kitchen. Sauce-pan. Eggs. Cream.\r\nI’ve never noticed how peaceful repetition can be.\r\nWalter sits at the table, examining me carefully. “So about Yale,” he begins, “I could try finding you a spot if —“\r\nI interrupt him and laugh merrily. “Yale! Why would I want to go to Yale? Life is fine just here!”\r\nWalter breaks into a broad grin. He gets out a book and I watch him jot something down. I cross the table to read the print.\r\nLobotomy #6 - a success.\r\nWhat does that mean? I ponder. Then I turn away and wonder back to the stove.\r\nQuite frankly, I don’t really care."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "‘A jet crashed into my house!’"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The sound was deafening, yet I slept through the entire calamity. I realize that appears to be a contradiction of stated facts. How could I know the noise was great, if I was unaware of the circumstances? I’ll explain that later. For now, let me set the scene for you. A large passenger jet flying in the direct airspace overhead experienced mechanical failure and rapidly lost altitude. The crew and passengers had almost no warning.\r\nIt could’ve crashed anywhere in its programmed flight path but for whatever reason, it plowed directly into my poor house. The debris field was scattered for a half mile on either side, but my home was ‘ground zero’ for the impact itself. The fire, carnage, and utter devastation was extensive. Eyewitnesses and first responders described the site as looking like a bomb had went off. Technically, it had. Thousands of gallons of highly-flammable jet fuel exploded violently upon contact with my modest abode.\r\nThose who didn’t perish immediately upon impact died soon afterward in the smoldering, twisted ruins. There was chaos and crying, lamentation, and an aura of despair. Corpses and body parts were strewn far-and-wide. Only moments earlier, the numerous victims of flight 217 had been smiling, laughing, and leading productive lives. In a fateful, irreversible instant; all of that changed. The peace and joy of everyone affected was obliterated, forever.\r\nAfter that defining moment, nothing but death remained for the doomed passengers, crew members, and the sole, unconscious occupant of 843 Hill Drive. As far as my posthumous verification of the plane’s explosive impact, I never heard a thing. The end came too quickly. Truthfully though, an ‘atomic cacophony’ goes without saying under the circumstances. No survivors indeed."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "The Man Who Sued a Mountain"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It was uncomfortable to watch—both the video and Vic Odett's face watching the video, which was of his son's expedition up Mount Kilimanjaro, the last of several videos, and the one in which, as everyone in the world knew, Karl Odett had died on-camera.\r\n“There,” said Vic, choking up. “Did you see it: see the mountain flicker?”\r\n“No. Can you turn it off?”\r\n“I want you to see it. I want you to see that mountain kill my boy.”\r\nI was a lawyer and Vic Odett was one of the world's richest men. He was also a friend of mine, so we watched.\r\nWhen it was finally over, I said, “I'm sorry, but I just don't understand what you want me to do.”\r\n“You had that case—you argued animals have standing to bring a lawsuit.” I nodded. “I want you to do the same but for a mountain. I want to sue Kilimanjaro for killing my son.”\r\n“Even if I could,” I said, “you're talking our laws. Kilimanjaro's in Tanzania. Outside our jurisdiction.”\r\nAnd, weeping, Vic Odett laughed.\r\n//\r\nThe plane landed in Dodoma.\r\nOdett stepped out.\r\nDays later the newspapers declared: Wealthy Canadian Buys Africa's Tallest Mountain\r\n//\r\n“What now?” I asked, standing next to Vic atop Kilimanjaro.\r\nHe crouched, grabbed a handful of rocks, said, “Now we move it, shovel-by-goddamn-shovel, across the ocean.”\r\n//\r\nOver the next decades, Vic Odett bought the machines and laid the rail, and methodically deconstructed a mountain, transporting its pieces first by land to Mombasa, then by ship across the Atlantic and up the St. Lawrence to Montreal, from where, again by rail, it travelled north to Hudson Bay, in whose lonely and desolate middle it was reconstructed on a manmade island.\r\nAnd in those years, I worked on nothing else than the gradual insistence that inanimate objects could—in one instance, then on the rare occasion, then sometimes, and finally always—sue and be sued under Canadian law.\r\n//\r\n“If all fails, I've at least ripped it from its homeland and imprisoned it,” Vic said once, gazing at the surreality of Kilimanjaro in cold northern waters.\r\nEven I admitted that the mountain looked sad.\r\n//\r\nThere were protests, of course, both of the physical act of moving the mountain and legal maneuverings to make it the defendant in a lawsuit, but money and time ultimately bought tired indifference.\r\nWhen the judgement was issued and Kilimanjaro ordered to pay Vic Odett an absurd and uncollectable sum of $5,300,000, there was no true resistance.\r\n//\r\n“Can you see?” Vic asked.\r\nHe was on a live stream but asking me, and he was climbing Kilimanjaro, delivering the judgement to the mountain.\r\n“Yes,” I said from my living room.\r\nMillions watched.\r\nWhen Vic got to the summit, he waved the judgement and screamed—catharsis, at long last!\r\nThen the mountain flickered: shook.\r\nAnd, seeing, I remembered that Kilimanjaro had once been a volcano; as lava erupted around him, Vic Odett screamed again—this time, the flowing lava blanketed him whole."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "I saw a strange light"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "My parents asked me to house-sit for the night. I didn’t mind offering them a helping hand. They lived on a private road near the bayside of the ocean. The road had one other house, right across from them, that had been unoccupied for years.\r\nMy first night there, I saw a magnificent pink sunset over the deep blue bay. Dolphins jumped through the water with joy. I quickly headed back inside after getting swarmed by mosquitoes.\r\nLater that night, after eating my burnt oven pizza, a peculiar dark red light appeared from the neighbor’s home. I overheard a strange, unanimous chanting. I peeled my eyes through the window blinds, trying to get a better view. That’s when I saw a dozen robed individuals creeping inside the house. I leapt backward, landing on my ass.\r\nBut curiosity got the best of me. I decided to investigate. I headed toward the house, inching closer to the red-stained window. The wind began to pick up speed. My heart raced in anticipation of what might be revealed to my naked eyes. My sweaty palms gripped the windowsill.\r\nI glanced up for a second. Inside, the robed individuals were chanting in a circle, each wearing an old-time plague doctor mask. They surrounded a lifeless corpse. I began losing my breath, gasping for oxygen. In my confused state, I froze, eyes locked on the body.\r\nThen, in an eerie moment, the lifeless corpse’s eyes opened. Its fragile, bony finger slowly raised, pointing in my direction.\r\nAdrenaline shot through my legs as I bolted back to my parents’ home. I slammed the door shut and locked it. Almost immediately, I was met with loud banging. It got louder. And louder. And louder.\r\nI fell to my knees, trembling in terror, tears flowing down my cheeks. I ran upstairs and hid under my covers like a scared child. The banging didn’t stop. For five hours.\r\nAfter a while, the smell of rot invaded my room. Dread overwhelmed my body. Feeling hopeless, I cowered into a fetal position. Finally, I gathered the courage to peel the covers away from my eyes.\r\nI was met with the lifeless corpse, breathing above me. Its soulless eyes drained my energy. I eventually fainted.\r\nI woke up to my parents asking if I was okay. I nodded weakly. When I walked downstairs, I saw a dozen police officers and firefighters. The entire neighbor’s house had burned to the ground.\r\nI was interviewed by the officers. I mentioned nothing about the prior events.\r\nEventually, they told me all they found was a single plague doctor mask with a note that read: You’re next, boy."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "a yokai ?"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Japan, 1634.\r\nA lone woman knelt by the paper doors of her home, listening. The wind sighed through the trees, but beyond that—nothing. Her husband had not yet returned, though the moon hung high in the sky.\r\nThen—a knock.\r\nSoft. Slow. Too careful.\r\nShe stiffened.\r\n“Moshi moshi?” she called, her voice barely above a whisper.\r\nSilence.\r\nThen—a voice. Hoarse. Unsteady.\r\n“…Help…”\r\nHer fingers hovered over the door. Something about the voice felt wrong. As though it came from a throat unused to speaking.\r\n“Who are you?” she asked.\r\nA pause. Then, the same whisper.\r\n“Please… help me.”\r\nA sound followed. Drip. Drip. A thick, wet patter against the wooden steps.\r\nThe scent of iron curled into the room.\r\nShe swallowed. “Moshi moshi?” she called again.\r\n“Help…” The same answer. The same tone. The same voice, unchanged.\r\nThe dripping grew louder. Closer.\r\nThen, the voice shifted.\r\n“…I’m… so thirsty…”\r\nHer grip tightened on her kimono. She did not open the door.\r\nSilence.\r\nThen—her dog barked, a furious, terrified snarl.\r\nAnd then—it moved.\r\nNot footsteps. Not running. Something fast. Something unnatural.\r\nA blur of pale fur streaked past the paper door.\r\nThe woman gasped, breath catching in her throat. She turned, heart hammering. Beneath the swaying lantern light, it stood.\r\nA fox.\r\nIts golden eyes glowed in the dark. Its fur bristled. It did not move. Watching. Waiting.\r\nThe wind howled, rattling the wooden walls. The candle beside her flickered.\r\nFor the first time, the fox opened its mouth.\r\nA whisper, dry as dead leaves.\r\n“…Help…”\r\nThe candle sputtered—then went out.\r\nDarkness swallowed the room.\r\nThe next morning, her neighbors found the house empty. The door, left slightly ajar. On the wooden steps, faint streaks of blood trailed into the forest.\r\nOf the woman, there was no sign.\r\nOnly the fox remained, sitting at the edge of the trees, staring at the abandoned home.\r\nWaiting"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Just A Soul"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The night she came was like any other.\r\nI was working at a diner close by, not a great job but it kept me comfortable enough.\r\nThe restaurant’s radio quit working the day before and Richard, the cook, had slipped out the back door a while ago. Mostly likely getting high as was typical of him despite us being the only ones there.\r\nJust as I looked at the clock reading 3:30 a light above the last booth flickered out.\r\nWeird.\r\nAnother second passed before I saw movement outside the window.\r\nA woman, pale faced with dark hair, peered in. So short that just her eyes showed above the booth. A sharp tingling went up my spine, but I was fixed in place as her eyes bore into mine. A tap on my shoulder startled me.\r\nRichard’s eyes were wide, “Damn Rena you didn’t hear me?” His gaze flicked towards the window. I must’ve had a look on my face because he wasted no time scurrying back into the kitchen.\r\n…\r\nThe next week or so went by normally, though when I was alone I felt a sort of swelling anticipation in the air.\r\nWhen I got home one night things seemed.. not right.\r\nThe cupboard under the sink was slightly ajar. A few shirts were on the floor that hadn’t been there when I’d left. The light in the bathroom wouldn’t turn on.\r\nThen, I dreamt of the diner. The clock read 3:30, a dark booth, eyes looking through the window. Just as it’d been that night. This time though, as I stared back, she began to move. Bony fingers stretched through the glass and gripped the booth. My breath caught in my throat as her limbs slither unnaturally over the table top and onto the ground. Her head snapped up, a smile stretching her lips. My fingers tingled.\r\nMy mother’s voice rang out “A ghost was once human, don’t be afraid of them. Under all the scary stuff there’s a soul.”\r\nI woke up with a gasp. My room was pitch black and as my eyes adjusted to the faint moonlight something wasn’t right. At the foot of my bed was the outline of someone’s head. She was here, looking at me.\r\nMy breathing grew erratic as she began climbing onto the bed. I could feel as her hands smashed into the blankets beside my legs, a guttural sound coming from her. It felt like an eternity before she was above me, her teeth clacking methodically.\r\nI inhaled sharply, my hand shooting up to grip her hair. Watery eyes widened in shock, registering the sensation of contact.\r\nSavoring the moment, I felt the anticipation coming to a crescendo as her confusion shifted to fear. I chattered my teeth at her mockingly as my other hand wrapped around her throat. She squirmed.\r\nMy jaw cracked as it readied, stomach screaming to be full. “A soul is a soul,” I whispered, allowing myself to devour."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Cautionary Sign"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Another shift. Another night cleaning up after people who don’t even see me. I drag myself to my locker, yawning. Same routine, same floors, same oblivious suits stepping over my mop like I’m part of the furniture. If I disappeared, they’d only notice when the trash started piling up.\r\nMopping is always the worst. Ten floors. Three janitors left who haven’t quit. The rest? They either got tired or… well, let’s just say this place has its risks. The corporate types don’t care. They walk past us like we’re ghosts.\r\nStill, I do my job. And when I mop, I always put up the warning sign. Caution: Wet Floor. You’d think people would take it seriously. They don’t. They either ignore it completely or throw me that look, the one that says I shouldn’t exist.\r\nTonight, I’m on the fifth floor. The hallway is empty, just a few dimly lit meeting rooms. I set the sign down and start mopping.\r\nTwo guys pass by, chatting, laughing. Corporate bros in their button-ups and ties. One glances at me, and there it is, that look. Disgust. Amusement. Like I’m nothing.\r\nI sigh and keep mopping.\r\nMinutes later, I hear it. Footsteps. Shouting.\r\nThe same two guys, but now one is running full speed. The other is chasing him, both too caught up in their game to notice anything else.\r\nI raise a hand. Hey. Careful. The floor is…\r\nToo late.\r\nHis foot slips. His body tilts. His arms pinwheel, grasping at nothing but empty air.\r\nThere is a moment where time slows, just long enough for his eyes to meet mine. Panic. Helplessness.\r\nThen…\r\nBang.\r\nThe sickening crunch of bone against glass. A sound I know too well.\r\nSilence.\r\nHis friend and I rush to the railing. Below, sprawled across the shattered remains of a display case, is a motionless body.\r\nI stare down at him. Glass glints in the dim light, tiny shards embedded in his skin. His limbs are bent wrong, like a broken marionette. A dark pool spreads beneath him, slow and steady.\r\nThe friend is shaking, stammering. Maybe praying. I don’t know.\r\nI exhale. I did warn him.\r\nThe fluorescent lights hum softly overhead. Somewhere, down the hall, a phone rings. Life goes on.\r\nSo next time you see a wet floor sign, pay attention.\r\nI mean it.\r\nI grab my mop, head downstairs, step around the blood, and get to work."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Sheep's Mad Bleating"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "“Which one?” Gableman whispered.\r\nHe was sweating. The 3D-printed gun felt heavy in his pocket.\r\n“The girl,” said Odd.\r\nThe girl was eating alongside her parents, or who Gableman assumed were her parents.\r\n“She's so young. I—I don't know if I can do it,” he said. “Are you sure?”\r\nA few people looked his way.\r\nIt was a Monday morning and the diner was only half full. Gableman was alone in his booth. He hadn't touched the scrambled eggs on the plate in front of him.\r\n“Of course I'm sure. Don't you believe me?” said Odd.\r\n“No, it's just—”\r\n“The whole enterprise rests on faith,” said Odd.\r\n“No, I know,” whispered Gableman.\r\nMore patrons looked his way. No wonder, he thought, they all think I'm talking to myself. He took some egg into his mouth and chewed.\r\nPart of him hoped the girl would look over too, they'd lock eyes, and in that moment some understanding would pass between them.\r\n“I just thought that, maybe—because it's the first one—you could give me some kind of sign, so I know I'm doing the right thing,” Gableman whispered.\r\n“Absolutely not,” said Odd.\r\nAnd again Gableman wrestled inwardly with the strength of his belief, his conviction. It had been one week since Odd had first appeared to him, in the form of an angel, and commanded him to manufacture the gun to offer the sacrifice. What if—\r\nThe sound of distant sirens interrupted him.\r\nHe considered whether someone may have called the police, and beads of anxious sweat ran down his back, but concluded it was unlikely.\r\nHe hadn't done anything yet.\r\nWhich meant he could still walk away, dump the gun somewhere and try forgetting everything. After all, the gun wasn't a murder weapon yet.\r\nBut what about the angel? It had seemed so real. The illumination and the revelation, so divine. And he, of all people, had been chosen.\r\n“Well?” asked Odd.\r\nThe sirens drifted by again, distantly.\r\nThe girl was eating, drinking and laughing, and talking to her parents about her friends from school.\r\nThen the bell by the entrance rang.\r\nA policeman walked in.\r\nAnd in that moment Gableman acted: got up, walking towards the girl took the gun out of his pocket, pointed it at her—her parents stared at him; she stared at him, started to speak—and he fired three times: bang, bang, bang.\r\nThe girl slumped dead in her seat, her body draped by that of her wailing mother.\r\nHer father, his face speckled with her blood, froze—as two thick and curled horns issued from the top of his head; ram's horns, to match his newly-ramified face and ramifying body.\r\nThe mother's too.\r\nEveryone's—everyone had become a ram—everyone but the girl, whose reclining body became instead that of a dead female lamb.\r\n“God, what have I done! “Gableman yelled, the gun falling from his front hoof.\r\nBut God did not answer.\r\nAnd Odd laughed.\r\nAnd Gableman's words—why, they were nothing more than a sheep's mad bleating..."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Caught in a Loop"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "The gun is cold in his hand.\r\nJack sits on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, staring at the faded wallpaper peeling from the walls. The motel room smells of dust and old regrets, the air thick with something stagnant, something lifeless. The dim, flickering bulb overhead hums like a trapped insect.\r\nHe doesn’t want to be here anymore. Not in this room, not in this life.\r\nHe exhales slowly, pressing the barrel of the gun against his temple. The weight of it is strangely comforting. The room holds its breath with him.\r\nThen—\r\nA noise.\r\nA faint drip, drip, drip.\r\nJack frowns. The sink? No—it's coming from the bathroom. A slow, rhythmic patter, like water hitting tile. His stomach tightens. He doesn’t remember turning on the faucet.\r\nLowering the gun, he stands, his legs unsteady. He crosses the room in a daze, each step heavy, like he’s wading through something thick, something unseen.\r\nThe door is slightly ajar. The sound grows louder. Drip. Drip. Drip.\r\nJack swallows and pushes it open. A dim yellow glow from the buzzing bathroom light casts sickly shadows across the cracked tiles. There’s water pooling on the floor. Dark. Thick. Not water.\r\nBlood.\r\nHis breath shudders. His gaze follows the crimson rivulets up, past the sink, up the mirror, until he sees it.\r\nHis own reflection.\r\nNot just a reflection. Another him. Sitting against the bathtub, head slumped forward. Motionless. The gun loose in his hand. Blood dripping down his temple, pooling on the floor.\r\nJack stumbles back, his vision swimming. “No. No, no, no.”\r\nHe presses a shaking hand to his temple. The skin is smooth. No wound. No pain.\r\nThe thing in the mirror twitches.\r\nJack’s breath hitches as the reflection slowly lifts its head, blood-smudged lips curling into something awful.\r\n\"You’re late.\"\r\nThe room tilts. His knees buckle. The world distorts, twisting, suffocating. Memories crash over him. The motel. The gunshot. The pain—brief, sharp, final. The silence that followed.\r\nHe had already done it.\r\nHe had already died.\r\nAnd yet, he was still here.\r\nTrapped.\r\nThe Jack in the mirror grins wider, eyes hollow, endless.\r\n\"Now sit down.\"\r\nA force drags him backward. He gasps, struggling, but the room is folding in on itself, pulling him down, down, down.\r\nHe lands against the bathtub with a sickening thud. The gun is in his hand again. The metal is cold.\r\nThe mirror flickers.\r\nHe sees himself—head slumped, blood dripping. A perfect loop.\r\nAs the gun presses against his temple, the door creaks open.\r\nFootsteps.\r\nAnother Jack steps inside. Confused. Holding a gun.\r\nThe cycle begins again."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "I'm getting a new sibling today!"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Today was the day we were going to get our new sibling!\r\n\"I want a brother.\" Kai, my older brother, shot me a grin when we were brushing our teeth. He shoved me into the bathtub. \"Sisters are so stupid.\"\r\nI ran downstairs to tell Mom he was being mean.\r\nBut I wasn't expecting a strange woman standing in our kitchen.\r\n\"I know you have them,\" the woman whispered.\r\nHer eyes found mine, and she stumbled toward me, grabbing my shoulders.\r\n\"Sweetie, listen to me very carefully—”\r\n\"Thea, go upstairs and brush your teeth,\" Mom said.\r\n\"But Mommy—\"\r\n\"Now!\"\r\nI ran up the stairs, listening to them argue.\r\n\"You have them, don't you?\" the woman demanded. “Adam and Eve.”\r\n\"Don't be ridiculous.”\r\n\"You have children, Evangeline!\" the woman shouted, and I flinched, pressing my hands over my ears.\r\n\"You have a beautiful fucking daughter, and I know you have a son! Emily saw him in your yard. We all know about them! And you know what happens when the soldiers find them. They'll be given to Mothers who actually deserve them!\"\r\nA loud BANG sent me catapulting upstairs, a scream ripping from my throat.\r\n\"Thea?\"\r\nKai was standing at the top of the stairs, his eyes wide. \"What's happening?\"\r\n\"Theresa. Kai. Come downstairs, please.\" Mom shouted from the kitchen.\r\nI grabbed Kai’s hand, hesitantly pulling him downstairs.\r\nThe woman was gone, and Mom stood, her eyes red and puffy. “Let's go get you two a brand new brother or sister.”\r\nMom took us down to the basement.\r\nThere was a single bed, a man and a woman curled together. The woman had a large belly. She was beautiful—long, dark hair just like mine. Her eyes were hollow and tired, her clothes stained.\r\n“Thea,” she croaked, cracked lips forming a smile. “Hey, honey.”\r\nHer gaze found my brother. \"Kai. Sweetie, look at you! You're so big!”\r\nKai didn't respond, his lip wobbling, his gaze glued to the young man.\r\nMom stroked the woman's belly, smiling. \"I think you have a little sister.\"\r\n\"Congratulations, Evie,\" the woman whispered.\r\nNext to me, my brother started crying.\r\nThe man made a snorting noise. \"Crazy fucking bitch.\"\r\n\"It's all in the name of God, Adam, darling,\" Mom said softly. \"Thank you for your continued sacrifice. God chose the two of you to give me a miracle.\"\r\n\"Sacrifice?\" the boy cried. \"You've chained me up!\"\r\nWhen we went back upstairs, Mom made our favorite dessert. She told us to eat it all up, tears falling down her cheeks.\r\nI did, scooping chocolate syrup into my mouth.\r\n\"Mommy, why are you crying?\" I asked. \"Aren't you happy?\"\r\n\"Of course I am,\" she whispered.\r\nI heard a click, and next to me, my brother dropped his spoon. I heard his sharp gasp, his hand reaching for me.\r\n“Thea, look!” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Chocolate chips!”\r\nAnother click, and I peered into my ice-cream excitedly.\r\n”Where?”"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "It's Just A Game"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "\"Hurry up, man! We don’t have all night.\"\r\n\"No, I’m not doing it.\"\r\nLaughter. Horrible, mocking laughter. A shove of the shoulder.\r\n\"Oh, come on. Don’t be a little bitch-baby,\" says Tom.\r\n\"Bet he freaks out before he even touches it.\"\r\n\"Relax, Terry, it’s *just a game.\"* Lance holds me by the shoulders and squeezes.\r\nI scoff. “Oh, a game? That what you call five against one?”\r\n\"Suck it up, T,\" says Sam.\r\nA box sits on the table. Old wood with splintered edges, a hole cut in the side with a tiny piece of cloth covering the entrance.\r\n\"Hand.\"\r\n\"What? Why?\"\r\n\"Because this time, *you lost the bet.\"*\r\nHeat crawls up my neck and I flinch.\r\n\"What if something’s in there?\"\r\n\"There is,\" says Tom.\r\nI swallow hard and shove my hands in my pockets. “Nope. Not happening.”\r\n\"Oh yeah?\" Lance steps closer behind me. I exhale sharply and shove my hand in.\r\nIt's kind of warm. Wet. Something clings to my fingers...it's thick and sticky. I flick it off and yank my hand out.\r\nLaughter explodes around me.\r\n\"Ohhh, he freaked!\"\r\n\"What’s wrong? Thought it was just a game?\" Tom smiles.\r\nI force a grin, remembering my own words from last week, but my fingers won’t stop twitching.\r\n\"Well?\" asks Lance.\r\n\"What is it then?\" asks Sam. All eyes are on me.\r\nI swallow. “It's-…it's wet.”\r\nNo one says a word. They just stand there, smiling eagerly.\r\nSomething shifts inside the box.\r\nI step back. They step forward.\r\n\"Oh no. You’re not done. Again.\"\r\nI shake my head over and over. “No. Nope. Nuh-uh, no way.”\r\nBig Phil blocks the door. “Not your call this time, T,” and I instantly back away.\r\nSomething feels wrong. Panic starts to set in now, but what am I to do? It's five against one...just like last week.\r\nHands push me forward. My fingers tremble as I'm forced to reach in again.\r\nTeeth...Not loose...Rooted.\r\nI freeze. Move higher...A nose...A swollen eye.\r\nNo.\r\nNo, no, no.\r\nI rip my hand out. My chest tightens.\r\n\"You know who it is.\"\r\nTheir grins are gone now.\r\n\"Say their name.\"\r\nMy stomach drops. “This isn’t funny, Sam, c'mon-...”\r\nLance steps closer. “They were still breathing when we found them.”\r\n\"Barely.\"\r\n\"You left them there.\"\r\n\"Didn’t even check if they were dead.\"\r\nI stumble back, the room is spinning, my thoughts spiraling.\r\n\"They lost the bet...remember? *'Just a game,'** you told them.\"*\r\nThe words slam into me.\r\n\"No! No, that’s not-...that’s not how it happened!\"\r\n\"They begged you to stop!\"\r\n\"You just laughed!\"\r\n\"'It's just a game!'\"\r\nBefore I could even try to respond, tell them how it was all one big mistake and that I never meant for it to go that far, multiple hands had grabbed me.\r\nI twist, trying to break free...\r\nFingers dig into my hair...\r\nMy arms held behind me...\r\nMy body bent to 90-degrees, their hands on my back holding me in place...\r\nMy head facing the box...\r\n\"Now...in you go!\""
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "Let’s go on a trip!"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I looked back and was disappointed when my crew mates didn’t get up. Anyone could survive a fruit being stuffed down their throat. Well.. maybe not the size of a coconut. 👒🏴 ☠️"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Cruise Ship Found Completely Empty"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "It was unlike anything I’d seen in twenty-three years as a detective. A cruise liner, empty and adrift, had washed ashore off the coast of Cuba, far from its intended course. It was supposed to cut toward the Caribbean from Miami, a routine voyage to the Bahamas. Now it lay stranded, silent. Over 3,800 passengers and crew, gone.\r\nThe Florida Current, a powerful ribbon of warm water, had likely pulled the vessel south after it was left to the mercy of the sea. Without power, without a crew to correct its drift, the ship had become little more than a ghost on the waves, floating through the Straits of Florida. Days passed, maybe longer, before the tide finally delivered it here, broken onto smooth tide-breaker rocks, its bow tilting toward the sky.\r\nThe ship groaned as waves lapped against its hull. Our investigators swarmed its decks like fire ants, combing every corridor, every cabin. No signs of struggle. No bodies. Just an empty vessel, eerily still.\r\nWind whistled through the halls, carrying only the creak of metal and the distant echo of our footsteps.\r\nEverything was left behind. Suitcases still packed, purses slung over chairs, drinks on tables turned warm and flat. Clothes folded neatly in rooms that should have been filled with life. We pulled it all off, tagged it. So much evidence, yet nothing that made sense.\r\nThe manpower was staggering, local Cuban officials, CIA, Coast Guard, all working in tandem.\r\nThe passenger manifest was ordinary. Mostly American citizens. A full crew. No outgoing broadcasts. No letters scrawled. No distress calls. Nothing.\r\nIf it were pirates, somehow slipping past Coast Guard patrols, there was no way they could have kidnapped thousands of people. Especially without a struggle. The crew would have radioed for help the second they saw them.\r\nWe found glasses, shoes, clothes. Scattered everywhere. As if thousands of people had stripped down and jumped overboard. But if that were the case, some bodies would have washed ashore.\r\nI climbed onto the deck. A couple of seagulls squawked and took off, leaving feathers fluttering in the breeze. The ship felt impossibly empty, its silence too heavy, too unnatural.\r\nThen, through every speaker onboard, the intercom crackled.\r\nSomeone must have flicked it on. Maybe by accident.\r\nThe sound that followed wasn’t static.\r\nIt wasn’t interference.\r\nIt was the sound of thousands of people screaming."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Costless War"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "Astronomers weren’t exactly sure what they were looking at.\r\nFirst discovered in the asteroid belts between Mars and Jupiter, most scientists had assumed it was just another rock floating in the middle of outer space. Only a few managed to notice the inconsistencies. The stable orientation and odd trajectory lead a handful mad enough to believe that whatever they were looking at was being piloted, and while most thought it crazy, they soon devoted to it their entire waking mind when they saw it loop around mars and redirect straight toward their planet.\r\nIt took a long time, but when NASA finally convinced the world of what they were seeing, panic rattled the globe by storm. First they tried sending probes to hail it, only silence was returned. Then they tried to capture it by spacecraft, only to be elegantly outmaneuvered. As its dreadful approach came closer and closer to home, the response grew more desperate. Bombs. Nukes. Even redirected space debris did little. It was becoming obviously apparent that whatever it was, was heading towards earth, regardless of how we felt.\r\nStrangely, most people were hopeful when it arrived. The common consensus was that if whatever it was wanted to destroy the planet, it probably would’ve done so already. Instead, it peacefully, gracefully landed in the heart of New York City. While millions of onlookers lined the streets and watched through their phones, it finally opened to reveal a massive hologram of a shady alien figure. It merely spoke a single sentence.\r\n“Kill yourselves now, for after we arrive, you’ll have wish you had”\r\nThe aftermath was about as terrible as one would expect.\r\nTerror, crime, hedonism, hit the world like an epidemic of pure existential dread. Governments collapsed while society crumbled; people lost all reason to plan and hope for the future. They offed themselves by the millions as the planet slowly became a graveyard of rotting corpses. Eventually, after the most violent and volatile wave of genocide had subsided, what was left of the American government came up with a plan to escape their horrid fate. Through poison of the most potent kind, they contaminated the water until everyone, and nearly every thing was dead.\r\nHundreds of years later, the first alien settlers arrived on a bright and quiet planet. The damage done to the world’s ecosystems had long since healed, but whatever was left of the human race had been buried in its wake.\r\nLong ago, those extraterrestrial explorers had put aside their differences and achieved world peace. In doing so, they abandoned their investments in wartime technology, and realized that an angry, violent species like us would easily outpace them in military prowess by the time they arrived. However, what they lacked in weapons, they more than made up for in communication. So if they managed to convince us of inescapable doom, they wouldn’t need to fire a single shot.\r\nIt was, in effect, a completely costless war."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "A Ghastly Ecounter"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "So I never told this to anyone but I’ve done something I shouldn’t have.\r\nThroughout my life, I’ve made many mistakes, some big and some small, but this one is far worse than the rest.\r\nI was walking back from my job at the brewery the other day, as per usual.\r\nBored from a long day of work, I decided to peer through some store window displays.\r\nI made some good tip money, so I decided to throw away some of that disposable income and treat myself to a jacket or something.\r\nIt was only when I was walking past an old toy store did something catch my eye.\r\nA rectangle painted in a tan hue and embroidered with creepy black lettering.\r\nAnd I was like, oh shit, a Ouiji board!\r\nDude, calm down, you don’t have to moan about it.\r\nSo where was I?\r\nOh yeah, I had seen some commercials for them back in my youth.\r\nThose ones with children grabbing that pointer thingy and sliding their hands over the letters as if a ghost was moving their hand.\r\nSo I dropped like 20 or 30 bucks on it and brought it home with me.\r\nI didn’t really care if it worked or not, I just wanted to relive childhood wonder.\r\nSo I set it up on the table in my living room over there and, to play along, lit some of my mom’s old candles.\r\nAfter turning the lights out, I grabbed the little instruction piece and read out some weird ass Latin incantation dude.\r\nThen I put the handpiece roughly in the middle and waited.\r\nAnd then waited.\r\nAnd thennnnn waited.\r\nAnd eventually, I got bored and started spelling out random words with the little thingy.\r\nI haven’t really done anything with it for a while though and its just been sitting on the table over there.\r\nAnd now I’m out of thirty bucks man!\r\nDude, don’t get mad, I wanted some company because I was feeling the heebee jeebies or whatever.\r\nStop screaming and calm down man.\r\nI was just messing with you.\r\nAnd from your beat red eyes it looks like I gotcha good.\r\nAlso dude, you need to get checked out by the doctor or something.\r\nYou have some strange-lookin skin condition going on man.\r\nIt’s like it’s green and peeling off or something like mold.\r\nAnd now that I’ve mentioned it, it does also look like you are missing an arm.\r\nI don’t know if that’s some side effect of maybe a prescription that you’re on or something, but you should probably get that checked out.\r\nOk, I think it’s time for you to go home.\r\nI told you to stop talking about eternal damnation last week.\r\nI love you man but it’s getting old.\r\nOh you want me to spell out goodbye on the board?\r\nHa, good one man.\r\nAlright, good night dude, and don’t let the door hit you on your way out!\r\nDoor slams and other arm falls off"
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "this is a live tweet"
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "12:03 am - Entry 4685\r\nhi. hello.\r\ni'm live tweeting right now because i think i almost died. there was a man in the elevator. he didn't look like a resident. his clothes were dirty and he kept scratching at his leg. or reaching for something? i ask him what floor and he says two. i punch three for myself.\r\n12:12 am - Entry 4686\r\nok sorry just checking on my delivery-- then he starts staring. telling me i'm beautiful. that he'd been meaning to do this for some time but that he'd always pussied out. AWFUL shit. i'm creeped out. the elevator dings open. \"floor two.\" closes. he hasn't moved. i'm freaking out now. he's just looking at me. and this elevator isn't large. it's more the kind that you see people squeeze into at the beginning of any movie about an office job. i've got nowhere to go, nowhere to maneuver if he tries anything. he's reaching across his body, scratching at his leg. i'm wondering whether to scream. elevator dings and i start SPRINTING back to my place when the elevator doors open. i look back just once. he's staring. i should probably file a police report huh. delivery's should be her\r\n2:34 am - Entry 4687\r\nI overreacted. For those that have reached out, I am fine. Thanks for checking in."
}
] |
[
{
"role": "user",
"content": "I'm a railway sleeper."
},
{
"role": "assistant",
"content": "I'm a railway sleeper.\r\nI see, I smell, I hear.\r\nLong time ago, I was inside a tree. All black. Can't hear, can't smell, can't see.\r\nSuddenly a saw cut me open. Pain. Hammer and nails brought me down. Pain.\r\nAnd I became a railway sleeper. With my fellow friends.\r\nI see the trees above. Smell the flowers. Hear the birds sing. First time for everything.\r\nI want to see, to smell, to hear more.\r\n...\r\nI see new things.\r\nI see a train. Train with people. Trains with more people. With less people. With no people.\r\nI see a factory. Smokes from the chimneys. *BANG* occasionally.\r\nMore smoke. More bangs. Less people.\r\n...\r\nI see someone. Dress in black. Pry me out with my friends.\r\nWhatever. I've seen enough.\r\nHammer and nails turn me into a box. Facing inside. No light. Pretty big.\r\nPitch black. I can't see. But still can smell.\r\n...\r\nSmells like nothing.\r\nSmells like metal.\r\nSmells like smoke.\r\nSmells like barbecue...?\r\nAnd then...\r\nThe worst smell in the world.\r\nRot.\r\nMore rot.\r\nAnd more rot.\r\nRot coming into me.\r\nAnd bones.\r\nMore bones.\r\nAnd more bones in the rot.\r\nI smell the whiteness of the dark.\r\nFuck this.\r\nRot inside me now. I'm rotten away.\r\nRot makes me fall. To the dirt. With more rot. And more bones.\r\nI've smelled enough.\r\n...\r\nNow I'm inside the dirt. Befriend the dirt. Can't see. Can't smell. Only hear now.\r\nHear...? Hear...? Hear...?\r\nNothing. No sound. No noise. Nothing alive anymore.\r\nGuess that's it. Back to sleep now. It was nice while it lasted.\r\n...\r\n...\r\n...\r\n...\r\n...\r\n...?\r\nSomething above me?\r\nDirt above me goes away. Light comes down.\r\nI see light. Lots of light. People. Lots of people.\r\nI smell metal. Lots of metal sounds.\r\nI hear dogs. Bark relentlessly.\r\nAnd then rot went away. Bones went away. Good.\r\nOnly dirt with me now. Now I become dirt.\r\n...\r\n...\r\n...\r\nHuh.\r\nSomething sucking me up again. Like before.\r\nUp, up, and up...\r\n...\r\nNow I'm inside a tree again. All black. Can't hear, can't smell, can't see.\r\nBut it's fine. I don't want to do that again.\r\nI just want to sleep. Forever.\r\n...\r\n…\r\n…\r\n…\r\n…\r\n…\r\n…\r\n...\r\n*brr*...*brr*...*brr*\r\n*vroom...vroooOOOOOOMMMMM!!!*\r\n*ZZZZZZZZZZRRRRRRRAAAAHHHH!!!!!!*\r\nHUH?!\r\nWHAT THE FUCK?!\r\nNOW I SEE THAT FUCKING SAW AGAIN!!\r\nSMELL THE METAL AGAIN!!\r\nHEAR THE SCREAMING AGAIN!!\r\nAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!"
}
] |
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