My neighbor got a Tesla. If I’m being honest, I love the car and hate it at the same time. Because I hate Jim. He’s a real prig. He parks it in the driveway instead of his garage. He even has one of those supercharger stations you see downtown. Had it installed right on the concrete of his driveway last week. That stupid thing must have cost him as much as a house. How ostentatious can you be Jim? You fat bastard.
My dog and I found a body in the woods yesterday. Actually…we found several. The first one had to have been dead at least a month. She was naked. The sun cast an eerie living light down through the branches of the trees. Even before we approach it I can see her stomach undulating slowly. This is not a trick of the light. She is moving like a mold of gelatin. The kind with fruit inside.
I wonder what Nathan is doing right now. Nathan Wallows is my favorite singer. His voice is like a tormented angel pulled down to suffer in a tar pit. Haunted. He was fated to be trapped forever in my sticky black heart. Each song he sang resonated chords within me. It would be hard to convince me that each song he wrote and sang wasn’t written just so I could understand him better. That’s how much his body of work spoke to me.
I don’t like children which is unfortunate to my line of work…I call it work, but it’s torture really. If you are working a job that you hate, you always have the option of resigning…of opting out: of just deciding not to show up… This isn’t like that. I’m not actually an ice cream man…and I have to show up. I don’t have options. It’s not a choice. It’s more like a compulsion. Nobody would choose to be like this.
Narrated By: OldManCreepyPasta
I just want to make one thing clear: I’m not sick. I think a sick person wouldn’t be able to recognize the difference between right and wrong. I knew what I did was wrong before I did it. I also knew there wouldn’t be any consequences, I suppose. Nobody was ever going to know.
Narrated By: Sir Soothing Voice
Last night, in dreams, I dreamt I was the slaughterhouse man. Sheep were bleating passively; no clue what was in store–one by one, into the chute, following friends to the killing floor. I was covered in gore. Lifting the pneumatic piston to their foreheads; I’d be covered more.
I’m suspended in the void, floating. Senses fail here, except hearing, which is fine because this is the nothingness; nothing to feel or see. It’s a quiet place–peaceful, like finding yourself adrift in space. Then a familiar voice reminds me to be afraid. I can’t see, but he speaks to me in harsh whispers near my ear, saying: “Whatever you do, don’t open your eyes. Don’t even peek. The Peepers say they’re coming for you next. You’re not supposed to see.”
When I was just a boy of ten, My father took me on a trek From our house upon the hill To the valley down below. He showed me where I need to duck And army crawl down through the muck With briar patch above you Through the muddy soil go: This path leads to the garden where my father’s corpses grow.