/x/ - Spooky

Paranormal, Occult, and Conspiracy

Index Catalog Archive Bottom Refresh
Mode: Reply
Name
Options
Subject
Message

Max message length: 8000

Files

Max file size: 32.00 MB

Max files: 5

Supported file types: GIF, JPG, PNG, WebM, OGG, and more

E-mail
Password

(used to delete files and postings)

Misc

Remember to follow the rules

The backup domain is located at 8chan.se. .cc is a third fallback. TOR access can be found here, or you can access the TOR portal from the clearnet at Redchannit 2.0.



8chan.moe is a hobby project with no affiliation whatsoever to the administration of any other "8chan" site, past or present.

Anonymous 03/15/2021 (Mon) 21:26:01 Id: a34685 No. 51
1d1000 = 1 In an effort to give this dead board a hint of life and to alleviate boredom, I'm going to try writing a piece of amateurish OC according to the prompts given by this image. I will try to write something no matter how cringe and gay the prompt. Others doing likewise is encouraged.
>>51 >rolled Innawoods I awoke with a jolt. Branches snapping as deer roam by are normal where I am, but deer seldom move in such a hurry and in such cluttered land to cause a rotten tree to collapse. Yet, I’m sure that’s what I heard and the weather conditions certainly couldn’t be responsible. The sky seems clear and the wind is creeping by with an almost imperceptible breeze. The pitch black, moonless night gives no hint of what lurks out there that could be accounting for the stampede that happened. In my confusion upon waking up, I swear I heard the scream of not just one deer, but a whole herd of them as they went by. If you’ve never heard the cry of a terrified deer before, I’ll let you know it’s a ghastly sound, one that does not sit right on human ears. You rarely hear it, even in the bush, yet I heard a cacophony of it. I still hear some lingering crying, perhaps of fawns that got injured in the stampede or that got separated from their mothers. I grew concerned that whatever it was would be attracted to the noise, so I began to mentally prepare myself for what’s coming next. I decided to breathe as silently as I can so that I can determine what direction the deer are running from. Whatever was out there could threaten me as easily as it could a herd of deer. The deer live in these woods and do not migrate, so if it caused them to stampede it must be alien to these woods. In that respect, I suppose it and I weren’t too different. I have spent my days in the area enjoying nature, but going this deep would be a rare excursion for me under normal circumstances. The condition of the outside world, however, wasn’t normal. As I tried to focus on the sounds around me, I thought about what could have stirred the creature up, could it have been the same thing that made the rest of the world go crazy? One by one, the crying fawns cease and stillness retook the night. I didn’t even notice the deer stop crying at first, but by the time the last of them fell silent, I had developed the intense feeling like I was being hunted. The trail of deer ceasing their cries appeared, at least within my self-centered mind, to be going from the ones farthest from where my sleeping bag was situated to the ones closest to it. A wave of paranoia overwhelmed me and I seriously considered the possibility of abandoning my camp. I knew from experience that my flashlight would not do me much good at this time of the night and my expectation was that if I had abandoned the site, I would lose my course immediately. I would be out in the open making noise and attracting attention to myself, while something truly sinister stalks me. I was faced with some kind of unknown predator. I’m not proud of it, but I played opossum. I heard motion between me and the pit where I had my campfire earlier in the night. I couldn’t make sense of the noise, it didn’t sound like footfalls. It sounded like something gliding across the ground. I tried to think of whatever animals I could think of that it sounded like, but the only things that came to mind were octopi and snakes. Neither seemed possible. I was in a Northern climate in which snakes only grew to small sizes and were mostly harmless and although lakes abutted the woods, they were fresh water. The idea of a massive octopus roaming the woods was to ridiculous even for the wildest parts of my imagination. As I laid motionless, things got worse as I felt something pressing down on me from above the outside of my sleeping bag. I knew that whatever was out there was now on me, and I had no escape but to make it believe I wasn’t worth eating. It felt heavy, like a barbel that’s got as many plates on it as it can fit. It rested on my ribcage and it took every ounce of restraint I had to not gasp from the compression or make some futile attempt to free myself. The creature was not within my eyesight and I could not discern its texture because of my sleeping bag. It rolled across my chest and mercifully headed back into the woods. I laid awake after the encounter, careful not to make noise that would reunite me with the creature. I had an overwhelming feeling like if I had done one thing differently, my life would have been forfeit. I slunk out of my sleeping bag when the morning sun hit my eyes and I noticed a trail of slime across where the creature had laid on top of me. The outside of my sleeping bag was worn down in that area, as though it was unnaturally aged merely by exposure to the creature. I decided to head away in neither the direction the creature hailed from nor where it went. I feared the latter would bring me to its lair and the former to encounter it anew. Whatever horror lurks in those woods, I want no part of.
1d1000 = 497 I'm suspicious of if the dice function is busted so I'll do another one.
1d1000 = 428
>>59 >be 17 in hs >find out from a friend's cousin a website that once existed when the internet was still blooming >he tells us when people visited it, they would disappear >research but can't find anything >post on obscure forums that I think might give me some clues >no luck >12 years later I check up on those same forum posts, they still exist >only one reply is available to view >it's an onion link, that won't open on regular browser >figure out how to use tor, and open it >it's just a black screen >move mouse cursor over a group of pixels with a different shade than the rest of the background, cursor turns into pointer >Click >computer turns off >wtf.png >too scared to turn it back on >unplug internet and go to sleep >next morning I turn everything back on, all files, applications, pictures, etc completely gone, not even in recycling >open browser, all bookmarks and history gone >open facebook >no account found >open email >no account found >google my name >nothing... >phone is bricked, laptop wiped clean, I can't remember anyone's phone numbers anymore >I don't know where my address is, or if my parents are still alive On November 24, 2012 I officially stopped existing
>>53 (I changed IPs) (Part 1/3?) >Undiscovered Cities Dreams of eternal glory spurned me on to search for a great metropolis, I suspect now nothing more than a necropolis, that has been lost to the sands of time. That city is none other than M’dongo Derai, one time a great trading post at the southern edge of the Sahara that had been abandoned when a great sandstorm disrupted all the food and water supply lines that the city was dependent upon. It bordered an oasis, but its last recorded sighting was centuries ago and no one has since emerged from it to speak of what happened to its inhabitants. The Bedouin traders that regularly traversed the Sahara simply stopped using it as a route along their caravans for fear that they too would be caught up in a similar apocalyptic storm and now all who even had knowledge of its location are long since dead. Local folklore tells odd stories of the inhabitants of M’dongo Derai, some stories allege that the city was created before any of its inhabitants’ forebearers lived there, perhaps by some mysterious ancestor race somehow both unrelated to the negroes to the South and the Mohammedans to the North. Others say that the city itself hosted some kind of a cult to the old gods of some indigenous African pagan religion that has since been thoroughly replaced by Christendom, or what passes for it in these parts. Some Godfearing locals characterize the city’s end as being akin to the kind of divine wrath shown in the old testament to Sodom and Gomorrah, or at least the plagues of Egypt. In any case, the city’s origins lay shrouded in mystery. My expedition was modest but had great dreams of profit, as we suspect that copious amounts of luxury goods including rare, precious, and now illegal to create ivory would still be at the site of the city. I was to go alone and use my copious amounts of study into the various languages of Africa, a skill I had honed when I had dreams of colonial administration, to gather information from the locals. Using that information, I was to take out a loan to finance a further expedition and attempt to discover the location. My initial plan was to approach from the Northern Sahara because I expected I could get more reliable information about the ancient trade routes from the descendants of the traders themselves, with a small fee to loosen their tongues. It is said that no battle plan survives contact with the enemy, and in this case my enemy happens to be none other than my beloved wife, Sarah. Sarah seems to have developed the fanciful notion that these expeditions are merely a pretext for me to gallivant around the world seducing exotic women that I would love and leave without so much as a thought of her; my wife is incorrect, I sincerely desire to find the city of M’dongo Derai, which I have credible information to believe was actually either abandoned or destroyed, likely with many of its valuables in place. As to the other aspects of her supposition, let’s just say Sarah is never far from my mind. Sarah insisted that she would file for divorce unless I brought her along on my expedition, so that she could see first-hand that nothing untoward is going on. I warned her that her delicate complexion would not survive the blaring sun found around the equator, especially near the great desert itself. My warning had no effect on Sarah and I found myself unable to talk my way out of having her tag along. I altered my plans to minimize the risk that I would behave in an unfaithful way and to maximize the discomfort of the journey in the hopes that it would compel her to return to our homeland. Now, the voyage would begin along the western coast of Africa where we would rendezvous with a guide who could help us navigate to the city on the Southern edge of the Sahara most proximate to the suspected site of M’dongo Derai. I had hoped that the more offensive nature of the voyage and its conditions, including that of the people we would have to interact with, would deter Sarah from wanting to accompany me further. That plan, tragically, did not quite work out. The port we landed in initially was a bustling little village, the vestiges of civilization were only apparent near the waterfront. Colonial powers, as it turned out, envisioned very little for this particular region as it had comparatively few precious resources to be a high priority of colonization. The rendezvous with our guide, Abidemi, was awkward as I would expect given my relatively inferior grasp of the tongue that he spoke. Abidemi complimented my wife’s beauty in a manner that would be seen as incredibly profane under our traditions, and appeared fixated on my wife’s sandy hair and rosy cheeks throughout the discussion of our route. I felt uneasy at Abidemi’s obvious affections towards my wife, but I could scarcely blame the man as long as he doesn’t wrong me, the khaki safari clothes that Sarah wore complimented her slim figure well and I think any man would be unable to resist her allure once they met the gaze of her deep blue eyes. Sarah inched closer to me, apparently flattered and frightened by the obvious sexual interest the negro we were to travel with was showing in her, but it appeared not to shake her resolve enough to reconsider. My decision to stick to the Sub-Saharan route doubtlessly spared me worsening the situation with my wife as although many women at the port were dressed in traditional topless or nearly topless African garb, I hardly felt any more attraction towards them than one might have gazing at the udders of a cow. Once our meeting with Abidemi had concluded and we were assured that he had at least the requisite knowledge to get us to the last stop before M’dongo Derai, the three of us set off along a dirt road that terminated in a trail through the jungle. Abidemi had a mule for carrying supplies that we used to haul everything except one machete per man. I also carried a pistol by my side, in case we should fall under attack by some jungle beast or one of the savage tribes that resisted European oversight. While on our way, I asked Abidemi in his language about what he knew of M’dongo Derai. He told me of many men who had come from Europe who thought that they would find it that he had worked with in the past. This had given him familiarity with the route to the town, but he had no expectation that it could ever be found. He then uttered something under his breath that I could scarcely make out, I only caught the words “believe” and “told”, but they are not exact equivalents across languages. African languages tend to have far fewer words than Western languages and subsequently multiple connotations can be implied by a single word. Consequently, I cannot even guess at the meaning of Abidemi’s mumbled comment. The scorching African sun had nearly given me heatstroke by the time we were finishing cutting our way through the overgrowth along the jungle route. The only relief from it were the dark shadows cast inconsistently from the jungle’s dense canopies. Although it was a relatively well-traveled path through the jungle, the dense forestation makes navigating it an exhausting and disorienting process. Sarah got snared on more than a few branches along the way, which I had hoped would further drive her to desire to turn back as now my powerlessness to protect her in the midst of this mad continent began to sink in. Abidemi was consistently better positioned to help her out of the snags, which resulted in Sarah becoming less nervous around him. It seemed that she was at ease that, although Abidemi was interested in her, she felt that she could rely on him to help her out.
>>53 >>62 (part 2/3?) The only thing worse than the unbearable heat of the trek was the swarming insects that infested the jungles. Mosquitos and biting flies had always seemed to have an affinity for the taste of my flesh or blood, so I was persistently having to swat bugs far larger than you’d find in Europe away from me. I had heard of the infectious diseases that the bugs are said to carry and I had no option but to hope against hope that Sarah and I would not fall victim to them. As predicted the sun assailed us both and my skin began to blister and burn. Once Abidemi became aware of my wife’s increasingly reddening flesh, he dispensed some kind of a lotion from a sachel he carried with them and proceeded to rub it on the afflicted areas of her. Sarah told me that the lotion felt soothing, so I permitted our guide to continue his treatment of my wife’s burns. I wished I could have my own burns relieved as well, but in light of Abidemi’s limited supplies I declined to ask for it. Light-headedness overtook me as we finally made our way to a small city, a set of mostly mud huts that was, as I understood it the last stop before we could begin approaching the believed site of M’dongo Derai. I hurriedly offered Abidemi money for his services, but he shook his head insisting that he wanted to find out about the city too. He said he would not be a man if he let Sarah go without a proper guide. Considering my own inexperience with Abidemi’s language, I decided to allow him to join our expedition, although I feared that Sarah was beginning to warm to the strange man. We had an uneventful meal and drank some water before renting a room at the inn where I shared a bed and a restless night with my wife. The next day, we went about gathering information. After a few hours of walking through the city with Abidemi talking to anyone who claimed knowledge about M’dongo Derai, much of which was just reiterations of what I had already heard, we came across two teenage African boys. I could not make out much of what was being said, hours of repetitive African conversations had dulled my mind almost worse than it had been in the mindless and difficult voyage the day before. I could, however, notice the two boys made repeated glances at my wife as they talked to Abidemi. I was not too surprised, she had caught a lot of attention as a rare white woman in this uncivilized part of the dark continent, but these glances seemed even less subtle than those employed by the adults, who at least had the good sense to know that I’d be a threat to them if they tried something. Abidemi returned from meeting with the boys and indicated that the two of them claimed they were regular explorers of the desert since childhood. The boys had lost their parents to some obscure tribal conflict and had to take to extreme measures to survive. This included going deep into the desert to scavenge for supplies. One of them claimed to have obtained materials from a city he believed to be abandoned and he showed Abidemi an idol carved from ivory as proof. Most of this material that he carried back had been sold for funds to get by, but the boy believed there was more to be found. For a price, the boys would be willing to show us the way. To the Africans, this price, no doubt, resembled a small fortune, but it was less than the total budget of this expedition. One figure like the boy had, and this whole trip would be paid for. I accepted immediately, knowing we could not guarantee that we would reunite with these local boys should we return. Our journey along the desert felt long and perilous, although my timepiece indicates it only occupied the course of a few hours. The dry heat radiating from the sand instantly caused sweat, but the young guides showed no sign of slowing down in it, this was their home. The lad with the most familiarity with M’dongo Derai’s location led us while his friend lagged behind to attend to my wife along with Abidemi. Sarah was proving to be a bit of dead weight on this expedition, but without her, I would have likely never been able to find these boys and they would likely not have agreed to lead me through the desert. The shifting sand dunes gave me grave doubts that anyone, even these boys, could navigate this monstrous expanse. Whenever sand would be swept by the hot, dry wind into my face, I would have to wipe it furiously away in disgust. I doubt even the most resilient of animals could survive this cursed clime. Finally, we saw on the horizon a structure I had taken for a mirage. It was much more vast than any I had imagined in my readings on M’dongo Derai and its architectural style clashed with either Moslem or negro sensibilities. In my readings on great architectural projects of the world, I think what I saw could be easiest compared to the Acropolis, but even that comparison is inexact. It was a great stone building, composed of almost pyramid-like step leading to a plateau in which three irregularly shaped columns stood erect, supporting a gargantuan roof. There was no backwall to the building and as we made our approach, it became clear that there were more stone buildings constructed behind the great work. What was most strange about this is that I hadn’t heard the slightest rumor that there was any quarrying conducted at this site and these stones were much too large to transport across land by conventional means. I stood awestruck by the city and my mind hurriedly turned with academic curiosity as I tried to explore every nook and cranny of the lost stones. I began to feel simultaneously exhausted, exhilarated, and manic as I explored the ruins, as the stress of the trip and the jubilation of finally reaching the lost city of M’dongo Derai caught up to me. The stillness of the setting made the discovery all the more eerie as my mind turned to the final fate of the city’s inhabitants. I felt a chill from the deep recesses of my mind, as though I was being watched by eyes unseen. Perhaps the foul pagan deities they had worshipped infested this place yet. I was so overtaken by my frenzied speculation that I scarcely noticed that my attention had totally fallen away from my wife, who was unaccompanied except by three, potentially brutish men. I quickly drew my pistol and searched for footprints that weren’t my own, I would have to find Sarah before harm befell her. As I was the only male member of the expedition wearing Western-made shoes, I had no problem differentiating my footprints from those of the others. I heard, echoing from the half-buried buildings a feminine voice calling out, its words not quite discernable, but I supposed it had to be Sarah. Believing she was in distress I ran into the building and when I saw black flesh and hair, my pistol rang out with a shot. Abidemi slumped over bleeding out of a hole in his neck and I heard the call again, from another building further in the same direction.
>>53 >>62 >>63 (part 3/3) I was not proud of the murder I had accidentally committed, but the situation involving my wife was more urgent, so I pushed it to the back of my mind. “I will give Abidemi a proper burial once I am assured that she is safe”, I told myself. I ran off in the same manner a guilty man would, though for a different purpose, I heard a distant shuffling of feet in response to the gunshot. I ran where I heard the feet moving and found the collapsed form of my wife. Sarah was on a flat elevated surface, that must have passed for a bed in the time of M’dongo Derai. She had been stripped of her lower garments, including her undergarments, but she was still alive. I made out the form of the two boys running towards the sand dunes and I sent out two shots. The boys both collapsed and I committed my second and third killings of the day. “I will not bury those fiends.”, I told myself, as I returned to where we hitched Abidemi’s mule to get medical supplies to treat Sarah. She needed water, the voyage had taken a lot out of her, and I think the boys were betting that it would. She must have lost consciousness and the boys set about their work. I applied all the remaining satchels of the burn remedy Abidemi carried to Sarah’s flesh and she began to stir. “Are we safe?”, Sarah asked. “I’ve taken care of those boys, if that’s what you’re asking. They won’t be attacking you anymore.”, I replied. “They were, however, our guides, so we’ll have to gamble with our lives when we exit this town when you’re feeling up for it.” “Attacking me? They were protecting me!”, Sarah replied. “You’re a bit confused, my dear. They took advantage of you while I was preoccupied with the ruins. I understand that when traumatic events happen, especially when aggravated by illness or other maladies, the mind tends to repress such memories and replace them with some delusion.”, I replied. “No, there was… a creature!” my wife insisted, “they took me and carried me away from it. It was lurking in one of the buildings.” “I’ve seen no such creature”, I calmly replied, “you’re not thinking rationally. We’re in a city where horrible things happened to the people because of a natural disaster. There is immense human tragedy here, but nothing that can get you lives here anymore.” “And Abidemi? Where is he?” Sarah replied. “I made a bit of a mistake when I thought you were in distress and…”, I started “And you murdered him, like you murdered those two boys.” Sarah said, pointedly. “I killed him accidentally, yes.”, I admitted. “You’re calling me crazy yet you murdered three people today.” Sarah sighs, “Make that four, there is no way I am making it across that desert again without help.” “Dear, we’ve still got our supplies, we’ll pull through if you rest up a little.” I said. My words did little to ease Sarah’s concerns, she thought me a murderer and my mind raced as I considered what could happen upon our return to what passes for civilization. I did not leave my wife throughout the night and when day broke, I awoke to the sight of Sarah’s lifeless body. I assumed that she had succumbed to her illnesses, but I could not shake the feeling that something else had happened. I found that Abidemi’s donkey had come unhitched by some strange gust of the wind, its hoof-prints trailing off into the desert to whereabouts unknown. My supplies were gone with it. The dark, musty and shadowy ruins of M’dongo Derai appeared to tower over me leering, as though mocking my hubris and my misfortune. I had sought them out and now they had made me their prisoner. I knew I did not have the strength to make the hike back across the desert even if I could navigate its shifting dunes correctly. My mind also hurriedly turned to the creature Sarah insisted existed lurking within these ruins, it is probably just a figment of her fever-stricken mind, but more fantastic possibilities could not be dismissed outright. These ruins feel like they have a presence to them and, aside from the men I killed and Sarah, I had not seen any sign of human remains in them. That fact alone lends credence to my feeling that something is amiss in M’dongo Derai. My expectation is that whoever finds this writing will think it the ravings of a madman, a paranoid lunatic who murdered his whole expedition at the cusp of his greatest achievement. Please, do not think that. I admit that I am delirious and confused, but I suspect that reader soon will be as well. I believe firmly that this city will be my tomb and that any who discover the accursed ruins of M’dongo Derai will be cursed to a similar doomed fate, clinging onto a hope for survival in the bleakest, most inhospitable part of Earth. Perhaps I earned my suffering, that is for the reader to decide, but my wife surely did not. I would entreat any adventurer who follows in my wake and finds this document to stop reading immediately and to turn back. This city is cursed to bring death unto all who discover it.
1d1000 = 665 That last one was a lot of work so I hope I get something that I can handle a little lighter this time.
>>65 (Part 1/2) >Parallel Universes Uncle Dan was an eccentric man. He was the black sheep of the family, always confined to the periphery of family gatherings. As far as I know, he had nothing in the way of friends or a social life to speak of. He was a hobbyist, a collector of rare films with an interest in the paranormal bordering on unhealthy but the fields of his interests had merciful little overlap. Due to the combination of his bizarre passions and the intensity of them, the typical response to encountering him would be to let him ramble while only half-listening until he wore himself out. Then you politely excuse yourself and disengage from dealing with Uncle Dan. This was how everyone handled him. Well, everyone except me, that is. A frequent topic of conversation in my household was what exactly was “wrong” with Uncle Dan. My opinion was that nothing was; my parents had other ideas. My mom favored explanations of drug abuse, un-diagnosed bi-polar disorder, childhood trauma, or schizophrenia depending on what day it happened to be. My dad thought Uncle Dan might have suffered brain damage as a result of a childhood fall and that perhaps he had some difficulty distinguishing fantasy from reality. In any case, my parents were just as guilty of shunning Uncle Dan as everyone else. It’s no surprise then that Uncle Dan, having no children or friends of his own, left everything to me in his suicide note, which did double duty as his will. As I entered the attic of Uncle Dan’s my new house, my mind flashed back to my last conversation with Uncle Dan. The smell of the attic’s musty air must have reminded me of the cheap cologne Uncle Dan always wore. Like everyone else, I only half-listened when Uncle Dan spoke, I was just a little more polite about it. As a result, my memories of this conversation are muddled, but I do recall that Uncle Dan seemed extremely distraught. He told me of a film that existed on some old film reels that he had recently gotten his hands on. Uncle Dan had a projector he maintained in his attic where he would occasionally screen obscure films mostly for himself, but occasionally for me as well. Apparently he had used that projector on this new movie and had come upon the conclusion that the film “should not exist”. I was not told if Uncle Dan’s obsession compelled him to hold onto the film or if he had been so disturbed that he destroyed it. It was less than a week later when Uncle Dan’s decaying corpse was found hanging from the ceiling fan in his master bedroom. I ‘’had’’ to find out if the film still existed. A morbid curiosity overwhelmed me, I had to find this film if it still existed. A superstitious portion of my mind was worried that if Uncle Dan was consumed by it, I would follow the same fate. That fear thrilled me. I got a jolt of adrenaline going through my system every time I thought of the film while awaiting the transfer of the property to me under the probate process. I considered breaking into the house early to get a chance at verifying if the film still existed early, but I decided that it wouldn’t be worth whatever trouble I could get into. I found the projector loaded with a film reel. This struck me as odd, as Uncle Dan always insisted upon carefully and delicately putting away film reels after use. This suggested to me that Uncle Dan either did not care if this film survived or that he wanted someone to see it. The canister the film was stored in was unlabeled, contrary to Uncle Dan’s meticulous cataloguing process, so I became inclined to believe that this was the film. My heart started furiously beating as the first flickers of light started to hit the projection screen. I tried to calm myself with deep breaths, but it was watching the film itself that did more to disarm my apprehension. The film I had imagined would be some monstrosity of a film, some kind of torturous snuff film or another angle of the JFK assassination. Instead, I saw the kind of flickering low-quality film typical of 1950’s public service announcements (PSAs). I got the sense that this was not some modern ironically or parodicaly produced send-up to these PSAs, it seemed to be thoroughly consistent with a genuine one. My fear and apprehension were replaced with curiosity and confusion. Was this really the film? Maybe something was really wrong with my uncle. The film was totally innocuous in its opening moments, a boy of about eight years old was dressed and ready for school and eating a modest breakfast prepared by his conservatively dressed mother while the father leisurely read the day’s newspaper with a cup of coffee in his other hand. Scratchy low-quality audio typical of un-restored films of the era began playing from Uncle Dan’s speaker set-up. A voice that sounded like the narrator in every PSA I had ever heard began speaking, “Meet the Browns, a typical model American family. Mr. Brown works at the town’s steel mill as a vital part of our nation’s great industrial base. His loving wife, Julie, is a faithful and diligent housewife who handles the day-to-day tasks of the household while the man of the house is away at work. Little Jimmy Brown is well on his way to becoming a productive upright citizen and has been taught by his parents the difference between right and wrong. There is nothing exceptional about this family, they are just like me and you. However, their story is a cautionary tale of what can happen if you fail to respond accordingly when you see signs of a dimensional collision.” At that point text appeared on screen reading, “Parallel universes and you!” I paused the reel on this frame and let it sink in. At this point, the nature of my confusion changed. I was initially confused about how this could have contributed to Uncle Dan’s suicide, but now I had no idea what the film was even about. Parallel universes are a science fiction concept that is so ubiquitous that I had no problem immediately grasping the concept embedded in the terms, but I was confused nonetheless. To my understanding, parallel universes are a concept that exist in theoretical physics with essentially no factual backing, they are just a nonsensical speculative thesis hacks rely on to write bad science fiction. And yet this authentic-looking 50’s style PSA was treating it as if it’s a mainstream and well-accepted fact of life. As I gathered my thoughts I noticed the headline on the newspaper Mr. Brown was reading. The headline read, “Pres. Dewey urges Congress to Authorize War Powers Act”. Dewey, of course, would have to be Thomas Dewey, the Republican presidential nominee in 1948 who infamously lost to Harry Truman. Despite the initial publication of some newspapers erroneously reporting a victory for Dewey, as far as I am aware the words “Pres. Dewey” uninterrupted by other words would have never been published by a newspaper. I pushed this fact to the back of my mind and resumed the video. A diagram appeared on screen showing a field of stars. “This is the Milky Way, the galaxy in which we all reside, it is massive beyond all comprehension, but it is just one of many galaxies to be found within our universe…”, the narration went on, “Leading scientists have recently discovered that there are, in fact, several universes, possibly more, aside from ours that are estimated to be proximate enough to occasionally cause problems for us. It is impossible to tell how far these universes vary from our own, but it is apparent that they do not follow the same order our Creator saw fit for this world. These universes move at some imperceptible, but extremely slow rate through macro-space, the space-like field universes occupy.”
>>65 >>66 (part 2/3) (I was overly optimistic) The camera reset to a shot of the night sky, unimpeded by any traces of human development. “These universes normally do not come into contact with each other, hence the term ‘parallel universes’. They are, however, not completely parallel. Scientists now believe that these universes are on a slow, almost imperceptible collision course with each other. This new understanding has totally upset the field of astronomy. What we believed to be natural phenomena of our universe: comets, meteor showers, and supernovas, are actually omens of an impending dimensional collision” As the narrator said that, shooting stars began to streak across the sky. “These are the earliest warning signs of a potential dimensional collision. A diligent citizen doing their duty should keep a watch on the night sky for these kinds of phenomena, as that is the first level of protection one can take to protect their family and themselves.” The film went back to the diagram. “Dimensional collisions are not a violent crash of objects within dimensions, if they were none would survive such an incident. Instead, they force rectification between our universe and the universe that it is interacting with. This causes planets in space to change their direction, suns to “change” their age, and all kinds of other changes. These changes are much more likely to affect some other part of space than Earth, so changes that are visible from our atmosphere are the clearest indicators of a collision. The exact mechanics of the collision are a subject of intensive research and debate in academia, but the point is they can happen almost anywhere at almost any time without any apparent cause.” I continued watching, somewhat intrigued by these unproven theories that the PSA was presenting as facts. What could have compelled the makers of this movie to put out this film? Was it some early experiment into fake documentaries? If so, why does it conform so well in form to a typical PSA without any particular entertainment value? “There can be changes on Earth too. They are usually minor, a number on a house might change or the date of an event might be altered. Usually these changes have no effect on anything meaningful, but they may account for dramatic personality changes in people you know. Psychology and medicine have been similarly upset by these findings, many maladies that afflict the mind and body are now understood to be potential side effects of a dimensional collision. There is nothing one can do to prevent these kinds of changes except to try to stay in sound mind and body, so that will not be the subject of the human drama before us. Instead, our story focuses on a more insidious dangerous type of collision.” The film’s point of view returned to following Jimmy Brown as he stood waiting, by himself for the school bus. “Oooh, what’s that?”, he said to no one in particular as he picked up an object that looked like a frisbee that was resting in a street gutter. The narrator’s voice returned, “This unknown widget is an example of an other-dimensional artifact, an object that appears within our world that should not be here. The existence of such a totem cannot be attributed to any known cause in our universe and, unlike most things in it, it cannot be destroyed. Scientists believe this is because what we are interacting with is not an object existing within our world, but is an inter-dimensional anchor, which has a counterpart in its host universe. The attempted destruction of such an object will be negated because it inevitably remanifests in its original condition. If you see such an artifact, the responsible thing to do is to stop, to report it to the authorities, and to diligently monitor your surroundings for inter-dimensional rectifications.” “Jimmy here, diligent of a student as he is, has not learned in school about dimensional objects yet. So he could hardly be faulted for what is about to happen…” the narrator says as Jimmy tucks the frisbee under his arm. The scene cuts to the kitchen from the first shot with the frisbee resting in the windowsill with darkness outside the window. Mr. and Mrs. Brown appear oblivious to the object’s presence as they eat their dinner. The narrator continues, “What Jimmy has accidently done is the most dangerous thing you could do with an inter-dimensional artifact. What once the world thought of as cursed items, we now understand to be the influence of inter-dimensional artifacts. By exposure to it, he and his family will almost certainly be subject to alteration in conformity with whatever their other-dimensional counterparts are like. This process is gradual, but mild results may include a corruption of the moral character, the development of health complications, and erratic behavior. In exceptionally rare circumstances, death or transformation into some other manner of creature may occur.” The next scene showed Mr. Brown recast as a fat, uncaring slob, Jimmy wearing a dunce hat, and Mrs. Brown dressed in a risqué fashion for the era and gussying herself up. “While things could only go down for a family like the Browns, it is thoroughly irresponsible to assume that your life could be improved by such an artifact. Remember at the other end of this process are other versions of yourself. What you are exposed to, they are exposed to. Your responsibility is thus to be a guardian of not just the well-being of your own family, but also of your inter-dimensional neighbors. After all, you wouldn’t want them to take needless risks that bring harm to you.” The reel stopped rolling. I thought to myself that I could kind of see it functioning as a parody, but it was much too dull to pass for one. I began to feel that Uncle Dan really was a bit unhinged, that he had seen this movie then had taken it as true. Given the headline of the newspaper, it could only be that he would assume that this is, itself, an inter-dimensional artifact. I began to blame the reel for what happened, so I decided to take it upon myself to destroy it. I ejected the film reel and tried to rip the strip apart but found that it couldn’t break no matter how hard I tried to tear it. That defied my expectations, but I had never tried destroying a film reel before, so I could not say how unusual that was. I decided I would go burn it, so I exited the house and drove to the nearest convenience store, where I purchased a cheap lighter. In retrospect, it occurred to me that I could have taken the reel with me, but I felt uneasy being around it while knowing it played a part in my uncle’s suicide. On my return trip I was surprised by the sound of a fire engine rushing by on the street ahead of me. I was more surprised when I saw clouds of smoke in the sky billowing out of the house I was in only moments ago. Somehow, following my viewing of the reel, the house had burst into flames that consumed it in minutes. My arm began to sear in pain and blisters started to appear up and down it. I screamed out, but the fire men on the scene took it to be the usual anguish a homeowner has when their life’s work goes up in flames. The blisters began to burst, puss oozed out and hand became charred and black. I demanded the attention of a fireman, who immediately called an ambulance which took me to the hospital where my wounds were treated.
>>65 >>66 >>67 (Part 3/3) I was visited in the hospital by the police, who were suspicious that the house was set on fire in an act of arson by me. Fortunately, I had the receipt from the convenience store showing my location, but that raised more questions than answers for the investigators, who began to wonder how it was that I got burned when I was not near the house at the time they determined it started. Ultimately, when it came out that the building was uninsured, they dropped the matter, but I couldn’t. I returned to the ruins over a week after the flames had died down. Very little of the house I inherited stood, certainly nothing salvageable. My uncle’s rare film collection was uniformly lost to the fire. Sifting through the cinders, I found that only a single reel had survived, a familiar reel without a title. My good hand dropped it immediately and I would never interact with my uncle’s property again.
That prompt was hard to work with so I'm not to proud of the outcome on that last one. I'll give it another go. 1d1000 = 436
>>69 (Part 1/2) >Television The world my parents grew up in was idyllic: kids played with each other outside, strangers were just friends you haven’t met yet, and the whole wide world was your town and the surrounding area. That’s my understanding of it, anyway. In truth, I don’t know if there was a darker underbelly to it, but that is neither here nor there. I never got to experience that world, so I will never know the real truth of the matter. The world I grew up in was a shadow of that, we’d been raised to suspect that any stranger could be ill-intentioned, outside play fell on the wayside in favor of being bombarded with whatever thrills you by the television, and people began to self-segregate by withdrawing into the online world. As bad as I thought my childhood was, I reflect on it with fondness but also longing. I wish I could have had what my parents had, I think engaging more with the world around me would have been good for my personal development and I may have missed out on lifelong relationships because of my folly. The world of my children is different yet; to me it seems frightening and bleak. My generation was raised to be guarded and to withdraw, which at least will keep you safe. My parents never would have let me post my information online and now you’re almost a pariah if you don’t share your social security number with all your friends. That’s an exaggeration, of course, but there is a profound lack of judgement that controls many of their households. Consequently, I am diligent with protecting my children and their online activity. That is not the subject of the story I have to relate. Why am I saying all these things about the world, you ask? I’m doing it as a prelude, because it’s much easier to talk about the way things were than to talk about what happened. You see, my guarded world view instilled in me by the lessons I had been taught in childhood, to distrust people you don’t know. There was, however, a glaring blind spot. It was a stranger who I let pass into my house on a nightly basis, an opportunity availed to him by an expenditure I habitually made. I paid for his presence every night of my life, never questioning it and always letting him take whatever he wanted. I’d be upset on the rare occasion that he was unavailable or that his presence was interrupted. I’d let him be alone with my children, unattended, in the belief that he would do them no harm and that he’d even take part in their rearing. To characterize him as an individual is actually inaccurate, more so he is a group or a collective entity. He is the mass of strangers that run the various networks and shows that occupy the television. My job demands attention on almost a nightly basis, so there are frequent occasions when I would have to step out from supervising my children. I wish I could always be there for them, but I don’t have that luxury. It is from a night of that variety that I discovered the strangest show I had ever witnessed on television. My kids were passed out on the couch when I finished my preparations for tomorrow’s meeting. I assumed they had a long day, so I carried them to their beds then I flopped down on the couch to check out what was going on with the only true stranger I had ever treated as a friend. I turned the television on and found that it was on some channel I didn’t recognize. I’d never heard of it before and I cannot fully recall what it was, but it was something along the lines of “Mortid” or something along those lines. I should explain first three things: first that my television is set to start at the broadcast channel that was last watched. Second that it isn’t too unusual for my cable provider to add or drop channels from my packages without my knowledge, so this didn’t strike me as being too out of the ordinary. Third that my television is a smart tv so I cannot rule out the possibility that what my kids were watching last prior to sleeping was actually on a streaming service and that they were oblivious to the contents of this channel. What was on my tv was what appeared to be live-action children’s programming or some sketch-comedy parody of it, but there was a sinister air about it that became apparent to me. The cast was composed mostly of college-aged kids wearing bright-colored outfits that seemed intended to infantilize them, to make them appear kid-like. There were additionally a couple of children, five to seven years old and mostly of racial minority backgrounds that were not covered by the show’s mostly homogeneous principal cast. The setting of the scene I watched was in a classroom that looked to be about appropriate for kindergartners with the exception of the posters in the background and there was no teacher in sight. Instead one of the “kids”, actually an adult man looking to be about twenty-five years old, got up from a student’s desk and stood in front of the classroom. “Looks like Teach had to step out,” he said nonchalantly as he turned a bottle that looked to be an open partially consumed soda bottle on the teacher’s desk so that the label faced the camera. The camera shot zoomed to the label, which was styled similar to a Soda brand label, but read “Bleach”. The contents of the bottle looked like lemonade not quite of the actual coloration of actual bleach, but possibly close enough that it would confuse some children. “Alright everyone, let’s get crazy!”, he told the class.
>>69 >>70 (Part 2/2) The actual children engaged in the kind of mock celebration you’d expect from child-actors, jumping around in place and in artfully attempting to dance. The “kids” opened their desks up and took out what looked to be a bottle of drain cleaner and a set of small plastic cups. The scene cut to the cups having been filled and distributed to everyone. “Alright, bottom’s up”, the main “kid” instructed and the actual children consumed the toxic substance. The adults pretended to clumsily spill it on themselves and proceeded to pretend to be drunk and having a blast. The kids, meanwhile, began violently coughing. One of the children seemed to foam at the mouth and another rushed to the restroom, presumably to eject the substance by whatever means necessary. The adults showed no concern for the reaction exhibited by the children, instead they just acted like they wanted more and described its effects when consumed so positively that it would make an infomercial huckster envious of the dishonesty. A fade transition established the passage of time and all the participants were laying on the floor of their classroom unmoving. A man with a mustache walked into the classroom saying, “Excuse the interruption, class. I…” then he noticed the unconscious (or dead) kids and “kids”. “Oh dear, I guess I should have told them that it would be a while.”, he continued as he walked over to his desk. He picked up the bottle, held it up to his face, and the camera cut to a close up of him. He then spoke directly to the camera, “It’s times like this that make me long for a cool, refreshing drink of Bleach. Bleach: it’s got all the nutrients you need to stay active and lose weight. All the cool kids are doing it. So if you’re out there and you’re thinking ‘I want to be on tv when I grow up’ I hope you’ll drink a nice glass of bleach. It can be found under your kitchen sink or in a laundry room near you.” The teacher then opened the bottle and downed a gulp of it. With that, the tv cut to a commercial break, which just was airing some infomercial for some exercise equipment. By the end of the segment, I was sure that what I had watched was some edgy sketch comedy skit, but I was disgusted by how irresponsible and stupid it was. I was also a little more than unnerved by the lack of a laugh track and the fact that a lot of what occurred didn’t seem like it was even attempting to be funny. I got the impression that the comedy value this skit provided its makers was instead that they got to be so stupid and irresponsible, that they thought it was funny that they could pitch drinking poisons to an audience meant to be impressionable. I turned off the tv and stormed off in rage, hoping my children would never watch that channel. Moments later it occurred to me to try to apply a parental block, so I returned to my television and turned it on. Instead of Mortid, the television accessed Nickelodeon. I had assumed that it was a late night programming block, so I resolved to call the network on the next day to complain and my cable provider as well. The resulting conversations were very confusing, nobody I talked to at either Nickelodeon (and I talked to several different representatives about it) or at the cable provider claimed any knowledge of the show or channel I described. To be thorough I also checked the watch histories on all streaming services we had access to (including ones I personally never use) and I found nothing that even came close to the description of what I saw. I considered possible alternative explanations, that I was misremembering or that what I experienced was some kind of a pirate signal. I discounted the second possibility because it seemed like something that would require at least the kind of budget an episode on a tv show has and to my understanding, tv signals can’t be hijacked as readily as they once could for technical reasons. The first possibility can neither be debunked nor proven except by finding what I saw. Regardless, until I find that skit again, the trust I felt in tv as a curated medium of innocuous entertainment has been shattered as a result of the incident. Were not for the extreme protests of my children, I would cancel my cable situation entirely and I would do away with tv. Maybe I will in time anyway, but not until I could make that up to them somehow. For now, I’ve resolved to monitor what my kids watch more closely to make sure no strangers warp their young minds.
Coming up with that last one was a bit difficult, there's no way I would've ever gone in that direction were not for that prompt. Let's see what Lady Luck has for me this time. 1d1000 = 578
>>72 >Dolls Barbie is my life. That thought would have brought me immense happiness when I was a little girl and it still does. I am a life-long devout fan of Barbie, a host of a Barbie-related podcast, and a collector of Barbie products. I could tell you anything about the history of the brand from its humble and inspiring roots, nuanced thoughts on its various adaptations, and all about the subtle and nuanced relationships of Barbie’s friends. My knowledge of Barbie is encyclopedic, but my real claim to fame is that I am best known as the Barbie Killer. The truth is I did not kill indiscriminately, I am not a lunatic. I did what I had to do out of a desire to protect Barbie and it was a regrettable sacrifice that I would make if I had to do it all over again. Why Barbie? Like generations of girls, I grew up with the gorgeous doll as one of my most prized possessions. She has meant different things to me at different stages of my life. When I was young, she was an older-sister type figure that I longed to emulate, to grow up to be. When I was actually her age, I did my best to imitate her style, but I was not blessed with her good looks, close friends, or charming personality. Men found me to be too quirky and high-maintenance for their liking, so I never found my Ken. As I matured, she became nostalgic, a reminder of my past dreams and the hopes that exist in girls everywhere. When the events that resulted in my incarceration were set into motion, I was a security guard working at a warehouse that stored Mattel products among others. My first gray hairs were beginning to take root and I was profoundly distraught by my vanishing youthfulness. I heard about a new adaptation of Barbie coming to the big screen. I enthusiastically watched for news on it with bated breath, it made the long months of working night shifts pass quick to imagine what that hour-and-a-half runtime would contain. I speculated fervently about it online and on my Barbie podcast. When the casting of Barbie was announced, I was disappointed but unsurprised. I had high hopes that an unknown actress would have the traits needed to bring Barbie to life in the movies, but instead a somewhat generic looking teen pop singer was cast. Maybe the makeup and some CGI could get it to look right, I thought at the time. The trailer was my breaking point. They got everything wrong. They got it all wrong! Barbie was being portrayed as a frumpy rom-com lead character, Ken was openly flirting with Barbie’s friends, and the filmmakers seemed to be going for “relatable” rather than fabulous with their set location. Instead of beautiful beaches or expansive manors, Barbie and Ken were the kind of couple that might watch Netflix in their pajamas in a run-down big city apartment. Worse yet, the trailer was full of ironic jokes that shat on the very premise of Barbie. It was an abomination. I tried to contain my anger. I told myself that it was just a movie, that it would pass into the background and that Barbie would go on. Yet, in my nightmares the Barbie I loved and adored got consumed by this talentless pop singer bitch. Girls were led to believe that was the essence of Barbie, that they should just aspire to be some frumpy-looking generic girl and hook up with some guy that is third-rate compared to the real Ken. So, you see, what I did was a public service. I took matters into my own hands. It was hard to find the gaps in my victim’s security, but I knew if the lead actress died, there was a good chance the whole production would tank immediately. At the very least, reshoots would delay it and a new Barbie actress might push the movie into being more in-line with what Barbie really is. It wasn’t too hard to find out online where the main shooting locations were and thanks to social media, I’d also be able to know approximately where Barbie’s actress was. I’m no Barbie, so people don’t really notice me. I blend into any crowd and nobody looks too closely. It’s no surprise then that set security didn’t even bother to check my purse. If they did, they could have chanced upon my knife. I wore a hat I noticed in set photographs to be identical to that worn by low-ranking members of the crew. I grabbed a cup of Starbucks coffee that I carried like I was on an errand for someone important and used that as an excuse to get to the actress’ trailer. I was stopped by a security guard who I attempted to talk my way past. When that failed, I took out my knife and plunged it in his gut. He toppled over on the ground, bleeding heavily but still alive, and I went into the trailer. The actress got what was coming to her. She was lounging lazily on her couch when I entered. I made as much motion as I could to catch her immediate attention. She jumped in shock when she saw an intruder and again when she saw my knife wet and crimson with the blood of the security guard. I smiled as I made my approach. She screamed for help. I delighted in her helplessness. With all the force I could muster I slammed my knife into her torso, the bone of her ribcage was the only unpleasurable part of carving her to my liking. She could never be Barbie so she deserved to die for daring to impersonate her in such a public way. Her death, as far as I can tell was suitably painful. She pissed herself. Her breathing was frantic. She screamed the most satisfying wails I’ve ever heard in my life. Being that I was blood-soaked and that the set had a number of security cameras, it’s no surprise I didn’t walk out of the murder a free woman. I had accomplished my objective. At the trial, my defense attorney tried to convince me to plea guilty, to be spared the death penalty. I refused, I had no guilt in my soul for what I had done. Well, maybe a tinge for stabbing the security guard, but he got in the way. It had to be done. My defense attorney then tried to convince me to plea insanity. No dice. I’m perfectly sane. I knew what I was doing every step of the way. Unsurprisingly, I got convicted and I got the death penalty. I was given the possibility of parole. I used the opportunity not to try to secure a stay of execution, but to formally request the way that I would die. I was told that my request was not being communicated in the appropriate way, but I didn’t care. It did somehow go up some kind of a chain that satisfied my goal. You see, I wanted to be entombed in plastic. My life is forfeit, so if I could become as Barbie-like as possible in my death, I think that would give me as much satisfaction as I could get. My unconventional method of execution request got somehow approved by the Governor. I cannot say why or how that happened as I simply do not know. I suspect that he viewed it as a way to create something of a morbid curiosity, the most unusual execution and burial of a murderer in human history. Perhaps he thought that it would create tourism revenue or create some kind of an exceptionally morbid museum exhibit. In any case I got what I wanted. Death will be plastic. It’s fantastic. Barbie is my death.
I finally got a prompt that I could do in a single post. How lucky. I opted not to go the killer/possessed doll route because, as great as those are, it is trite as Hell. Instead, a killer that gets turned into a doll! 1d1000 = 604


Forms
Delete
Report
Quick Reply