My Last Meal

May 19, 2014 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.5/10 (702 votes cast)

Hell is worse than you think, trust me. I know this sounds odd, I mean, the idea of an eternal hell being ripped apart over and over by demons sounds horrific, but that image is just stereotypical. Believe me, it can be a lot worse than simply dealing with a whole load of pain. Don’t get me wrong, that version of hell is horrific… but I’d gladly swap that eternity with mine. You see, hell is personalised to you, hell delves into your thoughts and unlocks your deepest and darkest fears, your flaws, and your nightmares. It turns these into reality, the most horrific and twisted kind of reality you could imagine. You relive this reality over and over and over. I’m going to describe my own version of hell to you, seen as though I cannot know for sure what others have experienced.

Throughout my life I was a criminal, I have robbed many banks in my time. I have even murdered a few people in the process, not that I wanted to – they simply got in the way. There was something about stealing that gave me a burst of adrenaline, this adrenaline felt good, it made me feel alive, unstoppable almost. Even as a child I have vague memories of stealing sweets from my local convenience store, pocketing them and quietly sneaking out, smiling to myself. Back then I was never detected, in my adulthood as well I managed to slip away from the police many times.

My luck ran out at the age of 45. I was caught and arrested, imprisoned for 20 years, not only for robbing banks, but for the murders as well. I was just glad it wasn’t a life sentence, 20 years is bad but… at this point I had known something was going to catch me eventually. The stealing was an addiction, even with the knowledge that I would be caught sooner or later, I simply couldn’t bring myself to stop. It was as if I had already accepted the fact that I had used up my life in this way, there was nothing I could do now to change it.

Prison was a horrible experience, I aged into an old man. My outlook on the world seemed to change as I watched the sun set every day through those dull grey bars. Stealing slowly became pointless to me, the idea of robbing now didn’t appeal to me at all. Even though I had now, in a way, changed as a person – the damage had already been done. A lifetime of stealing and killing could not go unnoticed, somewhere down south a special someone had made a note of my name, had smiled an evil smile and doomed me to an eternity of torture.

Back in real life however the thought of ‘hell’ was never on my mind. The principle reason for this of course would be that I was an atheist, why would I have been afraid of something I didn’t believe in? That was ludicrous. Anyway, the story continues when I was finally released from prison. I had never attained a wife during my life, I had had a couple of girlfriends as a young man but… I suppose a criminal lifestyle didn’t appeal to many women. I died as an old man in a rocking chair, alone by the fire.

So that was my life, my quick, pointless life. After being here for an eternity any life becomes meaningless eventually, I’ve been here so long I’m surprised I can still remember it, perhaps I am being forced to recall it every day, an extra little torment on top of the torture, knowing that I am now powerless to change my mistakes. Now however my life has become almost non-existent, a brief flash in my memories. I’ll always feel the regret through, the overwhelming feeling of regret that consumes my mind, wishing, wishing with all my being that I could have been a better man… but there’s no going back now…

Something I haven’t mentioned yet is I am a vegetarian. A vegetarian, it sounds odd, doesn’t it? When you think about it. This hard, murdering back robber disliked eating meat, disliked hurting animals. This is what my personalised hell endorsed, this is the weakness that it plucked out of my head when I entered hell. It used my vegetarian nature as my personal torture device, something to torment me with for an eternity. So… I will now describe exactly what happened when I closed my eyes for that final time, exactly what happened when I lay back in my rocking chair by the fire and as a used up old man closed my eyes forever…

I awoke. Opened my eyes, breathed in the air. The first thing I noticed was that I felt healthier than I had been in years. I felt like a young man again, with new vigour and energy. Sure enough, as I had looked down and examined my hands I noticed that my wrinkles, arthritis, everything… had simply gone. At first I had been overjoyed, yelping with happiness, punching the air. I believed that I was in heaven, I’d felt better than I had in years, overwhelmed with a feeling of happiness.

This temporary feeling subsided slightly when I realised where I was standing. I was in a room, a dark room with bluish walls. The floor and ceiling bore the same characteristics, dark cracked brick which lacked windows, doors, anything. There weren’t any lights either, which caught me as odd seen as though I could see quite easily, despite being confined in such a sheltered room.

‘Hello?’ I asked out loud. It was then that I noticed the deafening silence, a concrete quiet that made my ears ring. After a while I began to feel ill, started contemplating all the possible places I could be. Was this heaven? Was this a temporary holding place? Was this… hell? I tried to keep myself occupied by feeling along the walls, looking for any sign of a way out, doing nothing in an empty room would have soon driven to me to insanity.

‘Meal one.’ A voice rang out, making me jump. It was a low, monotonous voice of a man, it echoed around the empty room.

‘Hello?’ I said in response, hoping that perhaps someone had come to collect me. Hoping that someone had perhaps arrived to take me away from this claustrophobic place. I was wrong however, for no one appeared, a door didn’t open, no angel came in with a smile to greet me. Instead, a metal platter appeared in the middle of the room – on it, a piece of cooked meat.

A sickness settled in my stomach as I crept over to the plate, it looked like lamb. It was at this point that I hoped I was dreaming, I hoped that I was still an old man in my rocking chair. That I had perhaps simply drifted off to sleep by the fire and was having some sort of vivid nightmare. A very, very vivid nightmare…

‘I don’t eat meat.’ I whimpered. I was a vegetarian, after all. The idea of eating meat was disgusting. Not only the fact that it came from an animal, but… also the taste. There was something about it that had just never appealed to me. Something about the idea that an animal was killed to provide me with the meal, that I was chewing on its insides, its muscle. Muscle that was perhaps used by the animal several weeks earlier to potter around a field chewing on grass.

Without warning I suddenly fell to my hands and knees in front of the plate, this shocked me, it felt like I had lost all control of my body, as if something was driving me. So, unable to stop, my hands reached forwards and plucked the lamb off the plate. I tried desperately to resist but my hands stuffed the meat into my mouth, my mouth then started chewing as if by itself. I choked several times, reeling from the taste I had always been disgusted by. My throat swallowed the dry lamb and I coughed several times, choking on its dry texture. After it was one my body was released from control and I fell backwards onto the cold ground. The platter that had held the meat seemed to melt away into the deep cracks of the floor, trickling away like water.

‘What is this?’ I shouted. My protest was met with two words from the deep voiced man.

‘Meal two.’

I watched the ground in front of me with hushed trepidation… what would appear there? More meat? No, it was worse. After several moments a small bird appeared, a small Robin with closer inspection. It flapped it wings but remained standing, looking at me with its black beady eyes.

‘No!’ I screamed. I stood up and ran to one wall, pressing my back against it, ‘no! This can’t be happening!’ The small Robin simply stared at me, making no effort to fly away, for a fleeting moment the little bird seemed to look malicious – evil almost. As if the bird was in on all of this, this nightmare, knowing what was happening to me. It took me a while to realise that my body was moving on its own again, I had pulled myself away from the wall and was now taking footsteps towards the bird. I squinted my eyes shut, hoping to somehow wake up, hoping that this was indeed just a horrifically vivid dream. My eyes however were suddenly wrenched open again by some invisible force, I had no control, and I couldn’t do anything to stop what happened next.

My hand reached forward and picked the Robin up, it struggled in my hand, flapped its wings frantically. Unable to stop, my hand slowly moved towards my mouth. The head of the Robin slid between my teeth, I could feel its beak tapping against them, pecking my gums. Without warning my jaw clenched shut with supernatural force and the little bird was killed instantly – its neck broken. The blood from its neck oozed into my mouth, the copper taste covering my tongue. I gagged several times and then my hand proceeded to force the rest of the bird into my mouth, causing me to choke. I began chewing, the bird crunched as I did. Blood oozed from my lips and trickled down my chin, soaking into the top of my shirt. Chewing through the feathers was tough, they became stuck between my teeth. When my throat had swallowed the Robin the control was released from me yet again, I collapsed to the ground moaning.

It was at this point that I began crying, sobbing loudly, a grown man reduced to tears. I retched a couple of times and vomited on the ground, coughed, choked. I was a mess… and it was only meal two.

‘Meal three.’ The man’s voice rang out once again.

‘SHUT UP!’ I screamed at the top of my voice, ‘SHUT UP!’ I knew it was pointless yelling, but did so anyway. I refused to look at what had appeared in the middle of the room, I closed my eyes. By now I realised I was in hell, or something similar. At this point I didn’t want to be conscious, I didn’t want to be here, I desired to simply cease to exist. An eternity of nothingness was heaven in comparison to this. Desperate, I covered my eyes with my hands and adopted a foetal position… hoping that somehow I’d be taken away from here, hoping that I’d simply lose consciousness.

It was then that I heard it. A bleating noise, I knew without looking that there was a lamb standing in the middle of the room. I screamed, I screamed wordlessly, mindlessly, crazily. I had been in this place for what… ten minutes? I was already bordering on delirium… but there was something… there was something inside me that kept me awake. Kept me from feeling tired, passing out, dying, going insane. This was the same force that was now making me walk towards the lamb, it was keeping me grounded in the room, and it didn’t want me to escape, physically or mentally.

I dropped to my knees in front of the animal, my hands slowly reached out and grabbed it around the middle. I brought it up to my face and my teeth plunged into its neck, I must have severed an artery because blood began pumping into my mouth. The lamb bleated frantically, kicking its legs. My arms kept it in place however, and I drank its blood like a carnivore, being forced to guzzle it. I kept wanting to lose myself to insanity, to get away from this, but something kept bringing me back, bring me back again and again. Every time I teetered on the brink of fainting something suddenly snapped me back to my sense, back into the room where I was forced to experience the torture. My teeth began chewing through its neck, the lamb quietened down, it was dead. My body forced me to eat the lamb whole, crunching through its bones. My teeth were chipped and splintered in the process, my gums began bleeding. Throughout all of this I kept throwing up, vomiting all over the half eaten lamb. I was still unable to stop however, I simply began eating the vomit drenched carcass, and this in turn made me vomit even more. Throughout this ordeal I had been crying the entire time, sobbing.

By the time I was finished and released from the control, I slumped backwards onto the floor, moaning like an animal. Moaning in pain, in pure misery. I was covered in blood, and bits of bone. Some entrails covered the ground, the stench was horrible, making me gag. I dragged myself away from the pool of blood to one side of the room and leaned my back against a wall.
‘I’m sorry.’ I cried, ‘I’m sorry.’ I hoped that somehow my sins would be forgiven due to my sudden apology, that somehow whatever was holding me would become compassionate and free me from this nightmare. In all my time here however nothing I have ever uttered has ever been met with any sort of sympathy, the response to my pleas always consists of two words… two words that have now consumed my life, my thoughts, my existence.

‘Meal four.’ The voice sounded once again. I moved my eyes over to the centre of the room reluctantly. By now I was a mess, a mess of blood, vomit, tears, and saliva. My teeth were broken and cracked, my gums were torn apart and bleeding. I glanced at what now occupied the centre of the room, what I saw made me burst into sobs, into misery filled sobs. Then I started screaming again, screaming insanely, for what now occupied the centre of the room was a human being – an adult man, but not any adult man, it was an exact copy of myself, grinning evilly in my direction.

And as I pulled myself up from the wall and slowly approached him for my next meal. As my teeth plunged into his shoulder, the man let out a deep, long laugh.

Hell is worse than you think, trust me.

Credit To – Meek

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.5/10 (702 votes cast)

The Cabal

May 18, 2014 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 7.0/10 (231 votes cast)

“Whom the Gods would destroy, they first make mad”

Prometheus, The Masque of Pandora

In the upper echelons of society there exists an ever growing group of individuals with entirely too much time on their hands. The members hark from around the world, but share similar traits. Often from lives of exceptional wealth, they are apathetic individuals, detached from day to day life and merely looking for the next distraction. In this club they find that something they have been seeking to fill the void. The club allows its members anonymity and encourages pseudonyms taken from ancient gods.

Now the name of the game is Despair. The members compete against each other, and a recognised hierarchy exists for individuals that have proven proficient in the past. A random person from across the world will be elected and presented to the player, who will then proceed to tear apart the person’s life in the most entertaining fashion. The resources of the cabal extend far and wide, and with the significant money at their disposal there are few doors that cannot be unlocked. The game is scored based on the speed with which the player can get the target to dispatch themselves.

It’s not clear exactly how long the club has been in existence, but the earliest records were shortly after World War 2. A small group of English officers returned from the war back to lives of luxury, and started to explore new ways in which hell could be inflicted upon an person. Over the years, the numbers have grown and imaginative characters have brought about the self-inflicted slaughter of thousands.

Over the years, rules for the game have had to be implemented. The most egregious examples would be in the late 70’s. “Ares” had just been given his target and had dropped out of sight. The cabal kept the victim under constant surveillance , awaiting what would come next. During a family dinner, “Ares” calmly walked in and executed 8 members of his family. He tossed a pistol at the poor boy, and instructed that either her shoot himself or the rest of his family would be dead by dawn. Took him 30 seconds to make the choice. “Ares” loves to brag about the fact that the “No killing” rule was brought in to bring him under control.

Now the games comprise of identity assassination and the destruction of a person’s faith in themselves. One of the more interesting examples was from “Isis”, who announced from the start that she had no care for the time taken and that this would be her magnus opus. She hired several individuals to undergo plastic surgery to make themselves identical to the target. They started to follow this young introverted woman around, always visible to her in the distance. She began to grow paranoid. At this point, the stalking escalated to several of them following at once and approaching her aggressively. She always ran from these encounters, heading home and locking her doors tight. They would post photos of her taken from her back garden through her letter box. It took 6 days before she finally snapped and opened up her arms with shards from the mirror.

The current record is held by “Morpheus”. It was quite inspired. He paid a number of actors to approach the target, and to say deadpan “wake up, you’re in a coma” then act confused when he confronted them about what they had said. He hurled himself from the top floor of his offices before the day was out.

Now there is no limitation to who can become a target, save for the members of the club. This extends to celebrities from all walks of life. Many public rag scandals have come from machinations of the club, with the now fading star watching their glamour dissolve in front of their eyes. Those who have lived the high life often cannot continue once they are cast out.

An interesting case was with “Jupiter”. They threw him a bit of a curveball, and elected a target from deep within the amazon forest. A tribesman with no significant concept of much outside his own village. He kidnapped the man in the night and proceeded to subject him to a clockwork orange-style lesson in the horrors and atrocities that have been committed by man. It took 3 days , but he clawed out his own eyes and died from the shock.

Now this brings us to You. You have been selected as the next target. My name is “Mercury” and you are my target. Knowing what you know now, why don’t you save us all some time and just swallow the goddamn capsule…

Credit To – The Silicon Lemming

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 7.0/10 (231 votes cast)

He is Coming Back

May 17, 2014 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 6.7/10 (438 votes cast)

I looked down at Juliet lying in my lap. Her quiet form was beyond angelic. It was a little early for her to be sleeping, but I just couldn’t bring myself to move her. My little angel, she had such a hard day. Not only was she sick earlier today, but her father walked out on us.

My husband just left. He packed his clothing and left. There was no preamble. There was no warning. He just walked out a hardened look on his face. Our marriage was strained at best. The conversations we carried rarely lasting more than a few brief moments, but the one thing we could agree on was our daughter. Juliet was the light of our lives.

I sat on the couch reminiscing about our dying marriage, while gently stroking her baby fine hair. I looked down at her. Her hair was the color of mahogany. The same color as her fathers. A tear escaped my eye, gently landing on her face. All the while thinking more and more on what I had failed at.

We were fighting all the time, until we finally snapped. The fight was as volatile as it could be without fists flying. I stormed off to my daughter’s room to comfort her crying. Giving her more Benadryl to help with her cough, I held her in my arms. She went to sleep her breathing slowed, and she was out.

Resting her head in my lap I sat there for hours, staring at the wall. How could my husband leave me? We were everything to each other. He will be back; I know this in every fiber of my being. I continued to stroke Juliet’s hair. My husband would be back, I keep repeating this internal mantra. Over and over, for what seemed like hours or days, I continued to repeat this.

This whole fight, everything, was all over him having another mistress. I was getting him back, one way or another. With no regard to anything that anyone would say or do, I would get my husband back, at no expense. He had no choice. I knew he would be back, he was mine. No one else could stake that claim to him, I would never allow it.

My daughter stirred in my lap, and looked up at me with sad eyes.

“He is not coming back, mommy.” Her voice like a thousand angels speaking at once, both comforted me and broke my heart. My perfect angel lay her head back down in my lap just as it was before.

The sound of banging on the house door registered to my mind, yet I could not focus on it. Still I continued to stroke my daughter’s hair. The footsteps racing down the hall still were ignored by my mind.

My angel lay still in my lap, the poor thing. The door to the room we were sitting in was busted down, and rushed by a group of men in swat gear. I couldn’t hear the screaming. Juliet’s words were still ringing in my ears.
“He is not coming back, mommy.”

The officers swarmed me. They took my baby from my lap. I know I screamed; I wanted my husband. Where was he? They took the empty bottle of Benadryl off of the night stand. They continued to yell at me, while gently placing my child into a black bag.

My poor baby, she had such a hard day. She was sick, her daddy left us. However, I know she is happy. As often happens with children her age, she was wrong. I know she was wrong. Her daddy does not love his mistress. He is mine.

My sweet angel, she had such a hard day. Tomorrow will be better; I know her daddy will come back. I continue to smile lovingly at her as the man zippers up the black bag she is in. Her daddy will be back. He is mine.

Credit To – Ahriannah

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 6.7/10 (438 votes cast)

The Looking Game

May 7, 2014 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.8/10 (642 votes cast)

The blaring sound of seven in the morning jars you violently from sleep, shoving dreams away like rocks off a cliff, never to be seen again. You stir and make morning noises as you reach from beneath your sheets and blindly search for the Snooze button. Once silenced, you convince yourself not to rappel back down the cliff of slumber and reluctantly get up to begin your day.

Yawning widely, you shuffle from your room to the hallway, wiping crust from your eyes and drool from your mouth. You never were a very pretty sleeper – part of the reason why you are still single. The thought makes you smile randomly.

You eventually find the bathroom and, after a few seconds of grasping in the dark, turn on the light. You flinch back like a frightened vampire before shaking your head at your own immaturity and stepping inside for a meeting with the porcelain head.

Concluding the meeting with a flush, you move to the sink to wash your hands. Your eyes wander up to the mirror, looking at your own semi-sleepy reflection. Your hair is a mess, and the bags under your eyes look like plums. You think to yourself, Wow, who’s that sexy beast? and chuckle softly, wringing soap from your hands.

Then, as you dry them on a towel adjacent, you get an idea.

Have you ever actually seen yourself looking away in a mirror? Not like you turn your head and look back with your eyes – that doesn’t count because you’d still see your reflection looking at you. You’re thinking more along the lines of catching yourself looking away, of somehow moving so quickly that you defy physics and actually see your reflection looking away before it can look back with you. Like the reflection is someone you can trick into making a mistake.

Clearly, you think to yourself, this is a dumb idea, a really dumb one. You can’t catch yourself looking off in a mirror. The amount of damage you’d need to do to the laws of nature and time… Well, simply put, it’s impossible.

That being said, you decide to try it anyway, a little pointless experiment to pass the time. It is Saturday, after all, so it’s not like you have anything better to do right now. Might as well indulge in a little childish self-amusement.

You place your hands flat on the sink, lock eyes with your reflection, and slowly turn your head until you can barely see the edge of the mirror. You mentally count one… two… three and turn sharply back to the mirror. Your reflection stares back at you. The both of you purse your lips thoughtfully.

You repeat the process: stare, turn, count to three, and turn back as fast as you can. Same result: staring at yourself. You stick out your lip in a pout. You don’t even know why you’re doing this, but it’s frustrating as hell. Maybe it’s because you’re still half asleep. Maybe it’s because you’re just crazy like your parents used to tease. Whatever the case, you decide to try again.

You stare at yourself, seeing all the colors in your irises, the red of the thin veins along the scleras. Slowly, you turn away, finding a point on the wall to focus on. However, instead of turning back immediately, you wait, keeping your head still, your eyes locked on the little nondescript spot. You tell yourself that, if you wait long enough, maybe you can fake it out, trick it into letting you win the game. You smile a bit at your own silly stupidity, but restrain the laughter, trying to maintain focus.

You count the seconds in your head. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. You remember your childhood, games played with friends, games like Hide n’ Seek or The Staring Contest. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. You remember your own competitive nature back then, the desire shared by all children to succeed over your friends, the desire to win at everything you do no matter how pointless or impossible. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. You understand that you feel the same desire now, to reach for something you know is too far away, to try anyway until your fingers wrap around its barely material form. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Even if it means falling over the edge, even if it means going just a smidge too far… the desire to win, in this moment of ticking seconds, is just too great.

Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.

You snap your head around so fast that it makes your vision blur for a moment. You have to blink the sudden fog from your eyes in order to see. When you do, you see the mirror, same as before and yet completely… different. First, you stare in disbelief, then you let out a long, deflating sigh which, as your lips slowly curl up into a smile, changes to a small, abrupt, slightly shocked laugh.

Your reflection, standing directly opposite you, is still staring off to the side. You can’t believe it. A disembodied image of yourself following movements and actions completely independent of you. You’ve only seen yourself like this in pictures or home videos. It’s unsettling, not to mention completely terrifying, to see it happen in a mirror, something not capable of prerecording images. But, more than anything, it’s unbelievable. You didn’t think this would happen – it’s just a silly little game, a whim, the result of boredom and one foot still in dreamland – but somehow it did exactly what you’d wanted it to do. It’s like finding fossils in your backyard or creating a hair loss solution from blood pressure meds.

You want to tell someone about this, show this to someone, maybe even create a sideshow attraction out of it and become exceedingly famous. You want to let someone know how you played the most impossible game there is and came out on top.

That being said, you’re locked to the sight of yourself looking away, unsure what might happen if you move or speak. Then, as you continue to stare at your imperfect doppelganger, the elation you feel slowly degenerates into something like soft unease. Something isn’t right. It should’ve moved back by now, the delay filled up as the reflection struggled to right itself and restore the natural order of things. But it remains fixed on the spot on the wall, so still that it doesn’t even seem to be breathing. The unease begins to calcify, to cling to the lining of your stomach and slowly weigh it down with growing nausea. What’s going on? Why isn’t it fixing itself? Why won’t it look at you and put everything back the way it was?

As the seconds pass without change, panic begins to bubble inside you. You want to speak, to shout at the reflection, to reach up and smack the glass as if you could wake it up or something, but you remain as fixed as it is, though a slight tremor begins to move through your bones. You shake and sweat, the desire to scream and cry and beg for the figure in the mirror to please, please look at you almost overwhelming. What if it never moved? What if it stayed that way, and every time you looked in a mirror next, all you would see is this sideways glance, unsullied as you brushed your teeth, unbent as you washed your hands, unsaturated as you stepped out of the shower? What if it never leaves this mirror, and all the mirrors in the world would only show the wallpaper behind your back, the towel rack behind your head, the empty space where you should be but will never occupy again like a lifeless ghost?

Then, after nearly twenty straight seconds, it finally moves – slowly turns its head to face you again. Your relief is palpable, heating your skin like a warm blanket. You are about to smile and let out the biggest breath, maybe even laugh and crack some kind of nervous joke to break the excruciating tension, but you stop when you actually see what it looking back at you in the polished glass.

Your reflection has changed but in a subtle, unnerving way. Its eyes are wide and fixed, its forehead smooth, its mouth a straight line – veritably, the complete opposite of the expression you wear now of fearful confusion. This face, combined with the renewed stillness and flawed exactitude, makes it seem more like you’re looking at a doll replica of yourself than your actual reflection. You find yourself wanting to back away, to turn out the light and leave the bathroom as fast as possible, but you’re fixed to the spot, staring at what should be a perfect representation of yourself but is somehow anything but.

Then, to your horror, the eyes of your reflection roll back into its head, leaving only bloodshot whites and fluttering eyelids. The head falls back while the mouth opens in a soundless, screaming gape. Then, with a brief shudder, the body crumples out of frame like a puppet relieved of its strings, the sounds of flesh and bone thud-thud-thudding against the floor clear and perfect.

Suddenly, you are staring at a reflection of the wall behind you.

You feel your heart hammer in your chest. Sweat beads across your skin and makes your hands slick and clammy. You’re shaking all over. Something’s wrong. Something’s gone terribly wrong, and you know that, if you just turn your head, you’ll know exactly what it is. But you’re scared, more scared than you’ve ever been in your whole life.

It’s just a game, you find yourself thinking. It’s just a game. Nothing was supposed to happen, especially not something like that. It’s not even possible, none of it is. It’s just a stupid, harmless little game… right?

Against all better judgment, you slowly, slowly turn your head and look down.

You see your own body lying still and lifeless at your feet.

As the knowledge of what you’ve done invades your mind, as the enormity of it brings you towards complete and total mental collapse, you have one final, cognizant thought: It is just a game, and I guess I won.

Credit To – MercuryCoatedVeins

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.8/10 (642 votes cast)

A Dangerous Man

April 30, 2014 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.2/10 (374 votes cast)

He came into town on a cold, dry wind
Kicking up dust and blowing sand
The sun dimmed for a moment that day
The howling wind seemed to say
“He has the look of a dangerous man”

His eyes were hot and black as ash
Glaring at those whom he passed
A gun at his hip and a hidden knife
Surely he ended countless lives
Whispers rose like the hiss of snakes
“It’s plain to see, anyone can
He must be a dangerous man”

Not a word he spoke as he came through town
His mouth twisted in a constant frown
His footsteps echoed in an empty street
The locals hide when he came around
They closed windows with a tinny creek
Trying to avoid the dangerous man

He checked the inn where he planned to stay
The keeper shivered from his gaze
The man paid up front and spoke no words
That betray the thoughts of a dangerous man

The locals gathered around and spoke in fear
The Sheriff ran to grab his gear
The Pastor called out to his god
They wailed and cried out for a plan

Save us from this dangerous man

A young man named Johnny held his girl
As she trembled and shook with fear
“If you are a man you’ll confront him dear
To save me from the dangerous man”

So he grabbed his knife and found the Inn
He snuck into a darkened room
And creeped to prepare his mortal sin

When the bed he had in sight
He stabbed the body 20 times
But when he turned on the light
It was not the dangerous man

He shook and screamed in his fright
He had killed a man without a fight
A crowd was coming, no room for flight
Fearing the law and the people’s might
He leapt from a dangerous height
His bones cracked, his blood ran out
And he died damning a dangerous man

The sheriff stood by the dead
And removed the hat from his head
“Two lives he has claimed today
How many more will he slay?
We must stand up before we lay
At the feet of a dangerous man”

A crowd gathered round to chant and cheer
With torches and knives they came right near
The old in, where it seemed too clear
That inside slept a dangerous man

The keeper cried as they threw the torch
He choked back a sob and tears

And watched it burn his life and home
“You must be wrong! I was alone
I couldn’t let him stay inside
Though it may hurt my pride
I simply fear a dangerous man”

A scream was heard from the Inn
The keeper shouted “it’s my wife!
“I thought she left, but she’s trapped inside!

If you don’t help her, I’ll end my life!
A victim of the dangerous man”

“Liar!” the people shouted
“You work for him, and let him go
Now you want us to burn and die
We will punish you for your lie”
They tied him up with ropes and chains
And threw him into the flames
He screamed out loud and long
As his flesh melted and turned black
chocking he let out his final words
“I am not a dangerous man”

Confusion grew in the street
They had burned the inn to dust
But nothing was gained from the bust
Someone must face the wrath
Of a people ready to fight

A man was picked, his job to greet
The stranger he was first to meet
They chained him to the rock hard ground
And beat him beneath their feet
Till all that’s left was a bloody mound

All for befriending the dangerous man

The sheriff too incurred their wrath
He had failed to halt the path
That caused the pain that occurred that day

“You did it too, I’m not to blame!”
He shouted out, but was ignored
Some stood by and fought to death
Cursing former friends with last breaths
The sheriff was cut up in bits
An hour he suffered beneath their knives
As he screamed and tried to fight

His head was posted on a spike
A warning to the dangerous man

But in their haste to fix the wrong
The people missed a problem that grew
The flame spread on a wind that blew
The smoke rose and blocked the sun
All the people tried to run
But they burned and chocked on smoke
Till they were dead, every one
Without the help of the dangerous man

A stranger stood, feet in blood
Which soaked right through skin and ash
Bodies lay on the ground
Mistakes that worked like a plan
He stared at what he found
With the black eyes of a dangerous man

Credit To – Eric AMBM

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.2/10 (374 votes cast)


April 1, 2014 at 11:00 PM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.1/10 (1076 votes cast)

You lay in your bed quietly. Your window is open, a light breeze flowing through. You stare up at the ceiling, watching time pass by. Why is it so hard to sleep? you silently wonder, tapping your heel impatiently, waiting for oblivion to overcome you. You haven’t been able to sleep for ages, and it’s been almost 3 days since you got some shut-eye.

Laying here, your senses are heightened, the quiet rustling and hooting of the occasional owl ringing in hypersound. Your eyes have fully adjusted to the dark, allowing you to see every detail in the bedroom around you.

You suddenly hear a creak. Thinking it’s just your dumb dog walking around at night, you push your head under your pillow and groan.

Another creak, followed by a crash. You jump up, grabbing the gun from your bedside table. “Who the hell is there?!!” You shout, aiming around the room wildly.

There is something out your window. It crawls through the hole, its face white, with singed black brows and a bloody red smile. Its hair is long, black, and matted. It wears a white hoodie, smeared with black substance you can only guess to be blood. It rushes in on you, tackling and ramming you into the bed, hissing 4 words into your ear:


You look up into the things eyes, and you push yourself up, staring at it. “Who the hell do you think you are?! Barging into my room like this?!”

The thing stares at you. “Wait.. what?”

You stare at it angrily. “And why the FUCK did you tell me to go to sleep?! I mean, for all I know, I might have just been about to drift off, but NOOOO, YOU have to go show up!”

It starts to walk to the window. “I-I’ll just be on my way.. heh–” He dives out the window, running into the night.

You plop the gun onto your desk and lay back down on the bed, sighing and speaking aloud. “Jeezus.. People these days.”

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.1/10 (1076 votes cast)

This website contains fictional content that may be too scary for younger readers. Please verify that you are either at least 18 years of age or have parental permission before proceeding.