Let's tell spontaneous stories.

This is a good idea.

Let's make up stories on the spot. As soon as you hit the new post button, you start making up stuff off the top of your head. Hammer on those keys! Try to edit as little as possible, like, don't even hit the backspace key ever. Just let the sentences flow. I'm doing that right now. One time Billy punched a cat. Oh dang I dropped a piece of cereal again. No, don't ask why I'm eating Golden Crisp at like 8:30 pm NO THE PHONE NOOOOOO

It was nobody. We get a lot of spam phonecalls here, they just let it ring and don't leave any message, it's really annoying.

Anyway, yeah. It's your turn now, forum. Also, I don't know who Billy is.

You have essentially described what I do whenever I "hit the post reply" button.

It has gotten me into trgouble.

Okay also I will make way more mispelling mistakes if I don't have my precious precious backspace key.

i mean seriously what are you even going to do with something like that being gone I mean.

U Wow I sound even more rediculous doing this . okway this is a lright I guess. okay storytime

So billy, he was so sad all of the time, it was mainly the kind of sad you get when you drop your icecrem on the floor and the kcecream truck has rolled away and wont be back buct you can still hear the dingalingaglin of hte truck just a few unreachable streats down.

Bill y wouldnt have understood this anolaogy . he was allergic ot iscecream (adamnit why am I typing so porry lmavix beacon would be so sad at me). anyway that is probably why he kicked cats or did whatever if twas that you said he did KE

Also there you go about kbeating kcats again. into a fine batter
for cunsompution

i hope forum name gasgs don't have a sthree strike rule or I just violated it.

the rule

not the cat.

I stood on the platform. The train pulled up, lights blinking. A fine rain misted. I shivered, but the train continued on its path, passing me by, even though it was empty. That was the last train! All the lights in the station shut off except one. Now I was alone in the metro station with no one but the wind and the rain for company.

Once upon a time there was a boy named Shmun. Shmun lived at the ice cream shop for some reason I don't really know why. I guess he was a freeloader or something. i mean seriously the government is just not doing a good job at all. So anyway he lived in the ice cream parlor but he worked for the pizza place on the other side of town. He didn't have a car or anything so he would ride a shopping cart to work every day. He had a team of raccoons to pull it and also the raccoons were powered by rockets so it was fine.

So anyway one day Shmun made it to the pizza place where he was a delivery boy and so suddenly they received an order for five thousand pizzas with extra pepperoni and anchovies, with a side of depleted uranium isotopes.

"SHMUN," the boy's boss yelled, "WE ARE OUT OF DEPLETED URANIUM ISOTOPES. ALSO YOU'RE LATE TO WORK AGAIN."

"I am sorry sir," Shmun replied, "I will go retrieve some at once."

And so Shmun went to the nuclear reactor next door, and asked for directions to the nearest depleted uranium store. They pointed him to the one in Vermont, which was kind of unfortunate since Shmun worked for the pizza place in Georgia. The one in Asia. I don't know why he worked there actually. Do they even have nuclear power in George. The one in Asia? Whatever they do now.

So anyway his team of rocket-powered mongooses or is it mongeese oh wait I think they were raccoons before. Oh well okay see they were raccoons that could turn into mongooses (or mongeese) and since geese can fly they flew to vermont at three times the speed of sound (they were rocket powered remember) and went to Depleted Uranium R Us, which unfortunately had been taken over by terrorist clowns who threatened to contaminate the entire world's supply of chocolate pudding.

"You should not contaminate the pudding supply!" Shmun yelled, but they did it anyway. So now the pudding was all green and glowy but I mean it's still pudding so everyone bought it. There were about three million new superheroes that day, but superheroes are illegal so they were all deported to Canada.

Shmun shrugged and took some of the depleted uranium isotopes while the terrorist clowns weren't looking and flew on his team of flying honey badgers back to George I mean Georgia (the one in Asia) and back to the pizza place.

"Shmun where have you been!?" Shmun's boss yelled. "It has been twenty minutes and we only have ten minutes left to make all these pizzas!"

"But that deal expired yesterday," the boy replied.

"Oh right." So they had a good laugh for about eighteen hours and then someone at the nuclear reactor tried to pour pudding inside and everybody died.

The end.

Cursing, the stranger poured mead sloppily into a tall glass at the bar. Where it struck the old teakwood, there was hissing, barely perceptible; by the proper laws of chemistry such sound was forbidden - but they were not applying this night.

Wavell's Night! Twelve hours, in midsummer, following the longest day of the year; the night named after the man science spurned churned like a wave of chaotic reality through the world like a knife through boiling, seething, supercritical water, a mass discharge of energy and entropy bleeding into realms just beyond the familiar, the thickness of an atom away.

The stranger cursed again, bustled about the empty inn as he checked the chronospatial resonators situated in a perimeter in the walls; true to his suspicions, one had been malfunctioning. A leak of strange and eldritch circumstance had drifted in, and expended itself on the unreal chemistry currently eating its way through the bar.

He twiddled a knob, and turned around.

The mug held beer, and the Formica bartop was clean.

The dragon was bearing down on me, his hot breath upon my neck. I could tell he'd done this before. We embraced in mortal combat, except he was immortal, and there was no fighting. Well, I wasn't fighting it, anyway. I wanted it. I knew that it was wrong, but I wanted it. He whispered softly in my ear "I'm going to enjoy this". The dragon reached out a single mighty talon, touching it softly, gently, majestically to the small of my back. Where many believe I should have recoiled in disgust and fear, I instead reveled in the glorious moment.

Tag. I was It.

So many times, so many people have told me, "ma'am, have you dropped this?"
And I just have to tell them, "no... it's YOURS."

There are a lot of people around the country with their own handmade fireworks now.

Some people would call me crazy, or dangerous.

I call myself a hero of freedom.

SpoilerShow

Once upon a time there was a thread, and since it was more of a thing being done than a conversation about a thing, it got moved, but it was no big deal for anyone involved and everything remained pretty cool all around.

It was seventeen minutes until the countdown stopped, and no one had any idea what it lead to. It was everywhere, on every clock and display, and it'd been there for weeks. The economy was having issues because no one could trade stocks or use the internet; all people knew was that something seemed likely to happen when it reached zero. "After all," experts reasoned, "if it wasn't counting down to something, it'd hardly be a countdown!"

With fifteen minutes to go, someone called into their local radio station and said something interesting. It was so interesting, in fact, that the local radio station operator called up the national radio headquarters, had them put the guy on, and asked him to repeat what he said.

"Hey, sorry," he said. "I put my cell phone in the microwave and accidentally set it for several weeks. It should be done shortly, my bad."

With two minutes to go, all the experts who could make it to this guy's apartment in time were gathered around his microwave, discussing options. Everyone knew you couldn't just put metal in a microwave, as it'd have catastrophic effects; what if, when this cycle finished, the cell phone exploded? They couldn't take that chance.

With thirty seconds left, a woman used oven mitts and a spatula to attempt to pry the power cord out of the socket. She didn't get enough leverage and went away disappointed.

With ten seconds left, another woman tried again, this time thinking to pry with the spatula and not the oven mitts.

The timer hit zero.

The plug popped out.

Nothing happened.

In the weeks that followed, people began to forget about the incident. Thirty or so years later, people had forgotten almost entirely.

And those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.

Kind of seems like more of an Astral Project than a Game though doesn't it

nahhh, I agree it belongs here most.

So one time, I left my lunch money in my other pants pocket. This proved to be terribly important later, as at lunch, I was beat up by the school bullies. Once they found out I had no money on me, they decided to take my lucky tooth. Then they broke my secret elbow, just to add injury to more injury.
I've never been so unlucky before. Can you believe every time I've ordered apple juice, the waitress brings me orange? And when I ask for apple, they literally tell me that I didn't order apple? I thought the customer was always right.
That reminds me of this time I heard about some sandwich shop clerk who didn't know what "plain" meant. When the customer asked for a plain sandwich, the clerk got confused and started talking about airplanes. It was pretty stupid. And off topic. The point is, check your pockets regularly. It might just save your life, and your secret elbow.

When a crcodile is sad, nobody will believe it. It and its lying eyes. /Maybe it shouldn't have been born with no facial muscles to express with -- should have thunk twice -- and then stolen a lion;s face to proveide the emotions it needed to convey. As it stands, when most people see it, this fictional crocodile we'll call Dill, first they think, oh shit, a lion, then they think, oh shit, a crocolion, trhen they think, oh SHIT, that thing is straght0up king of the jungle! by coup ed;eatout! Which is all well and good, but it makes it reall y hard for Dill to talk out his sadness and he still hasn't accomplished his main goal in the first place! It's hard to be king, too.

One day, Dill and one of his )many) unwanted mating partners were straight shilling in his hut. Dill said, 'I know not why it is I am so sad, but I wish it nt to be so."

Dill's unwanted mating partner said, "I love Shakespeare! Let's bone, make e your queen." Then she started tpeeling off ehr bikini, very sexily (for crocodules),. But Dill remained unbonered.

"The only Queen, for Shakespeare," said Dill, ":s Queen Elizabeth." With that, quite satisfied witjh the way that quipo turned out, misplaced colon and all , ge left his unwanted mating partner behngd, all cold, naked, and sexy. (forc crocodile standarsd.)

Dill powerwalked through all slorts of environemts in a montage. It was his quest to find real truth, true happiness at last. He walked ifrom his swamp to the deep jujngle first. His lionface disguise scared away all trhe Zebras and Gazelles and shit, but when he came to the lions, well! At first they were repulsed by his hackjob and cavalier disrespect of mortality/lionanity, but then got over it when they realized their hypocricy feeling that way as carnivores themselves. Then they recognized their friend's face -- it was the head honcho lion! They fawned all over him even harder than they did back at his own swamp, and you will not BELIEVE how much poontang he got. But soon they realized that he wasn't a very commanding presence at all. They caelled him oversensitive and homosexual(despit how much crazy sex he got.) (for a crocodile).

He ran and he ran and he dashed and he dashed, tears streaming down his face, until he came to te desert, the place with all the answers and no questions. He stayed hydrated by drinking a canteen full of his own tears. But they were all fakem or atleast of no substance when they evaporated. Juzt when he thought he was going to habve to use his surivivalist techniques he learned on the Discovery Channel -- he was already gwtting ready to pee into a solar still, mentally 00 a wise shamzn bird (some desert bird) walked up with its gangly(?) legs all aflutter.

"i see you are in need of my hdlp," said the shaman bird.

"How did you know?" asked Dill.

"well you're a corcodile in the desert. you kinda stick out like a sore thumb."

The shaman desert bird took Dill back to his teepee (is that racist? - author( and fed him some water in his mouth. Then he took Dill aside to do a palm reading, because he apparently wasn't just a shaman, but a shitty fake gypsy too.

"Doill said, "are you sure this shit works? Because I heard ths shit was bullshit."

"No, it's birdshit," said the Shaman. now "shut up."

Then the Shaman Desert Bird took Dill by his hand. Paw? and started to read it. But as he unfurled more and more of the scroll-tapestry that was Dill's leather-bound skinn and literally peeled back the letters of skin, (*layers) (that is seriously the only error i've made so far i fel the need to really correcgt because it altered comprehension) the wise desert shaman bird thing became progressively more surprised. Eventually, jhis eyes lkeaped out his skull and little train whistle sounds come out of his ears a nd his at spins aond by itself. Like a Looney Tune.

"What,s up, Doc?" asked Dill. He did not realize that that was an actual good quip for the situation, unlike the one where he actually tried.

"What you got might change the world if you got it." said the Shaman Stupid Birdshit Thing, " you are the chosen one."

"What des that mean?" That boy needs therapy.

"It means you were chosen to be the protagonist of your very own story."

"Wow! My own story! Is it a good one?"?

"No. You were pounded out in about a half an hour and it was really dark so the author kept making typos. It was also Midnight and no revisions were made."

"That doesn 't sound good,"

"No, it's really more a peek into the author' psyche than a real story. His underformed psyche that puts crocodiles with bikinis in with Shakespeare."

"Can I atleast have my layers of skin back?"

"No, but according to the story, you can have your letters."

Then they both shared a gtood laugh at my expense. Then Carl SHIT I MEAN DILL died of dehydration. The shaman lived existentially ever after.

the END

Now, Sarah Sorenson was just about the grumpiest old cuss you could ever hope to meet. You ask anyone in the tri-state area, they'll tell you the same. They say when she was born she was just about the only baby in living memory that didn't come into this world laughin' or cryin', just a-scowlin' away like she already knew she had nothin' to say to that doctor. That's the way it was, and that's the way it's been since – weren't nobody or nothin' ever good enough for old Sarah, and it seems like that's just the way she liked it.

Now, you might be tempted to imagine her as a wrinkled old biddy, sittin' in a rockin' chair on her front porch with a shotgun on her lap, wavin' it at kids who get too close to her land. And you'd be right to think that, too. But folks around here, we don't remember her like that. No, you say her name to us, and the only thing that comes to mind is the time Sarah stared down Old Scratch himself.

[[I'm doing this orally and just transcribing it as I go, so I'm imagining this whole piece as an interp like I'd do back in my speech team days. This is where I'd put an intro if I was competing hello! Witticism title author's name.]]

See, most folks, when it comes time to meet their maker, they're ready one way or another. Them as aren't, well... The powers that be have their ways and their ways. They say if you're good and pious in your life, an angel will appear to take you off to kingdom come, but most of us just get that old bony feller with the sickle. The sweetest and saintliest among us get plucked to the next world by the very hand of God, and the worst... Well, the devil claims his own.

And so when Sarah's time came, she was just sittin', and rockin', and watching the world with dissatisfaction. And from the woods, up comes a man in a dark red suit, and in a black tie, because there wasn't a neighborly, Christian bone in Sarah's bitter old body. And he's all smiles and sharp teeth and smooth as a city boy afore tells your farm belongs to his bank now. And Sarah, like most of us around these parts, she don't have no time for no city boy, be they man or demon, so she just keep a-rockin'. And the devil, he just strolls up as slick as you like.

By now, of course, he's used to some reaction, but in all his long years he's seen many a brave soul, so this ain't too strange to him. And so he walks up her path, and he walk up her stairs, and he walks up her porch, and he stands, a-loomin' over this old woman, and he says "Sarah Sorenson. You know who I am."

And Sarah, she still don't have no time for 'im. She just keeps rockin' away, like she ain't got a care in the world. And the devil, he ain't too happy about this old woman ignoring him, so this time he says louder "Sarah Sorenson, you know why I have come."

And of course, Sarah still don't have the time. She just rocks, and she just watches, and the devil, he's really fumin' inside now. But he don't show it, and he holds out his hand and he says "Sara Sorenson, you are comin' with me."

And now Sarah looks up, and she looks at his sharp teeth and his sharp eyes and his slick suit. And she chews on a big old wad of tobacco. She bites through it once, twice, and then she moves it, slow as you like, over to the other cheek. And then she bites it again. And then she stares up at the devil and she says

"Ain't."

Now, by this time, most of the ones that don't come with him right away are yellin' and screamin'. "Begone, Satan!" they say, or "You'll never take me!". Maybe they tell the world that they don't deserve this, but the world don't listen and neither do the devil. But never before has someone simply sat and said no, like they knew better.

And so the devil, he lets his smile drop a bit, he lets his horns show a bit, and he stretches his hand farther out. He says "I didn't make you an offer, child. You will be comin' with me."

Sarah, she just mushes that tobacco around, and then she moves it on back over to the other side, and then she mushes it around some more, like she's thinkin' somethin' over. And slow as anything, she blinks once, twice, and she says

"Ain't."

And the devil, hoo boy you shoulda seen him. Suddenly there's no more smooth and no more suit, just horns and fangs and tails and the smell of smoke. And he's furious that she can just sit there like he don't even matter, and he yells and howls and he screams "You'll be comin' with me if I have to drag you the whole damned way!"

But here's the thing you gotta remember about the devil: all his power comes from people fearin' him. Even good folks like you and me, filled with the love of the Lord and the light of Heaven, he can turn that against us because he stands for everything we hate, and he can use it to pull us all the way down to Hell with him. It takes someone like Sarah, who couldn't care less if he's Satan or Saint Nick to stand up to the old boy like that, and boy do he hate it, 'cause he knows he can't do a thing to her.

And in the middle of all this smoke and threats, Sarah just sits, rockin' back and then rockin' forth again, chewin' on her tobacco. Mush mush, moooove, mush mush. And finally, she opens up her mouth and she says

"Ain't."

But the devil, he ain't one to give up without a fight. So he spreads his arms wide, and he brings forth a coupla demons, things of flesh and blood as much as fire and brimstone. He brings 'em out 'cause they're realer than all his smoke and trickery, and 'cause grabbin' old women ain't no kind of job for a Prince of Lies anyhow. He yells at them "Take her!" and they jump.

Quicker'n you can see, and quicker'n anyone should be movin', Sarah brings out her old shotgun and she pumps their chests full. And once they're down and her porch'll never look the same again, she looks at the devil and she says

"I ain't goin' nowhere with nobody."

And the devil, well, he's a crafty one but he knows when he's beat. So without so much as a pardon me he disappears and leaves Sarah all alone with herself. But he's not done with her yet, not by a long shot. He ain't never lost a soul in all his days – 'ceptin' a few he don't personally count – and he don't plan to start now. But he's gotta bide his time first.

And so, the poor old preacher who tends the flock the old nag's part of, he's heard that Sarah's taken awful sickly of late, and he's made a point of visitin' her regular so as to hopefully save her before her time. And it just so happens that he's come come up for a visit not an hour after the devil came for his. He sees Sarah just rockin' away, and he makes sure to hold up his hat so she don't take it into her head to chase him off like she do kids and rabbit and revenuers. She tolerates him comin' and he walks up and asks her "How are you doin' today, Sarah?"

"No better for your tresspassin'."

But that's just her way, and as a man of God he feels like he's gotta give her his all. So he comes around her porch, and what does he see but a pair of rottin' demons, just as nasty and as dead as you please. And he drops to his knees and he prays to God above and he says "Sarah, what happened here?"

"The old boy came for me hisself, no thanks to you."

And the preacher, he just doesn't know what to do. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, and finally he just says "Well spit in my eye and call me a Baptist!" And, takin' him at his word, she gobs right in his face and screams

"Well then get the hell out of here, you Baptists sonovabitch, 'cause he's comin' back tonight!"

And sure enough, she was right. That night, he comes back for her. Of course, he don't do it obvious. That's not his style, to keep tryin' somethin' that don't work. No, he's too smart for that, so he puts on his old halo and he takes up his old wings, and all of a sudden he ain't no Lucifer. Nope, you'da had a hard time not droppin' to your knees and genuflectin' like a dang Catholic in front of him, and you'da sworn up and down it was Gabriel himself.

So in the light of the moon and not much else, he comes back to her old house, shinin' brighter than just about anything. He descends like an angel of old, and he says in a voice like milk and honey "Child of God, you have done well to resist the temptations and trickery of Hell. Your reward is to take your rightful place at His feet in the kingdom of Heaven."

And he stretches his hand out for her like before, but he's a canny old thing so he remembers not to let his teeth sharpen or his horns show. But Sarah, she ain't havin' none of it. She raises her gun, and she spits on the ground, and she says

"I told you before, you old bastard, I ain't goin' nowhere with nobody!"

And if it had been anyone else, they wouldn't have been able to hightail it out of there so fast, and she'd have filled 'em fulla shot. But the devil's as quick as he is clever, and he's gone before you could so much as blink.

Now, as you can probably guess, Sarah weren't never one for bein' too sociable, but she'd be damned – again, I suppose – if she was gonna let somethin' like all that happen and not rub salt in the old boy's wounds. So she takes an old knife the next mornin', and she cuts the heads right off those demons, and she parades 'em around the town for everyone to see. And the preacher weren't too happy about it, on account of how much Sarah flew in the face of his "live righteously and ye shall be rewarded" message, but he couldn't do a thing about it. After all, how many demons could he say he'd exorcised?

And so it went on like that, for days and for weeks, with the devil tryin' every trick up his sleeve and every trick, in his book, but Sarah's just too smart or too stubborn to fall for a one of 'em. And every day, she'd come down and she'd tell us all about how she'd beat him that night, right up until not a one of us could be afraid of the old goat anymore. You might be wonderin' why such a miserable old woman would be so set to go on livin', and to be honest, I don't have much of an answer. It couldn'ta been because she was too happy here on Earth to leave, 'cause not even the oldest old folks could remember a time Sarah so much as cracked a smile. And it couldn'ta been because she was too afraid of Hell, 'cause Sarah used to go bear-baitin' for kicks, and Hell and all its angels aren't a patch on a big black bear comin' down on you like a frieght train. No, I gotta figure it was all just pure cussedness, spitin' Satan just as much as she's spite anyone who came on her land.

But of course, you gotta there can't be a happy endin' to a story as unhappy as Sarah. And, of course, you can't live forever. So one night, after wrackin' his brains for longer than he cared to remember, Old Scratch had a thought, and he smiled to himself more the more he thought about it. And provin' that the simplest plans are always the best, he waited until night came around again, and he crept up on her while she was sleepin'. See, she hadn't properly died all those months, so she still had to get her shuteye in. And when she was asleep, she couldn't refuse him. And if she couldn't refuse him, well, he could just do with her whatever he pleased.

And so the next day, we all waited for her daily parade through town with a demon skull in each hand. And we waited past breakfast, and we waited past noon, but time came and went and it seemed to have taken Sarah with it. We knew what had to have happened, of course, but we all went up to her house, holdin' our breaths and hopin'. But on her front porch was an empty rocker with a skull on each arm, and a black necktie draped over the back.

These days, hardly nobody goes up to the Sorenson place. We cleared out all the demon bones and the preacher burned the tie and told us all about the pitfalls of Hell again and we all pretty much stopped talkin' about the whole affair. But every week or so, someone'll go up and dust things down a bit and make sure there aren't too many spiders hangin' about. Because let me tell you...

Ain't nobody expects old Sarah to be gone too long.

SpoilerShow

aw man SO that was a fun read

From the Holy Book of Bitchin' Origin Stories:

In the beginning of the universe, there was a moment of perfect synchronicity. And it was too awesome to be contained, so it created space to exist in. But the space itself had to exist in space, and expanded as space is wont to do. And so, the original awesomeness spread itself out across the whole of the cosmos; where anything is awesome it is the aggregate of the original Cosmic Awesomeness.

From the Doctrine of the Old Lawyers.

We, as advanced members of the universe as a whole, do decree that we serve as advisers for every ruling body in existence. As such, we now make required reading these ten thousand tomes of legal advice that shall rule every facet of life and existence.

From the Sleep-Deprived Monks of Insomnia.

and then i daid i just want so sleep but i cant sleep so i am her and i am wiritn in the hoy scrptues that we shall make thos order of, and it waslll be the great and the greatest
worshop our savor the malytop

<Agenblar> **click**
A wavering note suspended in the air, crystal clear - like running water, without the water, but suggested in the gleam of the crystal walls, mirrors vibrating oh-so-slightly and resonating in time with its subtle cadences.

The walls made up a cathedral; a space dotted with towering pillars and not much else. It was space with only one decoration: itself, and it needed no other.

The note weaved and spun and had its echoes clash amongst themselves in eternity, waves interfering with one another in a way that suggested htey had been doing so, chaotically, for a infinity of times.

Yet like any other system that iterated across all possible states, it had found one that was self-replicating.

And it was such that the note compounded with itself, until one by one the mirrored walls cracked, then shattered, the cacophony threatening to drown their budding population.

So it was fortituous that before this happened, the great doors to the cathedral opened, and the note was let free...
**click**

Why so we sit
Why not try further and believer believer

it's a sad, lonely night;
leaves flutter in an artificial wind - you have never seen the sunlight.
This poured-concrete cell, congruent to a thousand others
is your world.
your pages have fallen to the ground again.
breathe the air. It smells of ink, and the lingering aroma of your last meal.
You no longer know if it is breakfast, lunch or dinner.
It is night, you decide; a cold, dead night
where outside - somewhere - families are bedding down their children, present and future.
Perhaps there is a place where they bed down the children past.
You hope it isn't like this room. Cold and sterile; the world a blank slate on which nothing can be written.
Because if the whole world is like this
you will go mad.
Your whole world is like this.
You are mad.
Think! Back to a time before the steel and poured artificial stone became your life.
Think, remember a world, not this, so you know that your sanity remains.
...
You cannot.
There may be food.
It nourishes you.
Perhaps you only think it nourishes you, but you do not care.
If you are to die, better that it comes quickly
or perhaps when you are unaware, dying approaches like a shadow, percolating in from the edges of your vision
a fog tinged with oblivion.
No one will remember these words, you realize even as you scratch them onto the sheaf of sheets of pieces of shit pulp cheap paper with pasty ink, not red but a simple, dead black, not even you
You are not anything but a lounger here on your simple, unyielding bed.
You are a lounge.
Perhaps this is a living room, and you are a lounge adjoining it.
But it is still grey. It is still stone. It is still steel.
Nothing has changed,
and you are still you.
The desk you write at is also made of concrete.
It is a crevice in the wall.
The only crevice, except for the one where food arrives.
That one will kill you if you crawl into it.
You tried once.
You woke up at your desk.
In front of you was a page.
It wrote about what happened when you crawled into the food crevice.
it was not in your handwriting.
Since then, you have specially stuck that one page onto the ceiling above your bed.
You do not remember sleeping.
One day, you looked down at your hands, and you realised they were writing.
The handwriting matched that of the page.
Since then, you have taken it down, and thrown it in the corner with the others.
It is a bleak, endless dark night
and no one cares.
No one will ever care.
There is no one but you
and you are mad.
Quite mad.

Omigosh like theres a fire a here what do aha okay so here's like the fire extinguisher and i am aaaah why am i eating the fire extinguisher why am i do that is taste like the food i ate yesterday which was a burrito and five sundaes it was good let's talk about that today but not today but yesterday so i was going to the cafeteria when it BURST INTO FLAMES AND i threw the grenade that i had in my pocket at it and it blew up and it worked and so that's why the people were like omigosh you're like our hero and like stuff like yeah so like do you want a what was it a burrito and like five ice cream sundaes and i was like sure and i ate it and so that gives me idea for the present i'll just use a grenade again except I DO NOT HAVE A GRENADE so i use my special digestion power to convert the fire extinguisher that i just ate and it gets converted into grenade and i use the grenade and it works hoorrayyyyyyyy

i shall reward my self by eating wood





like
the burnt wood i mean

So the robot flew far, far, far, until it reached the cosmic jackpot. A solar system comprised of a single sun, surrounded by several utopian Earths. It knew it wouldn't find a better one than this.
So it scanned the first, and found the reptiles.
So it scanned the second, and found the mammals.
So it scanned the third, and found the fish.
So it scanned the fourth, and found the birds.
And it noticed that, no matter where it looked, bugs were always present.
Why were there bugs everywhere? Is life dependent on them? Would we have grown to our full capacity without them? It seems probable, that insects rule the universe.
The stinging wasp, the dutiful ants, the pestful flies, the crawling centipedes, and every spider at its loom, rule their own little kingdoms, and how many people have cared to notice?

When a crcodile is sad, nobody will believe it. It and its lying eyes. /Maybe it shouldn't have been born with no facial muscles to express with -- should have thunk twice -- and then stolen a lion;s face to proveide the emotions it needed to convey. As it stands, when most people see it, this fictional crocodile we'll call Dill, first they think, oh shit, a lion, then they think, oh shit, a crocolion, trhen they think, oh SHIT, that thing is straght0up king of the jungle! by coup ed;eatout! Which is all well and good, but it makes it reall y hard for Dill to talk out his sadness and he still hasn't accomplished his main goal in the first place! It's hard to be king, too.

One day, Dill and one of his )many) unwanted mating partners were straight shilling in his hut. Dill said, 'I know not why it is I am so sad, but I wish it nt to be so."

Dill's unwanted mating partner said, "I love Shakespeare! Let's bone, make e your queen." Then she started tpeeling off ehr bikini, very sexily (for crocodules),. But Dill remained unbonered.

"The only Queen, for Shakespeare," said Dill, ":s Queen Elizabeth." With that, quite satisfied witjh the way that quipo turned out, misplaced colon and all , ge left his unwanted mating partner behngd, all cold, naked, and sexy. (forc crocodile standarsd.)

Dill powerwalked through all slorts of environemts in a montage. It was his quest to find real truth, true happiness at last. He walked ifrom his swamp to the deep jujngle first. His lionface disguise scared away all trhe Zebras and Gazelles and shit, but when he came to the lions, well! At first they were repulsed by his hackjob and cavalier disrespect of mortality/lionanity, but then got over it when they realized their hypocricy feeling that way as carnivores themselves. Then they recognized their friend's face -- it was the head honcho lion! They fawned all over him even harder than they did back at his own swamp, and you will not BELIEVE how much poontang he got. But soon they realized that he wasn't a very commanding presence at all. They caelled him oversensitive and homosexual(despit how much crazy sex he got.) (for a crocodile).

He ran and he ran and he dashed and he dashed, tears streaming down his face, until he came to te desert, the place with all the answers and no questions. He stayed hydrated by drinking a canteen full of his own tears. But they were all fakem or atleast of no substance when they evaporated. Juzt when he thought he was going to habve to use his surivivalist techniques he learned on the Discovery Channel -- he was already gwtting ready to pee into a solar panel still, mentally 00 a wise shamzn bird (some desert bird) walked up with its gangly(?) legs all aflutter.

"i see you are in need of my hdlp," said the shaman bird.

"How did you know?" asked Dill.

"well you're a corcodile in the desert. you kinda stick out like a sore thumb."

The shaman desert bird took Dill back to his teepee (is that racist? - author( and fed him some water in his mouth. Then he took Dill aside to do a palm reading, because he apparently wasn't just a shaman, but a shitty fake gypsy too.

"Doill said, "are you sure this shit works? Because I heard ths shit was bullshit."

"No, it's birdshit," said the Shaman. now "shut up."

Then the Shaman Desert Bird took Dill by his hand. Paw? and started to read it. But as he unfurled more and more of the scroll-tapestry that was Dill's leather-bound skinn and literally peeled back the letters of skin, (*layers) (that is seriously the only error i've made so far i fel the need to really correcgt because it altered comprehension) the wise desert shaman bird thing became progressively more surprised. Eventually, jhis eyes lkeaped out his skull and little train whistle sounds come out of his ears a nd his at spins aond by itself. Like a Looney Tune.

"What,s up, Doc?" asked Dill. He did not realize that that was an actual good quip for the situation, unlike the one where he actually tried.

"What you got might change the world if you got it." said the Shaman Stupid Birdshit Thing, " you are the chosen one."

"What des that mean?" That boy needs therapy.

"It means you were chosen to be the protagonist of your very own story."

"Wow! My own story! Is it a good one?"?

"No. You were pounded out in about a half an hour and it was really dark so the author kept making typos. It was also Midnight and no revisions were made."

"That doesn 't sound good,"

"No, it's really more a peek into the author' psyche than a real story. His underformed psyche that puts crocodiles with bikinis in with Shakespeare."

"Can I atleast have my layers of skin back?"

"No, but according to the story, you can have your letters."

Then they both shared a gtood laugh at my expense. Then Carl SHIT I MEAN DILL died of dehydration. The shaman lived existentially ever after.

the END

Seems like very interesting story..It is fake but love reading it.. Nice sharing..