On the night of my son’s fifth birthday, the government men silently carried their equipment into his bedroom. Reminding myself that this was necessary, I placed a shaking hand over my mutilated face and discovered that the thirty-two-year-old crater where my right eye used to be was still capable of producing tears.
“I have to stop her,” I thought as my fingers closed on the handle of the kitchen knife and I started walking towards my sleeping parents’ room. And yet no matter how hard I tried, my body could only listen to the shrilling voice of its’ murderous new owner.
Last night, I was cutting onions in the kitchen when an onion bulb rolled down and under the kitchen counter. I lazily slumped on the floor and stretched my right arm to get the onion only to find myself holding a piece of my left thumb covered in my own blood.
Proud to have finished my self-portrait because of how realistic and three-dimensional my image had looked using acrylic, I brought and presented my painting in our art school event.
As I expected, my teachers and classmates thought it was an amazing masterpiece but what confused me was when my art teacher excitedly asked me right after my presentation, “So who was your lovely subject?”
i was playing wii sports bowling home alone against myself with two controllers. it was the other controllers turn so i walked over to pick it up but it was gone and i heard “strike” from behind me.
“Hi! Is this seat taken?”
It was three in the morning when i opened my eyes. When i saw written on the wall “First one that moves dies!”
I’ve always loved my wife’s face. That’s why i Keep it safe in my dresser.
A stranger once asked if I could lend him a hand, so I did. He never gave it back.
I sneezed once, twice, three times in succession. A thin voice beside the bed cackled “God bless you.”
The sound of the growling dog pulled me from a deep slumber. I don’t own a dog.
My last thought before stepping into oncoming traffic was relief that the insidious whispering would finally cease… Do not believe what is said about “the silence of the grave.”
Most people remember the bright blood stains on the wall. I only remember his laughter, crisp, loud, a beautiful piercing sound-rainbow.
Angrily, I told the haunting ghosts: “Go to hell and stay there!”
The leader of the ghosts said, “Wish, granted” but not one of them left my apartment.
“Kids never die in these movies because killers only want to kill the grown ups” exclaimed my bratty littler sister, who then rolled her eyes and turned away from me to continue watching the slasher flick on the television. With my knife up my sleeve and popcorn in the hand, I moved in from behind and said “too bad this isn’t a movie, kiddo”.
I wish I’d learned how to read and write so people could easily help me with my dilemma. They’ve been trying to talk to me by asking for my name but I couldn’t spell it on their Ouija Board nor make them see me moping here in my usual spot.
My bestfriend came to me crying after finding out her boyfriend was killed by a single gunshot to the head the night before.
I hugged her tightly and patted her hair with the same right hand I used to fire the weapon.
As I hunched over the sink to spit out a mouthful of toothpaste, my eyes flickered toward the mirror. My reflection was standing erect, watching me.
My sister used to have a beautiful doll that had bright blue eyes, dark red lips and honey gold hair. One day, while playing in the attic, we found an old picture of a girl that looked exactly like my sister’s doll and on her lap sat a doll looking exactly like my sister.
My throat was cut, my hands and feet bound, I slowly sank into the river as the world became darkness, my thoughts lingering around the dark shapes who threw me in.
And here I lie, telling my story to all I pull down, again and again, forever and always, till my ropes are cut.