Room 205- Part 1 of 2

Room 205

            Harper Grant lived two doors down and across the hall. Every condo in my building was the same… except for his. His condo was much larger than normal condos, and it wasn’t in fact, the regulation size; but he paid extra for it, didn’t he? Yes, I could tell he had bribed the landowner, Gregory, for that room and he had especially bribed him not to add a wall and make it two separate condos.

Yes, that’s how big it was, it was twice the size of one average condo; to be more specific, it was twice the size of my condo. He even had a big view of the part next door, and the building was shaped like a large, backwards C, so his was one of the two rooms with a window, and Gregory had already closed down that condo on accord of an infestation of some rodent I had never heard of. Once I had gotten a raise and saved up for the condominium downstairs with the window, Gregory shut it down. I knew that moment that Harper Grant had planted said vile rodents in the walls somehow and he was meaning to destroy my dreams.

I always hated Harper, and he disliked me two times more, but it was less shocking for me to snap first.

Just like his spine.

He never would’ve allowed me to have the superior apartment unless I stood over his dead body with my stolen keys. Of course, this was not an easy task, for I had to get into his room somehow, but one weary night, I figured it all out. I would creep into Gregory’s office where he kept all of the spare keys, I’d pull the shades, grab the keys, sneak back out, unlock Harper’s condo, run into his room, suffocate him with his own pillow, buy a safe storage, hide the body, keep his room. Voila.

But Gregory made it harder. On the night when I planned to borrow the owner’s keys, he wasn’t asleep like I had anticipated. Greg had instead decided to go out with his “girlfriend,” more commonly known as a call girl, get wasted, come back into his office, and fuck her on the desk. So I killed the whore, and then the bastard Gregory. Their bodies were a little harder to dispose of, so instead of concealing them in a safe, I acted on impulse, and cut them each into twenty different pieces, drained their blood in the toilet, and packaged them in deli bags. I had a friend who could take it from there. I had to go back to his apartment, and pack him a suitcase and leave a flyer on his bed for Hawaii. Later I would hire a housesitter under the pretense I owned the shithole. I feared that it’d be hard to believe, considering he didn’t care about his apartment. I didn’t cover up for the prostitute: no one would notice her disappear.

Why is horror, horror?

You may ask why so many authors write of the genre, and why it ends so often in the protagonist's loss. The answers lie here; Horror is dominated by a strong group of writers who won't just let their hero win, because they have an equal love for their antagonist. They want the final battle to be strewn with loses; broken ribs, severed extremities, lost children, brothers, sisters, and friends. As so often seen in thrillers, the hero would win after a battle where their life is threatened, but never put in real danger. Horror and Sci-fi creators need to see their heroes fall victim to physical and emotional pain, and it is for that reason that those creators make superior novels and films; it produces a more realistic outcome in a genre where realism is not accepted as a plot, and when a character dies, you end up caring because the producers used hardships to make the characters human. It is the emotional toll that the protagonists endure that give the movie an impact, and provides an ending that will tear at your heartstrings and likely leave you satisfied.

Treacherous- a short story lead in

“Jebidiah Dalton, you crazy rascal, you!” Daniel Hudlow swung an empty fist round the boy’s side, connecting with his hip, and knocking him to the ground. “Got you now you little whelp!” Jebidiah tumbled to his side, narrowly missing the pendulum of the large man’s steel-toed boot. Jebidiah leapt to his feet, and slurred a quick remark:

            “If I’m a whelp of a boy, that’d make you king cur: of the mongrel blooded peasants!” Jebidiah ducked, dodging another manual attack. He swooped back down to the dirt road and picked up a stick about the size of a pocketknife. The boy turned back facing the man, and pantomimed as if he were jousting with a rapier. “Be on guard foolish being; king cur, mongrel of mongrels, you bastard son of bastard parents!” The man shot forward, and with a mastery of agility, the boy bounced to the side, and counteracted with a jab of his rapier into the victim’s abdomen.

            The man fell to the ground, shrieking in pain, “Your mighty sword has found its scabbard in my body!” Hudlow closed his eyes and lazily plopped his tongue out.

            “Ah hah! I have felled the wicked troll; malevolent and balefully he has fallen to the tombs of hell, where Kronos shall find thy troll, his servant of misery. ” The boy mounted Dan Hudlow with his victorious boot and he gave a grunt, “Any spiteful last words from beyond the dead?”

            “You shan’t forget my face, o’ honorable knight, for I will be back, and naught shall stop me!”

            “How piteous are those fools who reckon they are apt to return from Tartarus, deepest of all pits, you shall be banished from our world and sentenced to an eternity of moving boulders. Now be gone! Thy maiden is summoning me to supper.”

            “Come on Jebidiah, your pigeon is getting cold!” Jebidiah’s mother poked her head from their house, “Oh, Mr. Hudlow! I didn’t see you there, you are very welcome to join us for dinner.” Daniel Hudlow turned his head slightly and peeked from small slits in his eyelids, then stage-whispered back,

            “Sorry ma’am, but I do not know the word dih-nur,” Daniel grunted, imitating the fantastical creature, “for I am the infamous Troll, Boghdar, and your king has smitten me with his sword-“ then back to Jebidiah, “what’s your sword’s name, master?”

            “Firebolt”

            “He has smitten me with Firebolt-what kind of a name is that for a sword, Jebidiah? Oh, however- I am now dead.”

            “Then I shall use a potion of bring-back-to-life!”

“Mother, you can’t use that unless you went down to the land of the undead!” the boy shrieked.

            “Then I will do so, if Mother wants a guest to stay for dinner, then Mother will do whatever it takes, now come on, dinner is getting cold.” Sally Dalton beckoned the two to enter.

            “How’d I do, Dan?” asked Jeb, removing his foot from Dan’s chest.
            “Help me up, would’ja?” Jeb gave him a hand. “You did mighty fine, my good pupil. You kept light on your feet and with a clear mind.”

            “Thanks Dan!” Jeb paused for a second, thinking, “What’dya think’d be a good, solid name for a sword?”

            Dan rubbed his neck scruff, “Well, it usually depends on how you got it, what you use it for most often,” he paused again, and added, “or the first actual battle you’ve fought.”

            “Hmm. Do you think I’ll ever get a sword like yours?” Jeb reached for the scabbard that swung at his side. Dan swatted his hand away.

            Jeb’s good friend smiled, “Of course,” he said and rested a hand on his shoulder, “in fact, I’m positive you’ll have one twice, nay, three or four times better than my sword!”

            “Woah, really?” the boy was amazed, and his eyes lit up with excitement.

            “I repeat: of course! Now let’s sup, I’m sure your mother has something great prepared for us.”

The two entered the Dalton household, where Sally had their dinner lain out, prepared on three separate plates.

            Daniel thought about this for a second, “Wait now, Mizz Sally, if you didn’t know I’d be here for dinner, then who’d you lay out the third plate for?” A smile crept from her lips, and Daniel’s did the same.

            Sally pointed to the side of her nose.

            “Hey maw, din looks really good!” Daniel pulled out his chair and stabbed his fork into the pigeon’s side. The grown-ups followed his actions.

            “Thanks hon, it took quite a while to prepare.”

            “Well I’m sure it’ll be worth it Sally.” Dan winked.

            “Hey maw, if I finish early, can I go down to the clearing with Captain Daniel?” His mother said he could, ruffling his hair, and when the boy finished, he went out and played sword with the army captain. The dew had fallen the night before and as Jebidiah wrestled in the grass, he created a memory that the both of them would never forget. Especially when Daniel Hudlow, captain of the Riftden army had gone missing for two years, and thus proclaimed dead.

Into the maze we fall. shuffle 1

                                                               Three days past.

            There was a loud knocking at the door. Much less of a knock, but a banging, barbaric thud. Harriet didn’t want to deal with them right then, and she couldn’t. Her heart couldn’t bare another tear. How had this happened? She promised her son just a week, but it had evolved into something more. They were stuck there. Trapped inside by their own creation.

            She could still escape though, couldn’t she? She glanced at the window, and it was still open. He hadn’t come back though—she had to consider if he was even still alive.

            The banging came again, louder.

            “ITS YOUR TURN!” The raspy voice screamed at her, demanding what she couldn’t give.

            Harriet scooted further away from the door, up against the boarded wall. The frayed edges of Timothy’s bed caught her shoulder and gave her a few splinters that would later fester. Harriet pulled a blanket off the top of his bed and covered their bodies with its warmth. She began to stroke her son’s hair.

            “You know Sam, the first toy I ever bought with my own real money was this cute little dolly.” Harriet smiled along with the nostalgia that flooded over her, and her weeping was pardoned for a minute. “She had two outfits, one was a simple, blue skirt that was buttoned at her waist and paired with a white shirt spotted with blue dots.” She hesitated to wipe away a tear, and her smile faltered for a second. “And the other was a real pretty red dress. I loved that one the most, but of course I lost it.” She laughed a bit, then returned to her story, “I cried for a straight hour until my mom came to me in the night. She comforted me and said, ‘honey, your dolly, Annie, had a friend that really liked that dress too, so she lent it to her,’ so my mom gave me a box, and in it was another dress, it was red too, but I could tell it was hand made. I burst out crying and I hugged my mom and thanked her for the dress. I could tell she had worked on the dolly’s dress for nearly an hour, just for me. I laid in her arms with my pretty dolly and she sang me to sleep.” There was a flow of tears running down Harriet’s face, and she hugged Sam tighter. “I always wanted to be there for you babe, just like my mom was for me, but you were a boy and I didn’t know what to do, and then your father died, and he left me without any help. I couldn’t manage losing him and I know you still love him too. So that's why it was so hard for me to help you live a normal life when you had created such a shell.”

            Harriet couldn’t hold herself together any longer. She broke down, but Sam comforted her, and she kissed Sam’s cheek. His head lolled back, the pupils fell behind his head, and the gash in his temple had aged; dead skin peeled off like paint chips and the molding flesh had grown to a pallid green hue, but the spell was not broken, and Harriet still thought that her son was among the living.

            The bedroom window was swiftly thrown up, and a man slithered in. It was Vic, her beloved friend.

            “Hey Harriet,” he whispered quietly, calmly. He gently crawled over to the broken woman cradling a dead body.

            He looked deep into her eyes, but she didn’t look back. Victor put his arm soothingly around the woman he secretly loved.

            Harriet continued to cry without sound.

            “Why don’t we let Sam lay down, hon?” Victor pried the body out from Harriet’s arms, and she sat still, nonplussed, and in ataraxia.

Victor carried Sam’s body and laid him down on Vic’s bed across the room.

“Torv?” Vic’s eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Yes, Harriet?”

“I wanna see Randal.”

“Randal? Why do you-“ Victor looked down at his hands, cleared his throat, “Sh-sure Harriet. I’ll take you to see him.” The room was dark, and it was night outside. Victor had just been outside, and he didn’t want to go back, but the thing waiting outside their door had come back, and it had the intentions of getting in.

Three thuds erupted from the door. It quaked in its sill, and they were in the wrong wing. Timothy, Vic, Matthew, and Jimmy were all put in the second wing, which had been constructed by someone who, at this time, virtually no one trusted. The door wasn’t going to hold, and Vic could see that now. One more thud. Two thuds. Harriet whined.

“Torv, lets go!” she pulled on Vic’s arm, but he waited. He was perplexed by these creatures. What had Randal done?

Vic hushed Harriet, and he listened. What was that sound? It mimicked that of a mechanical—drill? Vic focused his attention on the door, and he saw one of the screws—slowly pull itself out of the door. He heard the drop of one screw in the hallway.

“Harriet?” the voice rasped, hushed by the door, “Harriet? Wanna’ see Sammy? Your dear baby Sam?” A second screw slowly pulled itself out of the door. “Sam is in a good place now, in fact, in a better place than you are,” The second screw dropped, and the third started turning around. Harriet let go of Vic’s arm. “Harriet?” she crept to the door, put her ear against it and listened.

“Yes?” The third screw was halfway out.

Not understanding the situation fully: “Harriet let’s go now,” Vic pulled on Harriet’s sweater this time.

Plop. The third screw was released. The sound rebounded in Vic’s ears, and the machine stopped. With sudden horror he realized: The other six screws that now would have held the door in place were previously removed. Now all that separated Harriet from the monsters in the hallway was—nothing.

Vic tore Harriet away from the door and it came thundering down on the ground, the brutal, terrific creature stood standing; awaiting Harriet’s entry to the unconscious realm. Vic threw Harriet in front of himself and pushed her outward.

“OUT!” He screamed, “Get out the window!” she turned around, with worried eyes that Vic would never forget.

“Sam.” He understood her, nodded. With one bound, she was outside, almost free from the creature in Vic’s bedroom, but Vic wasn’t.

Vic swept up Sam’s body and cradled him near his chest, left arm under Sam’s legs. Vic ran for the window, and the creature was close behind. Five feet away from the window, four feet, three feet, and down goes Victor, the severed leg of a chair smashed brutally against Vic’s side, there was an instant snap. Vic’s fourth rib down gave away to the incredible force of the creature’s weapon. He tumbled over and dropped the kid, rolled onto his side, felt the maelstrom of pain swoop down and roll him over again to his back. He stared deep into its sockets, which now dripped with some milky solution. And it spoke.

The voice was raspy, quiet, and unsure of the words it was producing. “Sh-she asked that her chylde be ruh re-re-moved from hear. Sh-she wanted Sam-mule to go some wear bet-ter.” Vic struggled for air, his broken rib tearing into his lungs. It spoke again. “Eyemm so-sorry I hert yoo Vic-tor. I did not want you to leaf.”

Vic looked deeper into the sockets, and almost found sadness, melancholy, longing.

Into the maze, we fall- a lead in (explicit)

“TIMOTHIEEEEEE!” The voice was raspy and hoarse, but yielded a certain childlike feel from the thing’s terrible stutter. Timothy turned right, into a glass pane separating him from the field outside. He slammed his fist, hoping for a give. “TIMOTHY?” it wouldn’t budge. A high-pitched scream echoed through the dim-lit hallway and resounded. At the end was a hanging light, beside the creature’s silhouette. Timothy backed into the dining table, where there sat breakfast prepared for three days earlier. The eggs and ham had molded and the grits had something growing. He grabbed a chair and heaved it over his head, and it crashed through the wall of glass. Timothy checked down the hallway one more time. “You-you’re a b-bad boy Timothy. Margaret wou-would not be happy wi-with you.” The thing’s voice was distant and deep, and soon it picked up speed. He watched as it came from Harriet’s room and swung the kid’s baseball bat over its head and smashed the light bulb.
The whole room was dark as pitch, and the creature had disappeared. Timothy ran for the field. At least on the outside, he had the light of the crescent moon. But the voice did not stop beckoning. He looked back, and he saw the creature emerge from the darkness of the house. “Join the rest Ti-Timothy. It’s wh-what M-Maaah” Moaning into the long A sound, “Mar-Ma-Mar-Marg—F-F-F-F-FUCK.” The creature’s head twitched as it tried desperately to pronounce Margaret.
Timothy jumped into a sprint, and the creature chased after him. He aimed for the wheat field. There, he might have a chance of loosing the thing. Timothy passed the first row of wheat, and he was in foreign grounds. LEFT RIGHT RIGHT STRAIGHT LEFT. Timothy had no clue where he was going, Randy had told him the safest way though, but now it all meant nothing to him. He could make no sense of his mind; the adrenaline stopped any sort of passage for memory.
Dead end. Timothy looked back, he could now see two bald, grey heads bobbing through the field. One back north, the other coming from the east. “Timothy!” The second raspy voice called out to him, “We-we don’t want to hu-huh-hu-hurt you, we ju-jus- we just want you to fu-fucking die.” The voice was calm and somehow bearing condor. A third head started bobbing at him from the southwest. He had to get out of there. JUMP STRAIGHT FUCKING THROUGH THIS BITCH. He shielded his eyes and ran through the wheat—aligning perfectly with the third creature. They stood still, his legs wouldn’t cooperate—eyes locked. He couldn’t bear to look anywhere else, the creature’s synthetic skin had taken a beating, it was rotting away, and the skin where the eyebrow should’ve been had drooped in front of its eye like the thing’s eyelids were a dog’s scrotum. Timothy’s eyes darted down to the thing’s hand, it was loosely holding onto a bundle of wheat shafts. The skin was sagging off of the meat, about a quarter inch lower. It was using the wheat as a crutch, and its leg lagged two feet back. Timothy looked back at the coal-dark eyes, and bolted.
He chased off to the left, further into the mess of a plantation, which could only be called a maze. A maze like those corn ones you’d find at fairs at night, and you and your friends would sneak in, and later, they’d jump out and scare you. This was a lot like that, except here they were bearly living and wanted nothing more but to bury your fading brains in the wet soil.
Timothy checked the heads again, three. He counted three, and let a sigh of relief. Then turned again, and continue away. In minutes he’d find the beautiful gravel road, and he’d steal Randal’s car, and he’d finally get away from this fucking hellhole. He turned one more corner, and there it was, Randal’s Model T sitting serenely like a chivalrous knight and his dark steed. He sprinted for the door, pounced on it, threw it open, swung it closed. He was safe. For god’s fucking sake, he was safe. Timothy grabbed the key and turned counterclockwise. It didn’t start. He jerked it to the left again. NOTHING. Timothy looked back into the field; the heads were getting closer, bobbing up and down through the maze.
“Start damn you.” Timothy growled. He pounded his fist on the wheel, shoved the key in its place, and turned it clockwise this time. It sputtered twice, and lurched into motion. He stepped on the gas and threw on the headlights. Finally, he traveled down the road in safety. Timothy paused. He rested his hand on head and laughed. He couldn’t stop laughing. “Counter clockwise? Are you kidding me, Timothy? You turned it fucking counterclockwise?” He threw the ignition: “Oh well, Margie. I’ll see you in a day and a half.” He placed his hands back on the wheel. It now had a small, maroon stain. WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME? Looking down at the wheel, he touched his head one more time. It was sticky. And now, it was smarting with intense pain. “What the fuck is wr-“ His eyes darted back to the road, mid-sentence, the creature was standing there; right in the middle of the road, looking directly at Timothy. In one moment, the creature knew everything about Timothy, like he had grown up with him as a child, because in that moment, he could watch Timothy die.
Timothy jerked his car to the left, it swerved on two wheels, and the creature’s sickly blue blood leapt up onto his windshield, and became road-kill as a sacrifice for Timothy’s life. The Model T collapsed on the side of the road, and the last three creatures pulled Timothy’s dying body from the broken window.

Tiers: a short story lead-in (explicit)

            My mother set down her cup of coffee. “So what do you think about that dirty republican? Dirty isn’t he?”

            A smile slid out from my lips. “Chad Hollands can suck a royal dick for all I care.” My pinky popped up and I rose my cup to my mouth ever so slowly.

            “Yes, yes, indeed.” My mother agreed, “I’d have thought that he came from region one if I didn’t know any better.” She let out a shill laugh. Most of our conversations went on this way. We dearly loved mocking the stereotypical, high-end tier threes.

            “Mhmm. Now, it’s getting quite stuffy in here, wouldn’t you say?”

            “Quite.” She nodded.

            “One might have thought that the conditioners are letting up. Slacking off, now aren’t they?” We hated tier threes and their constant abuse towards the engineers, and sure, a bit of that goes on back home in tier one, but we’d like to think of ourselves as aids to the less fortunate.

            “Sally Bozarth once said that a drop of melted snow fell through and landed on her Chapeau d’ Amour. It took a whole month to get it straightened out, and the feathers never returned to their previous glory!”

            “My, my, I once passed through region two and saw a grump! A real, live grump!” Immediately, I felt bad. My mother and I had been treating what tier threes had rejected from tier two as “grumps.” But for some reason I felt disturbed inside, like that didn’t matter because I knew that it wasn’t enough. “In all seriousness, mom, I feel nasty. I don’t want to do this anymore. Their so… icky.” I felt preppy already just by saying icky, like I had been in high school again, and I needed to flick my wrist afterwards.

            “The grumps?” my mother asked, straight-faced and earnest.

            “Please don’t call them that, mother.”

            “Well, what else are they? Do you prefer hobos? Vagrants? Poor dwellers of the barren tier two?”

            “Mom, please, stop” I rested my hand on her wrist.

            “Well that’s what they are, Greta. We try to piece back their life and give them something to live for.”

            “Mother!” She was hard to take, I could nearly stand her remarks.

            “Sorry, hon,” She recognized my exasperation, and with a quick change of expression, she was sincere. “I just want you to know how to separate reality from impossible hopes.

            I sighed, “It’s alright, mom. I mean what else can we do, right?”

            “Nothing, babe. Nothing.” I stood up, pushed my chair in all the way, and, leaving twenty dollars on the rusted, wire table, we left the small café. It was snowing outside, but we needn’t wear snowboots on tier one. It just passed through and proliferated into tier two. My mother was right. It was a barren wasteland, used for our dumpings. It was a mystery how anyone could live down there.

Shuffle

            “‘One foot high by sun down,’ he said. What a fucking liar.” David Brady mocked. The barren plains had been painted white with nearly two feet of snow and it was already 2 pm. David lifted his foot out of the snow, found a good rock, and tightened his snowshoes. The winds were pushing 70 miles per hour, whipping his skin right off of Brady’s cheeks. He pulled his do-rag up higher, and pushed on.

            David had passed by a small town earlier, but didn’t stay for long. He knew that he had to find the transportation cylinder, and it was a good fifty miles west. He had taken a liking to the town and its dwellers. Riften, they called it. There he found a nice family who allowed him to stay a couple nights until he recuperated. What was their name? It was something like Palnor—or Palmer. That had to be it. They had a cute nine-year-old son named Stanley.

            That was right, Stanley had these three action figures he had found in the plain one summer that had been dropped from the first tier. When David first meet Stanley, he had been playing with them on the cement floor, and he was so excited that he had to just jump up and show David, who was a complete stranger at the time, his “brand-spankin’ new toys.” Stanley even thought that they had been a kid from tier one’s who watched him and decided to set it in his plain just for him. David smiled, remembering the kid. His parents thought he was so cute that they didn’t have the heart to tell him that the toys had been thrown away by and misused by a middle class family from tier three. David would have laughed if he hadn’t been using all of his energy to trudge through the snow.

            The rest of the townsfolk weren’t too bad either, although that Mary Breacher lady was a real bitch. David remembered her face the first day he came into the town; she had a big down jacket with a fur lacing that she never parted from. She had high cheekbones and was awkwardly tall for a middle-aged woman, and when she was just three, her family shoved a great, big rod up her ass. David would be walking through her store, and she’d always ask, “Are you going to buy anything, sir?” and not only was she refusing to learn his name, but she addressed him as if he’d steal something. Mary was real pissed when she found out that someone had taken all of her sunflower seeds when David asked if he could buy some. He pulled down his do-rag and popped a handful of seeds in his mouth.

            Brady had gone about five miles the day before, but now he knew he’d be lucky to push three.

            David Brady paused and stared up at the thirty-foot-tall ceiling, snow continued to proliferate from tier one. “These great sciences of our time have brought an era of technology,” he mimicked, sardonic, “Where three tiers can separate different lifestyles; where families may choose to live in tier one: a summer dream; tier two: a winter wonderland; or tier three: a condition-regulated haven of cool air and sweet dreams.” David threw up his hands, as if revealing to the former president, and up-bringer of the tiers, Gregory Manchester, the conditions of tier two. “Does this look like a fucking winter wonderland asshole?” He continued to trudge again.

            Of course, when the tiers had risen and terrasculpted to bear their own terrains, every rich person resided in tier three, were it was cool in summer, and warm in winter, and everyone who couldn’t afford the stunningly-high prices of the third tier either stayed in tier one, for middle class, or tier two, for the poorest of the poor who couldn’t afford proliferating floors but stuck with whatever shit tier one gave them. The way it worked was that the first and highest tier, or level, would get to experience anything like heat that could rest on their tier but wouldn’t proliferate through the special floors, so they got the cold and the sun, but no snow or rain, because it would fall through the floor and enter the second tier. The second tier was royally fucked during the winter, where it would dump snow and from everywhere and funnel into their tier. The tiers were even brilliantly made out of metal that would heat up to extreme temperatures during summer and literally freeze during winter. The ultimate hellhole. The last level, tier three had conditioners to regulate heat and provide a synthetic sun. Seemingly a perfect plan if they had a president with half a brain.

Gimme input

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Sweet Dreams in Russian

Oh, du hübsche, kleine Klumpen,
Verlegung auf dem Boden, Dreschflegel Sie
Ihre Arme Griff, Füße treten,
Weiter und weiter, rutschen Sie
Runter, runter in die Dunkelheit des Todes.
Sie schreien um Hilfe
Doch Musik immer noch Pfund
Laut, als meine Axt macht Kanäle
Für Ihre süßen Blut zu fließen,
Absturz auf den Boden.
Schließlich stoppt das Herz,
Und ich verwerfen
Ihre abgetrennte Körper
und hängen Sie Ihren Kopf mit der Ruhe.
Süße Träume, meine Liebe,
Und jetzt können Sie schlafen.

Help. In German

Ich lachte , aber ich wollte nicht zu lachen, was ich meinte zu tun war, aufzustehen, werfe meine Karten nach unten, und schreien in ihrem Gesicht. Was ich sagte, war: " Das ist lächerlich. "
Meine Mutter sagte nichts .
Ich tat, wie sie sich sorgte , was falsch war . "Ich weiß es nicht. Ich fühle mich wie ich mehr ... "Ich zog eine leere, was war das Wort ? "Ich brauche mehr Credit bekommen als Vater mir gibt. " Es war ein guter Punkt für meine Mutter zu stimmen in.
Sie tat es nicht .
" Wie, ich meine nicht zu scheinen pompös, " war meine klassische Art zu sagen : "Gib mir mehr Respekt verdammte Arschloch! " Fuhr ich fort, "aber ich bin besser als ihr Jungs von mir denken . " Ich habe wirklich gefickt der Wortlaut gibt , aber zumindest habe ich nicht weinen wie die Muschi , dass ich starten. "Wie aus meinem ganzen Klasse , ich bin einer der intelligentesten Menschen . " Okay, in weichen kam Sie , Blödmann . Sie sind besser als die , die Menschen kommen zu Ihnen nach Antworten und behandeln Sie wie ein Gott verdammt gerne .
" Nun, ich glaube, Sie haben eine Menge von gottgegebenes Talent , dass viele andere Menschen nicht haben. " Ach ja ? Nun fick dich , verdiente ich all das und jetzt bin ich nicht Rückzieher , Schlampe.
Ich lachte sie schlicht Wahnsinn. Sie dachte, ich wurde lighthearted . "Mama, es gibt eine Menge von Wissenschaft , die beweist, dass niemand hat wirklich Talent", das wahr war, und ich war es nicht aus meinem Arsch wie mein Vater so oft behauptet ziehen ", sie einfach zu einem bestimmten Thema mehr vor der Arbeit jeder andere und so sind sie vor dem Spiel . "Ist das, was ich wollte, ich sagte, aber natürlich alles, was ich damit sagen, dass ich aus gelenkig in meinem Kopf geplant geht nur um zu scheißen , wenn ich präsentieren , weil es jedem , gut, ich bin ein verdammter Muschi. Was ich tatsächlich gesagt , ich bin mir sicher , war eine Mischung aus durcheinander Redewendungen , die keinen Sinn zusammen gedacht.
"Oh, ich glaube nicht, dass das stimmt, ich kenne eine Menge Leute, die sehr viel weniger Zeit verbracht haben laufen als ich, und wäre besser in einem Rennen zu tun. " Es kommt immer darauf an, läuft, nicht wahr?
"Ja , auch ich bin mir sicher , dass sie etwas anderes tun zu "
" Nö . "
Verdammtes Arschloch , hast du gerade brach mich mitten im Satz ?
"Sie wissen nicht ", schloss sie. Jetzt ist die Zeit , ihr zu sagen , dass Sie fast eine Stunde jeden verdammten Tag gelesen habe , da man wusste , wie man liest .
Aber ich tat es nicht. Ich tat es nicht , weil ich ein Idiot kauernd . Also sagte ich nur , "ok ", und nahm meinen Hund für einen Spaziergang , und in diesem Moment wurde mir klar, dass ich ein Buch schreiben , weil ich ein Kind, und niemand wird mich jemals ernst nehmen, denn ich kann nur sagen ", wenn ich groß bin, will ich ein witer ! " und ich kann ihnen nicht sagen, dass ja, ich schreibe ein Buch , weil aus irgendeinem Grund habe ich diese tiefe Minderwertigkeitskomplex und wenn ich niemandem sagen , dass ich zwei Jahre vor der Durchschnitt vierzehn Jahre alt und ich bin zwanzigtausend Worte in einem Roman , weil ich vielleicht jemanden hassen mich, weil ich bin schlauer als sie mich haben willst , und ich werde klingen "wie ein pompöser Arschloch. "

Help (explicit)

I laughed, but I didn’t mean to laugh. What I meant to do was get up, throw my cards down, and scream in her face. What I said was, “This is ridiculous,” with an undertone of amusement.

My mom didn’t say anything.

I acted like she cared what was wrong. “I don’t know. I feel like I need more…” I drew a blank, what was the word? “I need more credit than dad gives me.” It was a good point for my mom to tune in.

She didn’t.

“Like, I don’t mean to seem pompous,” was my classic way of saying, “Give me more fucking respect asshole!” I continued, “but I’m better than you guys think of me.” I really fucked up the wording there, but at least I didn’t start crying like the pussy that I was. “Like, out of my whole class, I’m one of the smartest people.” Okay, you came in soft there, dumbass. You’re better than that, people come to you for answers and treat you like a fucking god.

“Well I think you have a lot of god-given talent that a lot of other people don’t have.” Oh yeah? Well fuck you, I earned all of this and now, I’m not backing down, bitch.

I laughed at her plain insanity. She thought I was being lighthearted. “Mom, there’s a lot of science that proves that no one really has talent,” this was true, and I wasn’t pulling it out of my ass like my dad so often claimed, “they just work on a specific subject more before anyone else and so they’re ahead of the game.” Is what I wish I said, but of course, everything that I mean to say that I have planned out articulately in my mind just goes to shit whenever I present it to anyone because, well, I’m a fucking pussy. What I actually said, I’m sure, was a mix of jumbled idioms that meant no sense together.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s true, I know a lot of people who’ve spent much less time running than me and would do better in a race.” It always comes down to running, doesn’t it?

“Yep, well I’m sure that they do something else to-“

“Nope.”

Fucking asshole, did you just cut me off mid-sentence?

“They don’t,” she finished. Now’s the time to tell her that you’ve read for nearly an hour every fucking day since you knew how to read.

But I didn’t. I didn’t because I was a cowering idiot. So I just said, “ok,” and took my dog for a walk, and at that moment, I realized that I had to write a book because I’m a kid, and no one will ever take me seriously because I can only say “when I grow up, I wanna be a witer!” and I can’t tell them that yes, I am writing a book, because for some reason I have this profound inferiority complex and if I tell anyone that I’m two years ahead of the average fourteen-year-old and I’m twenty thousand words into a novel because I might make someone hate me because I’m smarter than they want me to be and I’ll sound “like a pompous asshole.”

Sweet Dreams

Oh, you pretty little lump,
Laying on the ground, you flail
Your arms grasp, feet kick,
Further, and further, you slip
Down, down to the darkness of death.
You cry out for help
Yet music still pounds
Loudly, as my axe makes canals
For your sweet blood to flow,
Crashing on the floor.
Finally, your heart stops,
And I discard
Your severed body
and hang your head with the rest.
Sweet dreams, my love,
And now you may sleep.

A dungeons and dragons reference.

As many people who play D&D, the bugbear is a kind, forgiving animal and is closely related to the hobgoblin. This is my story of how one can love such a creature.

There sits a certain love for a being,

An animal that dwells in caves at night.

Could naught compare to the act of seeing

Something as beautiful as such the sight

Of you, my darling, sweet, and cuddly bugbear?

You feast only in the glow of the moon,

But your victims’ cries of pain, I can hear

Tearing limb from limb, you care not to swoon.

Peeping through a hole, I spot your brown hair,

It is grimy and splattered with some blood.

Once I strip your skin, I shall have a pair,

To hang lovingly over my mantle to brood.

My darling, sweet bugbear, should you exist,

You would be the greatest game, I insist.

As you can see, bugbears are gentle and would be something that you would want to have sleeping at the foot of your bed.
Here he is:

 

A fun limerick:

This one is a personal favorite, it soothes the mind and therefore is a great one to tell your children and grandchildren before they go to sleep.


There once was a madman from Maine,
Who, though relentless, went insane.
He got locked in his house,
And murdered his spouse,
And no more, he felt such great pain.


It really assures the four to ten year old that yes, their daddy will be fine. Once Mommy goes away for a long... long time.