creeeepy stoooory.....

here's the beginning of a story!
it's creepy!

and...unnerving...stuff like that

anyway, happy reading!

43 Lyndon Street

Timothy Anderson hurried out the door on a sunny Thursday morning. Thursday’s were his favorite, because he didn’t work on Friday’s. Timothy loaded the truck with the packages for the day and, grabbing a printout of his route for the day, hopped in his truck and started off.

Timothy worked for a package delivery company, a well paying job. And it helped that he knew this city like the back and front of his hand by the time he was 10. He was hired immediately after his trial day, since he returned from delivering an entire truckload in only 4 hours. His ever-present smile and cheery attitude lit up the buildings he delivered to, despite the fact that he was in and out like a flash.

This day was like no others. Drive, stop, deliver, and drive some more. It was an average sort of day, the sort that made Timothy want to yawn. Nothing of interest happened on his route.

At least, not until he went to 43 Lyndon Street, to deliver the last package for the day.

The building looked like any other building. Brick building, with wooden window and door frames. Kind of old, but it still stood, and looked pretty sturdy, after all.

Timothy walked to the door. The sign on the door said “Please enter, Receptionists desk just inside.” So he did just that.

But there was no receptionist behind the desk. Looking at his watch, he noted that the lunch hour was upon him. A perfect explanation for the lack of people. He thought to himself, “What kind of business leaves the building unlocked and everything?” Out loud, to himself, for lack of anyone else to talk to, he muttered, “Ah, but it’s not my place to question. I’m just the delivery boy.”

I’ve never delivered here before, have I? he thought, walking about and calling, hoping at least someone was still there. No, not here. But I’ve been here. He knew it, deep down, but he could not recall exactly. No matter, he need only deliver his package and be on his way.

But no one answered his calls. He noticed that no sound permeated the old building. He turned down one of the hallways past the foyer, still calling out.

A sound, that he hadn’t noticed earlier, but that must have been going this entire time, caught his ear. Naturally, he turned toward the sound. “Hello? Is anyone here? Package!” The sound escaped from a white doorway at the end of the hall. Timothy murmurs, “Is that a copier?” His hand reached out, gripping the cold metal handle, and turning.

“Hello?” The copier machine overpowered his voice. But it wouldn’t have mattered, for no one was inside the room. That is, unless they were hiding under the papers strewn all over the floor.

“Is anyone here? Looks like your copier’s on the fritz!” Still, no response came to his ears. The copier continued spitting papers, in a frantic manner. The papers he could see were alternating black and white, face up and face down. What in the world were they copying?

Pushing through the papers, he walked to the copier, noticing as he did so that something thick is in it, like a big book. Also, something dark oozed from the top of it. Oil, perhaps?

A shredder beside the copier was also running, though it was quiet, overpowered by the sound of the copier. The same type of dark something spattered the top of the shredder. But this time, he could see, and smell, what it was.

Blood.

He stood, stunned at the sight, for several minutes, before daring to reach to the copier and open the top. The sight before him made him feel sick.

An arm, soaked in blood, and ragged on the shoulder end, was set on the copying screen. The image being copied was that of the massive pool of blood oozing from the severed appendage.

His stomach heaved, and he vomited on the paper spitting from the machine. Wiping his mouth, his shaky hand reached to the shredder lid. He was afraid of what he would find, and afraid that if he didn’t look now, it would haunt him forever.

The lid came off with ease, dripping warm blood. Taking a deep breath and swallowing, he tilted the edge of the container towards him.

The sound of sloshing liquid came to his ears, and the sight of a shredded person came to his eyes. A horrified scream tore from his lips, and he stumbled back, unconsciously. The container unbalanced, tilting towards him, and toppled, spilling blood all over the copies of a severed arm and pool of blood. Another scream, and he collapsed, in a dead faint.

The last thought his mind imagined, before fainting, was this: This is the last time I come here.

Something or other

here's a little something i got the idea for a while back(not a long while, mind you), and wrote today

it's not long, but that's okay

and I'll be going to Texas like tomorrow morning, so i won't be posting here for a bit...not like i post very often at all...

whatever

here's a thing

A perfectly average man waited at a perfectly average bus stop, with a small crowd of not-so-perfectly average people. A girl with a Mohawk and MP3 player, two men and a woman in business suits, and an elderly woman with purple hair waited alongside the perfectly average man. The bus was fifteen minutes late.

The perfectly average man was of the sort that is impossible to point out in crowds. He was of average height, weight, build, appearance, and overall texture so that he blended in perfectly with his surroundings.

Finally the bus rolled up, and the people shuffled on in an I-can’t-believe-it’s-still-morning manner. The perfectly average man followed along, averagely.

The bus was about half full, plenty of seats available for the oncoming passengers. Perfectly average man sat nearer to the back. The bus ride was uneventful.

The perfectly average man got off at the next stop, and the bus continued on its rounds. Eventually, the bus was emptied, only to be refilled again near lunchtime, and again the pattern was repeated in the evening. The perfectly average man did not get on the bus again. He had a good excuse though.

It is to be noted that he was not the only perfectly average person aboard that bus that day. In fact, a perfectly average woman, who, just like the man, was of the sort that could not be remembered or pointed out, got on the bus near evening. The perfectly average woman sat near to the back of the bus. Her bus ride was also uneventful.

At the next stop, she stood and walked down the aisle to the door. In her left hand she clutched her purse. In her right hand she clutched nothing, but it is also to be noted that in her right sleeve was hidden a slip of paper that she had found in the seat where the perfectly average man had been sitting, and where she had sat only moments ago. On the paper were coded instructions on what she should do should the perfectly average man not be able to complete his duties.

The perfectly average man’s excuse for not riding back on the bus? He was killed in a pedestrian accident only minutes after quitting the bus.

Coincidence? Hardly.

Poem Time: Defying Gravity

hey look a poem for you alls!
i'm ...working on the everything else...stories, bla bla...
anyway, it's a poem i wrote on the back of that one java program and finished after the history test after i finished my Lit. book.
yeah
anyway, here you go!

Defying Gravity

The birds fly high

Upon gleaming feathered wings

While we, so pitiful, can only watch from below,

Exclaiming loud in awe and jealousy

We put on false wings

And flap and squirm, trying to reach those heights

We craft for ourselves wood and metal birds

To ride and pretend we are such

Yet these do not take us up to the clouds

Where we so yearn to reach

And breathe the air of that higher place

For indeed, it must be wonderful, if the birds fly there

Nay, none of these feeble attempts

Can help us defy gravity

For more than a few moments

And we fall, and weep

Yes, even the birds,

Though they seem to fly high forever,

They cannot fly ever up or ever away

From this trembling world

You faithful birds,

Blessed, lucky beasts

Who can defy gravity for but a moment in time

What joy it must be

While we on earth

Wait and watch

And wish with all our hearts

To reach that blue sky above

I wonder if someday, perhaps,

One of us feeble humans will sprout feathered wings

And stretch, and reach with all their might

And suddenly fly away, into that blue sky

I look to the sky with feeble eyes

Standing on uncertain feet

And wishing, for but a moment, to feel the breeze of that higher place

Reach up to the sky, to where the golden sun shines down

To where the snow white clouds do dwell and walk

To where the gleaming stars look down in darkness

To where the moon watches, and turns its face away

Reach up with trembling hands

And close your eyes

And maybe the wind shall see your wish

And catch you up, to that blue sky

To sit upon the clouds

And breathe the air of that higher place

And open your eyes to see

The birds flying all around

Laughing, singing, you shall fly

Upon the breeze, into the sun

And watch, as faithful moon comes again

To watch over this fragile earth

And suddenly you wake, and find

That it was naught but fantasy

A dream, so beautiful

You weep to let it go

Will you sleep forever, wasting away,

Searching for that golden dream?

So that you might taste the air of that blue sky once more

Even for but a moment?

Or will you stay here, and search for some better truth

Searching with eyes unclouded and wide open

And perhaps, find a promise of a forever when you shall taste something more glorious?

Will you watch the birds till then?