Panic!AtTheWritingDesk’s Comments (group member since Oct 25, 2018)

Panic!AtTheWritingDesk’s comments from the The Writing Desk group.

Death by Grape Jelly

squash

Distantly, she was aware of Michael stirring beside her, but this did not scare the demon away: it only reminded Cassie of the rustle of leaves long ago on a hot summer day down by the creek that ran past her childhood home where she had stumbled across something she now wished she had left alone.

Ooooh! Dark! I like it! At first, I was waiting for it to be a story of waiting on true love, but then... XD

A bit of surprise, curiosity, and remote disgust mixed into one impassive, golden stare.
His expression does not change.
He offers no council; no insight on what he thinks.
His lids lower and then raise again, languidly, before the blue-eyed boy loses patience.
“I’m tired of this place… these shoes… and your incompetence,” he drawls, as if he holds any authority at all- for that is the game, the game of make believe, and in it Jim Maken does not exist and Alois Trancy does- as if he were a king by any other title than that of an earl, “I grow weary, and I want to go home. This instant!”
The golden eyes flash behind their glass prisons; defiance becomes written into one arched brow.
And yet, Claude’s right hand curls into a fist, finding itself a home across his left collar bone as his left arm bends neatly behind his back, and his head dips into a curt nod.
“Yes, my lord.”
***
Claude Faustus:
The earth smelled of fear, burned rubber, hot tar, broken glass, sunshine, and ground medal.
Of death and tears.
Of blood.
Its smell flooded the air, permeated the driving rain, and poured through the ventilation system of Claude’s Bugatti Chiron as it wove its way through the crawling traffic of middle street, the world passing in a blur of sound and color, the blond boy in the passenger seat bathing in the blissful cazm of some deep, undisturbed slumber; in the golden light that sparked off of nearly every surface around him:
His hair, the dying sun, the accents of the car’s interior decor…
Claude’s keys.
His Rolex watch.
The rings on his fingers and the cross dangling from his right ear:
Its twin draped from a delicate spindle of chain around his throat.
Both hung upside-down, swinging gently as Claude looked about himself, following the object of his current attention:
The black streaks of charred rubber on the road ahead, the bits of broken glass that followed, the red and blue flash of black and white police cars and large red fire engines.
The miserable whirl, clank, whirl, clank of heavy machinery pulling the wrecked puzzle pieces back together: out of wrong lanes and ditches.
One car- a blue Honda civic- sat beside the opposing lanes of traffic, a bright, twisted chunk of metal that was slowly being obscured by officials in various uniforms, scuttling up to the shining, reflective surface as if entranced; a black tarp pooled over the surface of the car, and it was gone.
But there was one thing- one very distinct, coppery detail- that the tarp failed to obscure from view regardless of its position atop the wreckage:
The vivid, striking red of blood and the coppery aroma it produced.
It ran in little rivulets- like small creeks- through the water that pelted onto the road, pooling in the grass and ditches on either side of the highway. It dripped from the Honda's interior as it disappeared behind its ebony veil, staining all that it touched a distinct shade of scarlet. A color that reflected the glare of flashing lights and rippled beneath the wailing of sirens.
Four lanes of traffic.
Three cop cars.
Three civilian bystanders.
Two ambulances.
Two stretchers.
Two bodies.
One body bag.
One ambulance rushing away.
One ambulance remaining behind: closing its doors in a manner that dripped mourning into the pools of blood that seeped into the earth below.
One harvested soul.
Claude watched them all as he passed, blissfully aware of the soul resting next to him; of the way it was so readily entrusted to his every whim.
Of the way it longed for true affection, rather than the type that could be bought by money and just as quickly be spent up or stolen away.
The kind of love the golden haired boy had mistaken for love that was honest and kind.
Selfless and brave.
All of the things Claude Faustus was and was not. All of the things he could be or would be or should have been or might be yet. All of the things he was imagined to be. All of the things he was designed to be. All of the things he pretended to be.
And the spider's web he loved to weave.
The web the golden boy- the blue eyed, innocent youth with a forgotten self and stolen name- could never sense taking shape around him. The web he flew into repetitively and with such beautiful disregard: like the beautiful blue butterflies he liked to sketch in the margins of his textbooks and the free space of each of his school papers.
The blue butterflies that reminded Claude so very much of the boy's broken, icy, lost blue eyes:
The windows to his soul.
The one thing that gave the existence of Alois Trancy any worth.
The eyes that hid in the shadows of the valley of death in a blissfully blind sleep, fearing no evil.
Fearing not the predator, nor acknowledging their role as the prey.
Only resting as the storm drove on, blind to the death and bloodshed around them, comforted by their inevitable death, and lulled into greater peace by the quiet pur of an expensive sports car engine as it picked up speed and wove it's way through traffic and dissapeared into the graying sky.

((It's taken forever to write this, but I'm glad to have finished it. I look forward to being able to write for just active characters and add new characters as this work progresses, rather than introducing each character like in this part. I can't wait to see what you all have in store! ^-^))

Sat in by two pairs of broken, grey eyes that look into the baker’s shop with wonder- no better than the rat- and come away twice as hungry, three times as dull.
The candlelight turns their orbs blue and amber, earth and water, fire and ice.
It paints the locks on their heads, the shadows under their eyes, the filth across their clothes: a grimy shade of ashen grey.
One head shines an off-set of white, the other a parody of a chestnut colt, before they scramble away into the gutter, huddle together for warmth, shy away from the passing man, and marinate in the sewer’s slop.
The shopman comes to the window- wide shadow through the light- and flips a wooden placard.
The words reflect happily in his eyes.
The rat licks its chops.
The orphans creep along, blind.
They do not know the meaning of “closed” in their time. Their splendid youth. Their unsightly decay. Their state of hunger.
The shadow moves its lumbering form into the night- wide belly, fat nose, beady eyes- and a loaf slips into the muck: a glorious prize.
A chuckle rolls through a big belly and lights the big man’s kind eyes.
Two flashes of wondrous light in the dark. Little hands that tear and grip. Little mouths that grind and chew. Little orbs that watch and wait.
The big man beccons from the open glass door.
Little heads shake.
Little feet run.
Little minds spin: afraid.
The big man releases a heavy sigh- a grievance of the heart- and closes the door to a terrible art.
It shines back like a vast silver spoon. A rectangular prism of fluorescent light.
A floor-length mirror in Bedlam Mall where an elegant, angular, delicate shadow of a boy twists tears and painful allusions into a thin-lipped snear.
An exasperated huff of air.
“No, absolutely not! They will not do! These shoes, Claude… They’re giving me nightmares… How could something be so… cheap?”
He pouts, stomping his foot for good measure before removing the italian leather from his feet, casting it aside with a thud, and exiting the changing room with a flourish.
Glaring up at the tall, dark-haired figure on the other side of the door who peers down at him the way one might glance at a passing insect:

Through the torn-open metal guardrail.
Glass and bits of metal marked his path.
It was like watching Neal Armstrong set foot on the moon.
Jack flipped a page.
Tried to look away.
His father had always been the heroic type. He lived to save people.
He worked at Bedlam Hospital.
He was their leading surgeon.
He made quite a bit of money.
But the money had never been his concern.
A wad of bills sat in their glove compartment.
A wad of bills weighed down Jack’s wallet, sitting idly on the dash looking empty.
He was expected to fare for himself.
And he did.
Surprisingly well.
In fact, he was better of than his father and mother put together, in terms of cold, hard cash.
He flipped the page again.
Another sigh.
He had been looking forward to taking a trip to the shopping outlet with his dad; buying school supplies for tomorrow morning. It was an old ritual: one they had completed since Jack was five years old.
But then they had driven past an impressive pile-up of vehicles.
People getting out of their cars looking dazed and confused.
As the news would retell later that day, not a single person had been hurt on that side of Main Street, save for a man shot in the head with a Colt- King Cobra- Revolver.
The police having discovered this weapon lying neatly on the hood of the gentleman's semi-truck in an odd looking symbol, drawn in the man’s blood: a sick imitation of finger-painting.
No fingerprints could be traced.
And neither could the symbol, as it had a universal use in the world of mathematics:
A perfect circle with an ‘X’ hashed through the center, overlapping at the edges.
Jack was familiar with it.
Still, the implication of the threat was unclear.
What did the oporator symbol have to do with some man’s murder?
As mysterious as that was- and as alluring as the piled up cars were- Jack had had little interest in their affairs.
Police, firefighters, and medics had already swamped the scene.
Jack’s father drove past, shaking his head.
A semi-truck had swerved off of their side of the road, its tires leaving lines of black in an oblique arc.
Glass littered the ground.
It ground under their tires.
Jack frowned, mirroring his father as he turned on their emergency lights and veered steadily off of the road, nearly rubbing up against the metal barrier that kept cars from rolling down the mountainside.
Jack was trapped in.
His father leaped out.
He followed the trail of glittering shards with his eyes, and then- after discerning its location in the grass- with his feet.
Jack had started to undo his seatbelt.
He rolled down his window.
His father came sprinting back.
“Stay here,” he demanded, his voice sharp and practical like the edge of a scalpel blade.
Jack nodded.
His father disappeared.
Jack had picked up the phycology textbook.
Presently, he threw it to the floor with a dull thud and an irritated groan.
He picked up his chemistry textbook.
He skimmed over the cover.
He let it fall to the floor as well.
He kept them around for light reading; practical study.
Reveiw.
He heaved a sigh and undid his seatbelt.
Turned the truck on and rolled down his window.
Turned it off again with a grin, and then rose from his seat, climbing out of the stuffy vehicle and into the driving rain, his sneakers meeting the metal railing as he lowered himself onto the grass below, looking around with curious eyes.
No sign of his father.
Jack removed his jacket and tied the arms to the roof rack, blocking the rain from entering his window.
Satisfied, he plunged his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and began the follow the curve of the railing, his shoes slipping in the damp terf as he searched for the splintered metal.
The trail of glass.
It crunched beneath Jack’s shoes as he followed it down one steep incline and then the next, running elegantly through the dense foliage in a swift and efficient line: perfectly unbroken and illustriously straight.
Until it wasn’t.
A tree rose up out of the gloom, a mirror image of the ones all around it, save for- lying in the shallow creek at its base- the overturned car that had come to rest at its feet.
Blood pooled in the water below, staining it crimson as it rushed past, indifferent to the world around it.
Jack’s father was calf-deep in the crimson tide, holding on to something inside of the car with one hand as he held his cell-phone in the other, dialing a number.
He removed the device from his ear.
He tapped the glowing screen.
A dial tone rang.
A woman’s voice came through the cell-phone’s speakers, confused.
“Hello?”
It was then that Jack understood.
It was then that he knew that this wasn't his father’s first phone call of the evening.
He had already dialed 9-1-1.
He had already called his wife.
He had already talked to the hospital and his colleagues.
Jack cringed.
“Mommy?”
A girl’s voice.
Weak, choked, broken by gasping breaths and pained sobs.
Wet coughs.
It came from within the car.
Jack wondered- momentarily- why his father hadn’t removed the girl: cut her seatbelt and moved her somewhere more comfortable.
Somewhere where she wasn’t upside down.
“Lyra? Honey? Where are you? Who’s phone is this?”
Greater confusion. Mild alarm.
The shock is starting to set in, but she hasn’t registered the gargled breaths, the whimpering pleas.
“I-I’m s-stuck. In my car.”
The girl begins to cry, audibly, more-so than she had been before.
Jack’s stomach turns.
“I can’t feel my legs, and… and…”
She’s hysterical now.
Jack’s dad is speaking down the line:
“.... Doctor Hammerson…”
The woman sits silent on the other end of the line.
She screams.
‘Lyra’ takes a few ragged breaths.
“Lyra, baby, I love you. I l-love you s-so much, and I need you to talk to me, okay? Stay with Doctor Hammerson. He’s going to help you, okay? What hurts?”
She babbling, spewing forth a waterfall of incoherence as her mind whirls.
“Where’s Toby?”
The clearing goes dead silent.
The mother waits on baited breath.
Jack’s father nearly drops the phone.
Jack takes a tentative strep forward, the world tilting beneath his feet.
Lyra gasps and coughs, struggling for air.
The steering wheel is through her ribcage, the right side of her face crusted with blood.
The left is unrecognizable.
Jack knows her.
Everyone does.
He averts his eyes.
Looks at his father.
A line of scarlet is running up his arm, staining his white, button-down shirt.
A drop of blood lands in the stream and scatters rubies across the clean, pressed cotton.
Dad moves his mouth, but Lyra Rogers is already taking a breath to explain, tears running up her face as she sputters and coughs.
“Toby… Mommy, Toby’s… dead.”
She coughs again, her eyes glazing over in pain as a spray of red coats the windshield in front of her, staining her lips.
Only then does Jack notice the crushed passenger-side of the car; dented inward like a can of soda under the weight of a mischievous- or else blind- foot. The shock of gently curling brown hair. The mutilated right side of a young boy’s face; no older than Jack himself.
His teeth are visible through a gaping hole in his cheek, the mandible a pale ghost just beneath.
His eyebrow is split, his temple struck by a shard of glass, and his right eye…
Jack looks away, his eyes closing.
The world tilts.
A shout sounds behind them.
Jack’s father answers it, turning toward the noise, but his eyes never leave the slowly dying girl in the driver’s seat.
Her mother is singing a lullaby.
Jack sways.
He opens his eyes.
The blood runs through the water, swirling in lazy clouds of red and pink, washed away by the tide.
It runs down his father’s arms, painting the fabric of his shirt.
The rain spreads it like wildfire.
It looks like gallons.
It can only be pints.
A medic surges forward.
A firefighter follows.
Police are sure to come.
Setting his jaw, Jack mumbles a curse and moves toward the overturned car, unwavered by his father’s angry glare.
***
Alois Trancy:
Alois stared at his reflection in the dressing-room mirror, releasing an exasperated huff of breath.
Everything was right: the platinum blonde curls, the electric blue eyes, the pale skin, the full lashes and delicate jaw line… Even his teeth shone back at him as the perfect shade of white…
His lips form a perfect Cupid’s bow, a flawless arc of rosebud pink, but the expression falters- flashing storm clouds in those electric-blue eyes- and tears spill over the young boy’s cheeks. He sees stars, whole constellations, and knows that he is among them- so very far away, untouchable- but the illusion passes as the tears fall from their perch- his eyelashes- and fall to the tile below, reflecting cobblestones and grit in the mirror.
Rain-slick soot on tightly packed streets like charcoal across a freshly painted canvas: dark, filthy, sticky, and thick. So thick that it mixes with the dirt between the bricks on houses and falls out of the sky like drops of tar- billowed out by chimney tops- before coming to rest on the streets below; trampled by the clammer of horse’s hooves, mixed with indiscriminate dung, plundered through by the blindly frantic rat who wonders too close to the baker’s shop.

It was along one of these twin roads that Lyra Rogers had endeavored to take her little brother for a nice, long, relaxing drive on Friday afternoon- two days before his birthday- and then pulled suddenly to the side of the road, nearly parking her Honda Civic among the trees in her excitement.
“Wha-” Toby began, but was cut off.
“We’re going camping!” Lyra had exclaimed, her chocolate-colored eyes glittering in the midday light, her golden hair shining nearly white as she smiled, matching the glint of her contagious smile.
She had been so lively, so animated, so full of joy, that Toby had merely laughed and shook his head in mild disbelief. He had followed her out of the car, pushing his way through the low shrubbery at the edge of the treeline, and surveyed the canopy of leaves and needles above.
“Well, we don’t have a tent,” Lyra supplied, “but Mom helped me out a bit and…”
She reached into the back seat of the car, rummaging around for a moment before returning with a small, insulated bag.
“We packed food, drinks, and s’mores! Enough for, like, an army, but you know Mom… Anyway, there should be an alcove a little bit ahead… sort of like a cave… Toby? Are you listening to me?”
Toby, who had- in fact- been listening, nodded, watching the leaves stir above.
Nervously, he ticked and twitched- ever so slightly- before replying.
“Yeah… I-I was j-just…”
He sighed in frustration and made a dismissive gesture, catching Lyra’s frown out of the corner of his eye before shrugging and walking a little ways forward, signalling her to lead the way.
“If you don’t want to go-” Lyra had begun, hanging back despite Toby’s actions.
“I-It’s n-not th-that!” he exclaimed, hastily, trying to appease Lyra before she changed her mind:
Before she took them back home.
“I j-just… get fed up sometimes. W-With being…” he paused, trying to find the right words, bumping his sister’s shoulder as he began to walk deeper into the woods, not knowing where he was headed.
“You?” Lyra supplied with a giggle, “You know I won’t judge. I’ve been around since before you were born, remember? I get it; even if nobody else does.”
She gave him a gentle shove in return before taking ahold of his arm to tug him toward the left, continuing:
“And, besides, it’s not like it’s your fault. You can’t choose your DNA, Toby, it’s just… there. Turrets, CIP… It’s not who you are, just… a part of you. Like the leaves on a tree. Just because those fall off doesn’t make the tree any less of a tree, now does it?”
“No.” Toby mumbled, rolling his eyes, but he couldn’t hide the grin that spread across his face, turning into the ghost of a smile when one of the dying, autumn leaves landed precariously upon his head, tangling with his messy tufts of brown hair.
He brushed it away.
“I-I just think that, m-maybe it would b-be n-nice for the tree if, e-every now and then, i-it got to live without the l-leaves… Just t-to k-know that it could… Just to feel normal.”
They continued walking, Lyra guiding Toby in either direction, watching the leaves fall from the trees and the birds take to the darkening sky.
“Well,” Lyra reached out to take hold of a bare tree limb, snapping it easily in her grip before tapping him on the head with the relic, “they can’t, and I won’t let them. If ever they did such a thing, I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart from all of the other trees in the world; so there. For you- and me- normal is overrated.”
Toby shrugged, but didn’t answer. Instead, he watched the earth pass by below their feet, littered with rotting leaves and soft patches of dirt, and let silence engulf them; settling like a weighted blanket upon the pair as they hiked.
Warm, comforting, and familiar.
Like the interior of Lyra’s well-loved, well-used Honda as it sped through the pelting rain and howling wind two days later, racing to get back home.
To get away from that thing.
Lyra kept glancing over at Toby, her hair hanging heavily on either side of her doll-like face, dripping water, the ringlets turned a peculiar shade of umber by the excessive moisture.
She bit her lip, holding back tears, and looked at herself in the rearview mirror, watching the trees glide past behind them, swiftly blurred into a dark mass of grey and black by the rain on the rear windshield.
One of the shadows stood a little apart from the rest.
Not quite as tall, but twice as dark.
Lyra’s breath caught in her throat, making her gasp, and she quickly averted her gaze, staring determinately back at the road before her; resolute not to look back again. Instead, she turned the windshield wipers to their highest speed- swiping repetitively over the glass in front of her at a dizzying pace- and focussed on merging seamlessly into the steady flow of traffic on Main Street.
There, she felt hidden.
There, she felt safe.
It wouldn’t follow her into a large crowd.
“Why?” Toby asked suddenly- barely above a whisper- his voice fraught with tension, “Why the h-h-hell…”
He dropped off, the rest of his sentence washed away by a sudden paroxysm of shivers, his hands coming up to cradle either side of his head as he drew his knees up against his chest. Lyra glanced over at him, alarmed, and reached to rub his back, to ease some of the tension-
And reached only empty air; Toby having shrank away from her, clutching his left ear with one hand.
The other had moved to occupy empty space; allowing his elbow to cover his mouth as his spasms turned to fits of brackish coughing.
“Why would you go looking for that thing?” he finished, moving his elbow to reveal a garish stain of scarlet on the light-colored fabric of his sweater.
Lyra sucked in a breath, her brows knitting together in concern as she gripped the steering wheel tighter, pressing on the accelerator a little bit harder with her right foot, but her lips stayed sealed.
Tears spilled down her cheeks and her lip quivered.
“I didn’t have a choice,” she breathed after a few minutes: enough time that the blood on Toby’s sweater had dried and his hand had fallen from his ear, revealing a viscous line of red that had welled up from the inner depths of his ear and begun a languid track down his left jaw, “Once you’ve seen it, you can’t go back. It follows you; takes you.”
Her voice quivered in apprehension, knowing that- to those less informed of the current situation- she would have appeared to be raving about nothing at all:
She would have seemed mad.
But Toby…
Toby simply glanced in the direction of the receding treeline and gave a feeble nod, his nose beginning to bleed as he stared stubbornly at the monster behind them which had frightened his sister so. His head throbbed and his vision blurred, but he kept looking- continued watching- as the thing grew more and more distant; it’s oblong shape soon replaced by the sound of nocturnal insects within his skull, static threatening to drown them out. 
The noise grew louder.
Toby turned on the radio.
Lyra switched it back off, shaking her head as if to say “it won’t do you any good.”
Toby muttered a curse.
“How did you find it?” he asked at length; anger, fear, and confusion muddling his cognitive responses, making them slow and feeble like those of a toddler.
He wanted to know what.
He wanted to know when.
He wanted to know where.
He wanted to know why.
He wanted to know how.
Most of all, he wanted to know WHO, and- even though he could have assumed for himself- he wanted Lyra to be the one to tell him.
“Who showed it to you?”
Lyra blinked; looking dumbfounded.
“Bryan,” she muttered, her eyebrows knitting together as she stared through the sheets of pelting rain, driving blindly into a sudden deluge of silver droplets and heavy mist, “but it didn’t matter to him then. He didn’t know. He just wanted to find out what was going on with-”
A flash of light.
A clap of thunder.
There was the sound of grinding metal and shattered glass as the semi-truck beside Lyra’s car swerved, wildly, its brake lights illuminating the drops of rain with hellish light; its driver’s side window painted scarlet from within.
Lyra’s knuckles turned white.
Toby watched the rear end of the semi-trailer swing to the right, smashing into a metal guardrail and sending the truck it was attached to into the midst of oncoming traffic.
The car in front of them smashed directly into the cab.
Lyra slammed on the breaks, water fyling as she struggled to maintain control of the steering wheel, hydroplaning into the southbound lane.
Another car flew wildly into the spot they had previously occupied- blinded by the rainfall- and was immediately met by another.
Glass shattered.
Someone screamed.
Toby blinked.
Rain fell peacefully onto the glass in front of him.
The world lit up with a soft, candlelit glow.
Lyra stiffend.
The light grew stronger, brighter, and became two separate glowing orbs.
They floated only a few feet above the Honda’s hood.
A horn blared.
Lyra tried to move her car; undo her seatbelt.
Both options proved futile.
She reached for Toby, attempting to free him.
The semi-truck swerved to the right, skimming along the edge of the previous carnage as it slammed on its breaks, clipping the Honda’s right headlight as it blew past.
The car jolted sideways.
Lyra screamed.
She was sobbing now, clawing at her seatbelt, jerking on the door handle, trying to roll down the windows, but nothing worked.
She looked at Toby, eyes wide; like a deer caught in the headlights.
He reached for her hand.
A Chevy truck hit the rear, passenger-side door.
The windows shattered.
The car rolled.
Lyra’s hand slipped away.
The rest of the world fell away with it.
***
Jackson Tyler Hammerson:
“Stay here.”
Jack obeyed.
He thumbed carelessly through his father’s phycology textbook, having read every page, letting out a sigh.
He tried not to look out of the window.
He tried not to see the flashing lights and gathering crowd.
He tried not to hear the sirens, the screaming, the sobbing, the pleading, and the hiss-pop of failing engines.
His father disappeared from view.
Down the side of the mountain.

Even people you had never met before.
As he had pulled into Alex’s driveway that afternoon, Jay couldn’t help but feel that- despite having known Alex cence they were both kids- the person he had come to “catch a movie” with would, inevitably, be as different from the Alex he knew as he himself had been and- more than likely- still was.
They hadn’t spoken in four months.
Then, out of the blue, Jay’s phone rang, glowing an erie blue-green in his dark apartment.
“Hello?”
“Hey, this is Alex… Uh, Alex… Alex Kr-”
“Hey, man! How are you?”
Jay’s parents had raised their eyebrows, turning an inquisitive eye his way, but saying nothing: they sat watching the storm, waiting for the power to return to the house and- with it- the light.
“Well… uh… um… good, I guess. Yeah, I-I’m good. Just…”
He dropped off for a moment, swallowing audibly across the line.
“Just working on some things,” he finished.
Jay nodded, making a sound of understanding. He had a habit of moving when he spoke, even when nobody could actually perceive his gestures.
“You still working on those films?” he guessed.
Alex choked.
“Look,” Kralie muttered down the line, “don’t talk about the tapes. Just… don’t. I’ve given up on that shit and so should everyone else… Everyone who came into contact with those things…”
He cleared his throat, and Jay waited in silence, wanting to hear what his friend had to say, but he never got to hear what happened to the tapes: or the people in them.
“Just… don’t ask about them again, alright?”
Jay nodded again.
“Sure, yeah. Whatever…”
Silence fell once again and then:
“Hey, uh, it’s… it’s been a while and.. Uh…” Alex sounded preoccupied on the other end of the line, “school’s back in tomorrow. Regardless of the weather, so… You wanna catch a movie or something? We can catch up and just watch movies at my place or play some video games…”
Jay could hear Alex pacing through his house, the sounds of his dad watching tv just audible above the soft thud of his feet against the carpet.
Jay was familiar with the noise, but it was a distant, fuzzy memory: one he had never intended to forget. But after the tapes…
Alex had disappeared.
Jay had thought it was his fault, but then couldn’t fathom what he had done.
He had called. He had texted.
Nothing.
Until now.
“Sure. Yeah, I think I can work something out… I’ll be there in… ten?”
They didn’t live too far away from one another, but the distance felt like miles when someone wanted to avoid you.
“Sounds good.”
And the line went dead.
Ten minutes later, Jay arrived at Alex’s house, knocking feebly on the door, his clothes slowly becoming drenched as Alex made his way to the door, unbolting it and stepping out of the way.
Jay walked in, looking around awkwardly, before turning to his friend.
“So…”
Alex gave a start, and then walked away, up the stairs.
Jay’s brows knitted together in confusion, but he followed regardless, plunging his hands awkwardly into the pockets of his hoodie.
“Just take them. All of them. Don’t bring them back, and don’t talk about them! Not to me; not to anyone! Do you understand?”
Alex had stopped just within his bedroom door and was shouting down the hall at Jay, furious, though the latter had not perceived any agitation from the boy before. He walked forward cautiously, concerned, and was promptly hit square in the chest with a large trash bag that rattled and clanked as it hit the floor: Alex’s tapes.
“Look, Alex… I was just trying to make conversation, man. I thought you had enjoyed the film project… You didn’t speak to me for most of the summer so I thought maybe you were busy and when you called… I don’t know. I thought maybe you wanted to talk about the tapes, but I was wrong… It’s fine, really! I just thought that, maybe, if I helped you with them or… or offered to watch some… something… then maybe I’d figure out where you had disappeared to,” Jay fumbled, looking down at the bag of cassettes as though they might suddenly combust.
Alex shook his head, pulling on his hair.
“Just take them and get out! Get out, get out, get-”
He was cut off by a warning shout from his father, and an inquiring chime from his mother down below.
“Don’t mention them to me, or I will kill you,” Alex hissed, and- with that- he sent Jay back into the rain, his mind reeling with both questions and concerns.
Ten minutes later, he was home again, digging out his old camcorder.
Thirty minutes later, and he had watched at least five of the random tapes, finding their contents to be much more than just a set of production tapes for film class: Alex filmed everything. Constantly.
Almost as though he had a fear of being watched.
By what, Jay did not know. Alex had tried to capture it on film a few times, but the tape became fuzzy and distorted when he did; skipping to soundless lapses of Alex drawing- scribbling madly- or pacing back and forth.
How had his parents not noticed their child’s mental degradation?
Jay shook his head, his hand hovering over the pile of tapes in order to select another, when- suddenly- his phone lit up, buzzing erratically in the silence, making him jump.
“Hello?”
“Hey. Can you, uh, drop by main street. I’ll meet you there in fifteen… Maybe twenty… I can’t find my glasses…”
***
Timothy Wright:
Tim tipped back his head, swallowing as much smoke as he could before letting it pool out of his nostrils in a lazy cascade of white fog, the end of his cigarette glowing and spitting in the dark, rain-slick evening air.
Next to him, Brian gave an impatient huff.
“We have a job to do,” he grumbled, his eyes opaque, glazed over.
Tim gave a shudder, reaching into his pocket, and pulled out his bottle of pills, popping two for good measure.
He didn’t want to look like Brian.
Not now.
That THING could go to Hell before it took control of him like that.
He was only there because he had to be- because Brian had to be- not because of…
He stared off into the distance, watching the cars roll past on Main Street.
He let his cigarette fall from his grip, snuffing it out in the wet grass.
***
Brian Thomas:
A flash of light.
The screeching of quickly applied breaks.
The smashing of glass.
The skid of tires on asphalt.
The clang of colliding metal.
The screams of the wounded.
The smell of smoke as it wafted into the dense foliage surrounding Main Street, spilling down its steep shoulders and mingling with the creek bellow; striking the mountain where it could not move past.
A hand fisted in the back of his jacket, pulling him away, urging him forward.
Leaving his mind blank, allowing himself to drown in the fray, Brian turned and ran.
Only much later, when his thoughts had been given time to resurface, did he turn to Tim and ask:
“What happened?”
***
Tobias Erin Rogers:
Main Street was long, winding, and dark in the prevailing storm; a four lane highway that ran through the mountains as it made its way out of town, losing itself among the trees and creek beds before branching off in two different directions about four hours outside of the town of Bedlam. When one returned from either of these twin two-way roads, they would immediately be met with one broad expanse of asphalt which led straight into- and went straight through- Bedlam; it’s bright lights, towering apartments, and open storefronts an unexpected sight among the wilderness that bordered it.

WARNING: The following are works of FICTION. They are NOT BASED ON REAL EVENTS, PEOPLE, OR PLACES. This RP is not meant to reflect on any real place within the world, or confirm the existence of the supernatural. If you are weary of SELF HARM, DEATH, GORE, DRUGS, ALCOHOL, STRONG LANGUAGE, THE EXPLORATION OF MENTAL ILLNESSES, JUDGEMENT OF FORM (weight, height, etc.) AND/OR GENETIC DISORDERS ((especially when performed by those who do not suffer from the condition{s})), or VIOLENCE, then this work is not for you. This work of fiction also centers around the existence of supernatural entities such as GHOSTS, WARLOCKS, THE SLENDERMAN, DEMONS, ANGELS, ETC. If you are prone to believe in such entities and fear they may cause you paranoia or even true physical/mental harm, then this work is not for you.

DISCLAIMER: I, Panic!AtTheWritingDesk, do not lay claim to the creation or original use of any of the characters within this RP, save for Annabelle Lillian Taylor. The other characters are accredited to various authors and creators from the Marble Hornets web series, Creepypasta fandom, Harry Potter book series, Black Butler manga/television series, and various other franchises. All credits to the creation and/or original use of the characters used within this RP may fall upon other authors and creators, but I DO NOT CLAIM ANY RIGHTS TO THESE CHARACTERS AND/OR THEIR ASSOCIATED FRANCHIZE (save for Annabelle Lillian Taylor, an original character).
----------

It was a dark, stormy Sunday afternoon. The sun had disappeared behind layers of thick, black clouds, and rain poured down in sheets, obscuring one’s vision for any farther than a few feet ahead, drowning the earth below with reckless abandon.
Despite the storm, life continued below the heavens nearly unaffected, and the doors of Bedlam High School were scheduled to open promptly at 7am the following morning.
***
Annabelle Lillian Taylor:
Annabelle Lillian Taylor- either “Annabelle” or “Lilly” for short- sat on the front steps of her house, staring out into the dark morning with squinted eyes, trying to see beyond the grey haze of relentless precipitation and quick flashes of lightning that obscured her vision to the line of trees surrounding her home: tall, black, and entirely out of sight.
Sighing, she ran a hand through her tangle of long, blonde hair and stood, determined to prove to herself, once and for all, that she wasn’t crazy.
What she had seen…
Well, it was unlikely that she would forget it any time soon: the long legs, twisted arms, and… A face. She was certain that- somewhere out among the fulliage- she had seen a figure, with a face, a distinctly frightening face, though she could no longer recall any of its distinct characteristics, and thinking about the thing at all made her head throb painfully and her eyes blur in pain.
The longer she stood there trying to remember, the more she forgot.
In fact, she was beginning to forget why- exactly- she had come outside in the first place.
It was cold, deathly so, and she had little more than her athletic leggings, tanktop, and jacket to protect her from the biting wind. She had been about to begin her daily workout when, from out of the corner of her eye, she had seen…
Something.
A cat, a dog, even a squirrel… Annabelle couldn’t remember.
Instead, she simply shook her head, turned around, and headed back inside, closing the door behind her with a shiver.
***
Alexander Kralie:
Alex stared about himself in confusion, blinking away rivulets of water and surveying the land around him with unseeing eyes.
Your fault, your fault, your…
His brain ran in circles, trying to discern its current location; it’s last memory.
Currently, he was standing in a large, open glade surrounded by dense forest, his clothes and breath hanging heavily in the cold, wet air as icy droplets of rain assaulted the bare skin of his arms and face. However, he had no idea how he had arrived in this particular ring of trees, nor why he was alone. Let alone what he was doing outdoors.
He should be at home, watching out for himself.
Watching.
Always watching.
Yet he remembered having called on an old friend for some company, remembered their hesitant response, their car pulling into his driveway as it had a billion times before- as it hadn’t in nearly four months- and then…
Nothing.
Nothing but darkness.
Cursing, he searched his pockets- sighing in relief when his numb fingers found what they were looking for- and held up his cell phone, dialing for the one person he could rely on; the person he wasn’t so sure would be able to answer his call.
Not if…
He gave a disgruntled sigh and tried the number again, refusing to let himself follow that line of thought.
“Hello?”
Relief.
“Hey. Can you, uh, drop by Main Street. I’ll meet you there in fifteen…”
Silence.
“Maybe twenty… I can’t find my glasses…”
A longer silence.
And then:
“Sure. I’m on my way.”
***
Jay Merrick:
The road wound on, twisting and winding like a silver ribbon, always in the distance, never drawing near. It never dwelled in the past. It never faltered in its way. It simply moved on, stretching over all that belonged to it and all that did not: connecting everything.
Connecting everyone.

lol. I feel that...

Throwback Monday I suppose! XD
Some Carl Grimes (AMC, not comic book) quotes:

"Everything is food for something else."
-Carl Grimes, The Walking Dead (AMC)



"You hope the guy makes it. That's not enough. If you give a s#^&, if you care, you do something. You don't just hope. It takes more than that."
-Carl Grimes, The Walking Dead (AMC)



"What, are we just gonna kill them? Finding some way forward, that's harder. That's something more."
-Carl Grimes, The Walking Dead (AMC)

Susan wrote: "I love Gillian Bradshaw, Lois McMaster Bujold's Curse of Chalion trilogy and her Sharing Knife and Penric's Demon series, C.J. Cherryh's Foreigner series, Patricia McKillip, and Helene Wecker's The..."

Those all sound very interesting! I'll be sure to look them up and give them a visit if I can find the time! ^-^

Lauren wrote: "Hi, I'm writing for fun and would love feedback on my first chapter to see what readers want more of in the coming chapters. It's a new adult book. Link here: https://www.goodreads.com/story/show/1..."

Hello, Lauren!
I left a comment for you on your story!
I don't know how constructive you will find my response, because I thought it was wonderful to read and going somewhere... XD
Wishing you the best of luck in your writing endeavors.
-P!ATWD

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