Typed up in the order that my papers were stacked. Some are missing, but most of them are here, I think.
The one line pass is a game where one person writes a line (or two or three), then passes it to the next person, who writes the next line, and so on and so forth.
The floor was covered in blood. Footprints began to pave the way and I could see where I was to go. But where was I going? I pondered, looking about me. It had to be somewhere better than this boring place. I turned to look behind me as the old place echoed with many voices.
They whispered, whispered like little fires, getting louder by the second.
She shook her head, dispelling the voices and visions.
She was in her room, not a cellar of blood and voices, but her perfectly normal, carpeted, horror-free room. Right. She absolutely believed without a shadow of a doubt that this was not a deep, dark dungeon in a palace of horrors in Arabia, where no one would know where she was. Yep. She definitely had been successful in completely lying to herself.
Or, at least, for a total of ten seconds.
She was inside the stomach of a whale carcass--a whale that was murdered illegally.
It was a perfect winter night, with a cool wind blowing, and a soft, glittering blanket of snow on the ground beneath the trees.
And then it wasn't.
The army was tracking a dangerous fugitive through the snow-filled forest; a stowaway from Japan that was a known serial killer, with sociopathic tendencies.
Dressed all in white for camouflage, the man trekked through the snow, moving as fast as he could without attracting any attention. Along he ploughed among the savage beast of nature: wolves and the men searching for one known as the nomadic martyr.
The nomadic martyr was a living legend, ancient and wise.
None matched his abilities, though they tried--and consequently failed. Although, since his recent battle, he couldn't even move his right arm. It hurt to move it, hurt like fire.
The would all pay for what they did. He swore it.
Holding his right arm carefully in place, he continued to jog through the forest.
There once was a man with a face.
His head was bald, with not a hair upon it.
The frigid air around him was freezing his wax face; the snow made his beard as taut and erect as the gun upon his shoulder. He sighed the sigh of a tired soldier, who had seen enough bloodshed in his life. He'd almost gotten used to it, until the incident.
Looking back at the incident brought tears to his eyes. It made him shudder with fear every time he thought of it.
His house had been so lovely, until a nameless arsonist burnt it down. He'd slept at a friend's--more just a coworker's--apartment for some weeks after.
And it was terrible.
Every night, ther was some new unknown event, another random psycho, another mess. He hated messes, but his last one was bad--even by his roommate's standards--and it stank. It looked as if an elephant vomited all over the apartment.
He sat on the couch, bored out of his mind as he stared at the ceiling. Then he tilted his head in curiosity as the ceiling began to morph. Eventually, it morphed into a path to another dimension.
He stared in awe at it, then stood on the back of the couch. However, he had terrible balance, and fell off the couch. Down and down he went, through a tunnel of shifting colors that never seemed to end. He then landed on his back with a loud thud.
He groaned. "Ow."
He found that he landed on a hard, cold, cement floor.
Trent turned around to see his best friend Bryan.
"What's going on?" Trent asked.
"I am not sure . . . where are we? It reminds me of a dream . . ."
"It is a dream within a dream," a voice replied.
"Last time I was in New York, I kind broke . . . Harlem."
"THE HECK DID YOU BREAK HARLEM!"
I thought for a second, before pleading that it was an accident.
I had something I did not recognize held within my pockets, ticking away without my noticing.
"Is that a bomb?" someone asked.
"What?" I asked, taking out the mysterious item.
"I'm very confused . . ." Callie said from a dark corner.
"What in the name of hey tune's bathtub is going on here?" asked Lawrence, emerging from the bathroom.
"I have no freakin' idea," declared Rowan as she flopped on a couch.
Somewhere else, Kat dropped her taco. "NOOO! Not the taco . . . !"
And then everyone went into a state of panic and cardiac arrest at the wasted taco.
It's something along the lines of three in the morning, but Cecil is wide awake, lying on the floor. She doesn't remember how she got there, or where there was exactly, but the floor is very dirty and shadows dance across the dark ceiling and barren room. She walked through the room, the littlest sound causing her to jump, but she stumbled and mumbled, her head pounding or something.
She looked around her in confusion. Suddenly, she heard a voice.
Softly, it said, "Come to me, dear friend, for I have the walk of life you seek if you choose to walk out the door."
"Uh . . ." she said. "No thanks."
"Surely, you must be wondering of your predicament, my dear," the voice said richly.
She gave her reply: "I often wonder, but I'd rather not know now."
There was silence for a few seconds. Then there was a sudden screeching noise. She turned sharply on her heel to face the sound's source.
With every step you take, a new rhythm is played, pounding in your ears. Your heartbeat accelerates, pounding louder than your steps, like a steam train.
And that's when it happens.
Quite suddenly, there is a kitten in the pocket of your jeans. It is not cute; in fact, it is quite ugly and mangy, with half its fur shaved, covered in scars, and one eye that seems to be in a perpetual scowl.
You honestly have no idea how the cat got there, but as you try to pet it, it hisses and scratches you.
"Look, furball, I don't know how the frell you got there, but if you draw blood again, I'm kicking you to the curb."
The kitten gazes at you with pure malice, but, thankfully, stops hissing.
However, in defiance, the cat turned to the couch and tore it to shreds.
"NO!" you shout, running to the cat.
It glares at you, as if to say, "Your move."
"What's it like to be the ruler of the world?"
"Terrible." He said this because to be the ruler of the world was just so much work--and so many irritating people that always wanted something.
"Oh, come on, it can't be all bad."
He looked at his friend, a blank expression on his face. "The humans here are so stupid and ignorant. On top of that, they're bottomless pits of want!"
His friend looked at him sympathetically. "Well, if it's any consolation, we'll be able to return home soon!" he said optimistically.
"Yes, but my friend . . . in the meantime, our universal peers view us as pathetic imps, extraterrestrials, the lowest of the low--Aliens! In spite of what we have brought our wretched brothers--the knowledge to sustain themselves!"
"Why do they hate us so?" his friend asked.
"I do not know," he responded blankly.
"Is it so important, though? To have the universe know us in another way?" Madam Jacklin said as she walked into the room.
Tan, grey-haired, and over seventy, she was old enough to know everything about every one.
"We rule the world . . . whether our own or not, it's a start."
Whatever it was was something stretchy, pasty, and smelled rank like rot, and it was spattered all over the wall.
Delilah shuddered, moving away from the wall, then turned and ran, only to slip in a pool of slick, warm, and sticky blood.
She almost shrieked, but the shock of where she was practically stole her voice.
Then, her life flashed before her eyes.
When she came back to Earth, she turned, and discovered a headless corpse. She held a hand over her eyes, taking a deep breath.
This was not how she'd planned to spend her last day of summer vacation.
It had all started earlier that day, when she was at the water park with her friends, and everything was normal--at least, she thought it was. But then it happened. All of her friends were terrified at this event, but not Delilah.
Delilah ran her hands through her hair. "Mom is going to kill me," she muttered.
And that's the end of it! I think one or two of those almost made sense . . .