Writing blog with facetious and surreal tendencies. Short essays on ideas and short posts on fear.

Onward

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960. The country road is dirt and winds uphill through the trees. You peer up at the first switchback, just yards away, and can barely make out the fender of another abandoned car. Behind you, the shattered windshield of the first car splinters a little more.

541. The back of the shipping plant is only slightly less boring than the rest of the office park. There are signs of use here – a bunch of identical trucks are docked against the building. You coast through the parking lot, keeping an eye out for staff, but don’t see any, just the trucks. All at once their loading doors slam open.

212. You’ve moved into an apartment. Your new neighbors are very friendly. Every time you look out the window they’re there, staring up at you.

459. Today on the subway you are studying your reflection in the window across the aisle. No matter how you surreptitiously adjust your posture, it won’t reflect your face. The area under your hair remains a stubborn, faceless blank.

717. The trail you’re hiking is open and airy for a forest path. Bluejay feathers are scattered by the first bridge – a hawk probably got it. You find plain brown feathers further down the trail, and some fluffy little ones near the two-mile marker. Then you find the clumps of hawk feathers by the boulders. There are a lot. They have dried blood on them.

94. Whrwhrwhrdonk. You turn, frowning. Sure enough, your book has rolled off the table, despite the fact that books don’t do that. Everything rolls off that table, and it always makes that sound. The only thing that stays put is the hourglass in the corner. That you can’t pick up at all.

368. Your neighborhood is empty; everyone has moved out. You wonder if their secrets will move into your house next.

879. The crowd has oohed and aahed each firework, but they scream for this one. Actually scream, starting at one corner of the field and spreading fast through the masses of gathered people. Leap to your feet and scramble down from your hilltop perch. Run. You saw the sick young man fall down, get up, and shamble back to his family.

165. You’d heard great things about this moisturizer, but it’s not doing much for you. Your skin is still dry, getting taut and inflexible, almost scaly. Your joints itch. It won’t be much longer until the scales start to poke through your skin.

648. The railyard stretches for what seems like miles. You stretch your arms wide and spin, enchanted by its size and isolation. It actually does stretch for miles. In fact, you can’t see the lights from the city any more.

493. You peer up at the mechanism. The garage door shouldn’t be able to open right now. The mechanism isn’t active. The door is open, though. It hangs, perfectly still, waiting for you to walk under it.

249. The tide is coming in. Each wave gets a little closer to your feet. For some reason the sound of the ocean is drowning out the sounds of the road behind you. Instead you hear the seafoam hissing every time it draws back into the sea.

760. The wind is violent today. It’s blowing things away left and right. You pull your jacket around you and lean into your walk, hoping you won’t be next. A stray round blows through the windshield to your left.

fonzadelic replied to your post “973. There is something in the woods today. It sounds like a child…”

I don’t know what these are but I dig them. A lot.

Aww, thank you! The project is a collection of short, short stories exploring fear(s) - some fictional, some mine, some things I’ve overheard from others. I’m aiming to write one thousand total and post one per day. It’s part writing-stamina exercise, part fun little explorations and what-ifs.

524. Today your fears run muttering and chuckling from object to object, perching on the labels before moving on. You check each ingredient list with a sinking feeling. None of this is safe to eat.

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