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


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438. Your neighbors are moving, they’re having an open house. Slight scuffling bumping sounds follow your group from room to room. The hostess doesn’t acknowledge it, but you notice she’s staying away from the walls.

996. Something in the kitchen gets knocked over with a small, deliberate thump. You get out of bed and pad over; shining eyes at cat-on-counter height send you back to bed with a sigh. As your cat mews hesitantly from the bedroom you realize that the thing in your kitchen is large enough to obscure the microwave clock.

653. When you turn on the news, the progression has worsened. The newscasters’ faces are indistinguishable now. The skin growing over their features turns their words into muffled nonsense.

298. The neighborhood is abnormally quiet tonight. Not a single person or moving car in sight, although there are plenty parked on the street. Every streetlight, store light, and headlight is lit and shining away into the dark.

381. You have a new weekly planner. It’s very professional-looking. Lately you’ve been dreaming that you found it in a cave.

807. This summer’s thunderstorms are especially spectacular. The lightning is close and frequent and bright as a split-second of daylight. As it flashes again you see something silhouetted in your yard.

417. You stifle a yawn and sit up straighter at your desk, trying to stay awake. Sleep drags at your eyelids. Well, something does, anyways.

Tonight’s creepy-post has been delayed by continued feelings of government betrayal (about which a post may be written in the upcoming days). It will be up by midnight.

252. The book appears to be made out of normal paper, with a standard library binding. You just can’t remember where you got it, or what the title is, or whether its pages were stained like this last time you opened it.

734. Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky-tacky. They all look just the same. Do not approach the little boxes. The ticky-tacky is made of an unknown but highly adhesive substance.

154. You’re at the front of the train today and can’t see out the windows. Are you even moving? It’s hard to say for sure, but something is making the floor vibrate.

406. You try to slide through the commute crowd like usual, but can’t. They’re all walking at the same pace today. Step. Step. Step. Step.

513. The joggers in this town are very dedicated. You decide to ask this pair about their motivation, but catch sight of their eyes as you pull over: hollow and rimmed with black. You decide not to roll the window down after all.

279. Your other neighbors are moving, or maybe they already have. Their clothes are gone and no one is answering the door.

193. Your fears have formed a union. Now they rotate in and out on a complicated schedule and hold pedantic meetings. No fear will ever wear out its grip on you again.