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


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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.

48. Things in your apartment seem to be moving. The silverware drawer is open, your toothbrush is in the middle of the living room floor, and a pair of rolled-up socks is in the sink. As you pick them up, the front door blows open. Then one window, then another.

973. There is something in the woods today. It sounds like a child crying, but it is missing the varied timbre of a human voice.

322. Time is playing tricks on you today. Everything outside your little bubble of time has stopped, frozen, and winds back to life when you get close enough. You wonder what fun things you can use this to get away with. You wonder how long it will take you to run out of food.

83. You pause just before leaving the lobby as a man practically walks into the door. He sneezes, oblivious to his close call. The woman next to him does too, then a man crossing the street behind them. It spreads through the crowd in a leisurely fashion. Each sneeze leaves behind a haze of fine grey particles.

725. It’s midmorning, so the business district is empty except for you, walking down the street. The mirrored sides of the fancy financial buildings sparkle in the sun. It’s very bright. Dazzling. You’re having trouble seeing. You reach to steady yourself on the wall but your hand doesn’t connect.