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Some kid handed an essay written in wingdings in class.

This happened in 5th grade.

It’s not a normal day

Jamie awakes to the snarls of the approaching zombies. From a distance, he can tell they’re in the hallway of his floor.

“The alarm is blaring. I am late for work,” he tells himself, stuttering each syllable. He hastily slips into his pants, fumbling with the zipper.

“OW!” His zipper has caught the dong.

"Get out of here. They heard you." Jamie mutters.

In a strident bang the door of his apartment slams onto the ground, as zombies swarm the room gnashing their teeth.  

He grabs his Bug-Out bag, throws the window open.

The zombies face the creak of the window hinge. Then they scramble over, knocking furniture over.

“I need to get my car.” He hops out of the window. Just as the zombies throw themselves at him.

Jamie grasps a pipe. Watching the zombies toss themselves three stories below. “There is no gasoline in the cars anymore.”

Jamie swings his free hand onto another pipe. He climbs to the roof. He looks down to see zombies climbing after him. He kicks one in the face. Another snaps at his ankles. Jamie hoists himself over the anti-suicide railing.

As his blood races, he tells himself. “I am in a mad rush in traffic. It is a Monday.”

Jamie dashes towards the ledge of the roof and leaps. He lands and rolls. He gets onto his feet and continues sprinting. The zombies are a few yards behind him.

“My boss is angry,” Jamie huffs.

Jamie leaps onto another rooftop. He slides down a house’s roof and pounces onto another. He looks behind him, panting and inhaling the smokey air. Watching the zombies following his exact movements.

“Shit, they are learning how to chase.”

He continues his flight. It’s been half a year since the Covid-19 mysteriously mutated into the zombie virus.

Jamie has spent six-months burrowing in his apartment as chaos erupted around the world.

Jamie leaps over an alley. Then he plummets. He clings onto the side of the roof as the zombies bare their black teeth behind him. Jamie’s heart pounds in his chest as the zombies disappear from view. He looks upwards.

A zombie roars into his face. Jamie slips. “I am at my office talking about cat videos with that hot accountant chick.” He assures himself with his delusion as he falls.

Thump! He lands in a pile of ancient rubbish. Roaches crawl onto him. Jamie shrieks as the zombie falls towards him. A loud gunshot shakes him to his core. The corpse of the zombie, missing half of its head,  flops onto him.

He blinks, hoping everything is a nightmare and he is living out his normal life. A gloved hand reaches out to him.  Jamie clutches it, feeling the first human warmth he has felt in months. He climbs out of the stinking bin. Two people covered with blood-stained scarves, with heavy hoods obscuring their faces, stare at him.

“We are the marauders. Welcome to the gang.”

“Um… I am late to work.” He stutters in awe, looking at the first people he has seen in a long while.

People laugh. He stares down at his feet.

The person on the left says. “There is no job to go back to.” He has the gruff voice of a middle-aged man.

The other person, a girl, says in a softer tone, “Should we take him back to base?”

“No, this guy doesn’t even know where he is. We can’t add crazies into our ranks.”

“I know. I am just coping,” Jamie affirms.

Jamie thinks, “It’s about time I let go of the delusion. Things will get to normal.”

The girl cheers, “C’mon let’s get going.”

Jamie smiles as he follows them into the desolate city, one foot behind finally not alone.

Not writing related, but I fucking love these birbs.

I kinda want to continue this prompt.

“That’s my cat,” the hero said.

“No. It’s mine,” the villain retorted, eyes narrowed. 

“…It’s a stray.”

“I feed it!” 

“I feed it too! Oh, what now?” the villain waved their weapon around in frustration, “Are you gonna tell me that you have a name for it?” 

“…Yes.”

“Well, screw you, I have a name for it too.” 

TIME TO DO EVERYTHING OPPOSITE OF THIS LIST!!!!

because i’m a little salty

i sometimes worry about certain types of writing advice i see on the twitter sphere in terms of neglecting your physical health. maybe this was just a few one-offs or whatever but i’m usually going, “hmm, are you five or are you thirty?”

so that said:

Please use the restroom when you need to. Don’t wait until you’ve reached whatever wordcount you’ve set for yourself. This is how you get UTIs and other bladder infections, and if you’re in the US, that can be expensive to treat. (Also, UTIs suck. Speaking from experience).

While coffee is a quick energy giver, you will crash. And it will suck. Too much can cause the shakes. It’s okay to consume coffee if you like it! But try to go for an alternative healthy route if at all possible. If you like tea, drink tea. But be sure to drink water!

That said, take breaks when necessary and EAT!! Make a small snack or make lunch or dinner or start meal prepping. It’s okay to step away and do something else. Writing isn’t a be all, end all sort of situation. You will get stuck if your brain isn’t being given sustenance.

Experiencing wrist/hand pain is a very good sign to stop. Either for the day, or for awhile. Do some stretches, go outside if you can.

“I write for days on end, barely any sleep” isn’t healthy. Your brain needs to rest. Your eyes need to rest. This is a surefire way to get yourself very sick, very easily. (I speak from experience, but I don’t have the best immune system. If someone is sick, I tend to pick up whatever they have after a day or two so. I mean, this is dependant on the person).

TAKE BREAKS. ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU GET TIRED!

Anything that promotes neglecting your needs is advice to be ignored.  Idfc if they have “New York Times #1 Seller” in their profile, if they’re suggesting you neglect your physical needs for hours, ignore them. 

This is supposed to be fun.

This is supposed to be fun.

It’s okay if you don’t write for a few days, it’s okay if you don’t finish a novel in a month. Seriously, take your time. This is not a race. Yes, you might want to finish the rest of your story within a couple of days, but don’t push yourself until you burn out. You’ll likely just hate yourself in the end.

tl;dr: i’m a grumpy old person who hates seeing advice that promotes unhealthy activities, whether in jest or in seriousness. there is someone out there who will take it seriously. when you’re writing, just take care of yourself.

(even take this with a grain of salt lmao)

Maybe I should post something.

A Collection of horrors

Hi all! Today I’m excited to present the May/August event here at alexprompts, which is…

A Collection of Horrors will be a collection of short stories and images in the horror genre.

I’m hoping to turn it into a PDF which is free and accessible, along with using the usual masterpost format I previously have used on this blog. This will be uploaded sometime in September or October depending on how the formatting goes. Any name you would like attached will be included, along with your tumblr username at the time of upload.

How to get involved

To get involved in this collection of stories, all you need to do is create your story or image following these guidelines and be following @alexprompts​. Please also reblog this to help spread interest! 

Make sure to also tag @alexprompts​ in the piece so I get notified about your work, and to include #alexpromptsacollectionofhorrors in the tags.

Works can be uploaded from the 1st of May. You can upload multiple submissions, however depending on the amount of participation only one may be included. Please label the one you want included as such.

Please also include any name you would like to be credited as.

STORIES

The guidelines for stories are as follows:

the piece needs to be between 500 and 3500 words. Please include a word count in your post somewhere

anything particularly graphic or triggering needs to be tagged appropriately as such with relevant warnings

an image can also be included that you associate with your story, however it needs to be an original one (created by yourself).

IMAGES

The guidelines for images are as follows:

any submitted image needs to be original

all forms of art are welcome

if an image is particularly graphic or contains images that may be triggering to some, please tag appropriately with the relevant warnings

Taglist Information:

The Collection of Horrors taglist is open for those who are interested! If you are, please send a message, ask or reply to be added.

Below the cut is the current alexprompts taglists. This is the only circumstance under which you will be tagged in this, including in reminders and the final collection post unless you ask otherwise or are on the permanent taglist. 

Keep reading

No matter how much effort I put, I will never succeed.

The Corner of the Window

The child jolts awake to a vase shattering on the floor. Muffled yells of his parents vertebrate from outside the door. He sighs as he switches his lamp on, knowing sleep is not there for him tonight. Maybe it’s time to make mommy and daddy stop. He walks out of his room, careful not to trip on scattered articles of clothing and toys.

His ears pick up the sound of something scratching the corner of the window. Scratch, scratch, sounds like a branch. No, the only trees are across the street. His eyes adjust to the glare of the hallway light. Stabbing his eyes like knives, another crash echoes from the living room.

A roar booms from his father’s mouth. The child screams.

“Mom! Dad! Stop! Please!”

He races down the stairs to the living room.

“Mom, please just stop. I want you to stop fighting. Just stop.”

The child pleads, with tears in his eye, "stop.”

His dad weeps as he clutches the gash on his head. Blood forms a puddle on the floor, the child backs away, as his mom storms into the kitchen. His dad mouths two words.

“Go back to your room.”

The child nods and trots to his room. His eyelids weigh on his eyeballs, wanting to close. He shuts the door of his room, the scratching continues. It always happens when his parents are arguing. He curls up on his bed.

There is silence, maybe they finally stopped. He creeps down the stairs into the living room. From the stairs, he sees his father lying limp with a knife sticking out of his neck. His mother heaves in front of the body. The child bites his lip. As his mother turns to face him.

He darts into his room. His mother’s footsteps thump up the stairs as if she is a beast from hell. He slams the door of his room shut.

“I wish they could just keep doing it.” He tells himself, as his eyes release a waterfall of tears.

A deep voice whispers into his ear. “Open the window.”

His mother marches down the hall at a rapid pace.

The child’s fingers fumble the locks. Click, he pushes it wide. The warm summer air floods into his room. Just as his mother bursts in, knife in hand. A hand with long, slender black fingers extends from the window and wraps around the child.

“Stop you monster! You made me k-.”

In a waft of dead leaves, her child vanishes into the darkness. Never to be seen again.

Art: By Edgist A

Story: By Edgist A

Gonna start posting short stories on my tumblr account. #tumblr #shortstories #shortstoriesofinstagram #shortstoriescollection #notebook #notebookdecor #notebookart #notebooklove #notebookcover #notebookdoodles #fiction #writingcommunity #writing #writerslife #shortfiction #art #artwork #artworks #patterns #colours #surreal #warmtones https://www.instagram.com/p/B_X8oYKhDSP/?igshid=1qfcg78f6dyp8

Lulz, I guess I am guilty of that.

Attention all writers

Don’t. Delete. Your work. Don’t throw it away, burn your paper notes and scribbles, character doodles and failed verses. Keep a record of everything you do, every trip and every hilariously bad piece of work. Because often its hard to see the quality of your own work up close. In a few years, you’ll be rummaging around trying to find a different paper, and you’ll find some scrumpled draft scene from a book you started writing but gave up on. And you’ll read through it, and there’ll be lines that /sing/. You won’t recognise your work for the first few lines, and you’ll be thrown out of the writers chair and into the audience for the first time, and you’ll be able to have the magical experience of hearing your own words and not knowing how the sentence ends. And yeah, sometimes it’ll be laughably bad, but then you can see how far you’ve come. And when its not bad, its usually really, really good. Keep your notes. Keep copies of your drafts and keep your old notebooks. You are your own best inspiration.

Update on my previous post “It’s real shit”

Luckily, I don’t have Covid-19. In fact I am still healthy, and alive even. I am starting a novel called Void. Its about a boy who suddenly found himself in a shape shifting hellscape and he has to play 7 games representing the seven deadly sins to escape.

I am using the lock down to my advantage to write it. :)

Image source: https://chrisdevoss.wordpress.com/2012/02/15/since-hollywood-is-out-of-ideas-some-suggestions/

A Creepypasta I posted on Nosleep: I worked as the janitor of my community pool. I don't think I want to go back there.

Link: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/g2tl5g/i_worked_as_the_janitor_of_my_community_pool_i/

This is real shit.

Yesterday, I was buying celebration snacks for me and my friends in Shoppers, because the lines there are shorter. Oh hell I was fucking wrong, Once, I got inside the shop. Every single bottle of hand gel, rubbing alcohol and tissue was wiped clean off the shelf.

I got what I need, Pocky. Damn, I spent like ten minutes waiting for the lines to clear so I can buy my snack. Ten minutes later, the line was cleared and I held my fucking breath so I won’t breathe in the Corona virus. Hell that was painful!

After buying my shit, I got out of there. Just when my foot got out of the door, the cashier dude coughed. Fuck, I think I have it.

To whoever reading this, if you want to buy stuff. Please bring a mask, I am technically spreading the virus to my entire family right now. Fuck this shit, I am out.

Life advice to lost souls.

No one cares about your gender, race or identity. They only care if you respect them, the amount of money you make, and what you give to society. Never let anyone look down on you, for they are just self-absorbed losers. This is your life, given to by a higher power. In return you must provide something back.

Rip Dean.

A short Supernatural story written by me

Dean went into the fridge and noticed a pie. He smiled, took it and started eating. Midway through a bite he saw a piece of folded paper in the pie. He took it and unfolded it. On the paper it said “that pie was your brother.”

Feelings after working with stupid group mates at school.

Heavy hearts lead to hard nights and even harder starts to the day. Wanting to rip it out and toss the damn thing on the ground...there's got to be an easier way of getting around, more to life than getting by dragging lead dead weight.

Some inspiration I found to write better.

Deep in the cold, empty void, a lone starship drifts aimlessly. Her engines have long since gone cold, navigation systems no longer guide her, and her crew are now as silent as she is; quiet as a grave. On the bridge, the Admiral sits; waiting, watching, and hoping for something... anything... He sits, unmoving, forever looking into the vastness of open Space, trying to find a path back home... but no stars burn to light the way. The crew doesn't speak of it, or much of anything anymore, but they all know. The clocks have all stopped, the stars have gone out, and yet here they are, still lost and alone... With no hope of ever going home.

A short horror story

It’s 11:11 pm, I still did not study for tomorrow’s test.

I hate school.

I hate school, because I can’t read.

I hate school, because I can’t game.

I hate school, because I can’t browse Tumblr.

I hate school, because I can’t make art.

I hate school, because I can’t go out with my friends.

I hate school, because it takes time away from my life.

Confession to Tumblr

I was eating lunch at school. Suddenly this guy sat next to me. Took out his lunch, which was beef and rice. He then poured Fanta in it. And ate it.

The Stall

“You deserve it,” Mandy jeers, shoving Ariel’s head deeper into the toilet bowl.

The water laps onto her hands, as the twelve-year-old thrashes under her grip. Sprays of water flew in every direction.

Ariel feels her lungs burn, begging for oxygen. She whips her head up and sputters bitter water from her mouth. Mandy giggles.

“That is what you get for flirting with him, monster.”

Ariel descends into a coughing fit. Each cough pangs like a stab. She belches onto Mandy’s Mary Janes.

“Bitch!”

Mandy yanks Ariel’s hair. Bashes her head onto the bowl. 

Tingling spreads across Ariel’s nose. 

Bam! Mandy slams Ariel’s head on the seat, over and over again.  She dunks Ariel’s head into the toilet. A wave of icy water roars from the tank.

Ariel screams under the reddening water. She flails her limb. 

Mandy holds her head deeper into the water. Angry bubbles ascend to the surface. Mandy’s body stops struggling.

“He is mine,” Mandy shouts and flushes.

A teacher comes into the bathroom. He glances at the body of a preteen girl lying on the tiles. Next to her, a teenager slumped against the stall, eyes staring at the wall.to her, a teenager slumped against the stall, eyes staring at the wall.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“Help, there was an accident,” he sprints of.

Ariel rips free and raises her head. There is a large bloody gash across her forehead, oozing blood.

“Mine.”

Her eyes roll towards the back of her head. She flops onto the floor. Drenched hair spattered on the tiles like a dead octopus on a fishmonger’s marble slab. She sighs water pouring out of her mouth.

Mandy gawks at the lifeless body. She jabs her neck. No pulse. A shrill scream erupts from her throat.

A teacher trusts into the bathroom. He glances at the body of a preteen girl lying on the tiles. Next 

A tear rolls from Mandy’s eyes.

“I am so sorry!”

She backs away from the stall.

“I thought I can be with him forever. I can finally have someone who loves me.”

She covers her face with her palms, “I took a girl away from her loving family.”

“Ugh,” Ariel moans.

Mandy races towards Ariel, “I will get help okay!”

She strides toward the door. Suddenly, the door slams shut. Click, the door locks. Her eyes glances at Ariel crawling back on her feet.  Ariel’s head cocks to the side. An audible crack echoes around the room. Mandy rattles the knob. Three slits forms on Ariel’s neck, gills. Ariel raises her webbed hands and charges.

Image: http://theconversation.com/why-do-public-bathrooms-make-us-so-anxious-and-why-arent-we-doing-anything-about-it-50107

So deep, like the bottomless ocean.

Horror Short : Lamp

My eyes flickered open. So did the bedside lamp. My eyes opened wide, the light burned my eyes. Soon I adjusted to the light. I blinked as I stared into the yellow light illuminating the room with a warm glow. I immersed myself in the warm incandescent light. The sheets felt icy cold against my legs.

Beyond the gleaming lamp, was a figure. Four feet tall, cuddling in a corner hiding its face in its skeletal legs. Its skin was like tar and it wasn’t wearing any clothes. Then it began garbling soft sobs like a child. With quiet tiptoes, I approached the figure.

My apartment was ancient, it used to be an orphanage that burned down many years ago. I am accustomed to comforting child spirits, after the thirty years living here.

“Are you okay sweetie? It’s fine, the fire is over. The bridge to heaven is wide open.” I said in a hushed voice and wrapped the beige throw blanket around its boney shoulders.

Suddenly it’s head whipped around. I jumped. I fell to the floor. OW! I broke my hip! I scampered backward, my back against the wall. The figure creep towards me as slow as a snail on all fours. It has no mouth, just a smile shaped dent on its mouth. Its beady eyes are located on the side of its head, they are also dents.

How could it sense me? It’s blind. The chin is unbearably sharp and its head is the size of a pumpkin contrasting its fragile frame.

“Marian help me!” My voice came out in a stammer.

“She can’t help you now.” The figure said in a voice rattling like bones.

Bleach

He slammed the bathroom door shut. He breathed a sigh, as his parents yelled at each other downstairs.

“Why can’t your sperm give us a son whose IQ is above 0!” his mom screeched.

“Well,who told you to play with his head!” his father yelled and slapped his mom.

 THUD! His mom fell on the living room floor. Pain shot up his heart.

“I hate you! THOT!” his dad struck the mother with the sofa.

He twisted on the tap. Water flooded the basin. He dunked his head into the water, hoping to drown himself and the sound of his dad screaming profanities at his mother. 

An invisible fist punched his heart. He whipped his head back up. His mouth gasped for air. 

He opened the sink drawers and found a lamp. The lampshade was a pale yellow and the base was made of oak with elaborate floral carvings on it.

“You released me from my prison. I am the Genie of the lamp, you can have three wishes and one price,” a voice boomed.

“I wish my parents would stop arguing. I would have a friend and I can leave this cruel world,” he said.

The Genie handed him a bottle of bleach. He took it, the gallon felt heavy weighing down his muscles. Without a second thought, he drank it. Suddenly a sharp pang punched his stomach. Foam frothed out of his mouth. Soon his vision faded into black.

“I love you my friend.” with his remaining strength he lifted the jug and kissed it, like a champion kissing his trophy. Then his heart stopped breathing.

    Days later, his parents opened the bathroom door. They found a puddle made of pieces of melted flesh lying on the bathroom tiles. Limbs melted into a knot. Skull flat on the floor. Eyes staring at them in joy. The couple embraced. Sobbing for their son.

    “I love you.” they said in unison.