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Writers Spotlight


Becauseisaidsotoo is this week's spotlight writer. You can ask them a question by tagging them with "/u/Becauseisaidsotoo" in your comment.


How is a spotlight chosen? If you find a writer who hasn’t been in the limelight yet, has multiple decent entries (at least 6 or more) over the past few months, and you think deserves a spotlight, send us a modmail with your recommendation! We’ll add them to the list and with luck, they’ll make it up here. - Nate


Past Spotlight Writers


[/u/angelbreed]-[/u/apatheticviews]-[/u/Kuroikami]-[/u/EphesosX]-[/u/VanceValence]-[/u/M81atz]-[/u/Conleh]-[/u/SteelPanMan]-[/u/IntoTheSlushPile]-[/u/jrdnjones]-[/u/theamazingmrmaybe]-[/u/eeepgrandpa]-[/u/SexyPeter]-[/u/Boenerhorse]-[/u/mialbowy]-[/u/dori_lukey]-[/u/droptoprocket]-[/u/JLSWriting]-[/u/cbeckw]-[/u/WybieLovat]-[/u/Serious_Squirrel]-[/u/Lycheeberri]-[/u/seasonalbard]-[/u/the_divine_broochs]-[/u/Vaconius]-[/u/scweston]-[/u/AJ_Kolibri]-[/u/LonghandWriter]-[/u/coffeelover96]-[/u/curewritewounds]-[/u/Portarossa]-[/u/hpcisco7965]-[/u/Meanwhile_Over_There]-[/u/driftea]- and many, many more. Check out the archives!

Spotlight Archive - To highlight the lesser known writers.

Hall of Fame - Our every month spotlight of a selected "Reddit-Famous" WP contributor.


Did you know we have a chatroom? It's open 24/7! Plus, who doesn't enjoy a good ol' word sprint every now and then?

43 points
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Original Poster1 point · 11 days ago

Here’s a link to the original story.

It was a great story i really enjoyed it and Ghost Mummy did a wonderful job as always. She is one of my favorite narrators because if the sound effects , video effects and the atmosphere she sets In her narrations. I always lived stories about mysterious videos and you did a very interesting and fresh take on it. Thank you!

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Original Poster2 points · 15 days ago

Thank you for watching it and for your comment! I’m glad you enjoy her videos too. She’s really great!

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19

I am a huge fan of her channel. Her videos incorporate original footage, animations, sound effects, and music, and the results are really amazing. Check out the movie here to see what I mean.

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1 comment
Original Poster1 point · 11 days ago

Here’s a link to the original story.

10

Last night I watched a handful of haggard looking announcers on CNN sit around a table discussing the recent paper published by The National Sleep Foundation, confirming the rumors that had already been circulating online about recent discoveries about the nature of consciousness and what happens to us while we're sleeping.

You could see the bags under the their eyes, even under their makeup and I think I saw a few spelling errors in the news scroll as well, which was reporting on the recent dramatic rise in suicides, homicides and mass shootings - attributed to "heightened social anxiety", and of course, the sudden worldwide rash of accidents, cars, trucks, and planes, all attributed to operator error.

The operators, as well as the news announcers, aren't quite operating at peak efficiency as of late, and it's very late. All due to the paper, and the claims it irrefutably confirms, which everyone's really tired of hearing about. Everyone's really tired in general actually.

The sleep study revealed that while sleeping we experience a complete cessation of self. Awareness ends, consciousness reboots and the new awareness accesses the memories stored in the mind. Sounds ominous right? But a little confusing. Here it is in simpler terms - that part of you that's you, the voice reading this now? That part of you that thinks of itself as me, myself and I? That part ends, that part dies.

Basically, we live a day, die at night, and each morning a blank idiot awareness is born, and in those first few moments of awakening, it accesses our memories and convinces itself it's us. It's death, for everyone, every night. The person who wakes up tomorrow, is a different person from the one who fell asleep the night before, and it's borrowing memories it didn't experience, and an identity that doesn't belong to it, and it'll only live for a day, or maybe longer if it can stay awake, and there are ways to stay awake. But people, and things, start getting strange if you stay awake too long.

The paper was published about three days ago; give or take some sleepless hours, and most aren't handling it well. As I type this I can hear screams coming from the apartments next door, and perhaps crazed laughter too, and there are things burning in the streets below. Things I don't want to examine too closely.

Pleasant dreams.

10
1 comment
13

Last night I watched a handful of haggard looking announcers on CNN sit around a table discussing the recent paper published by The National Sleep Foundation, confirming the rumors that had already been circulating online about recent discoveries about the nature of consciousness and what happens to us while we're sleeping.

You could see the bags under the their eyes, even under their makeup and I think I saw a few spelling errors in the news scroll as well, which was reporting on the recent dramatic rise in suicides, homicides and mass shootings - attributed to "heightened social anxiety", and of course, the sudden worldwide rash of accidents, cars, trucks, and planes, all attributed to operator error.

The operators, as well as the news announcers, aren't quite operating at peak efficiency as of late, and it's very late. All due to the paper, and the claims it irrefutably confirms, which everyone's really tired of hearing about. Everyone's really tired in general actually.

The sleep study revealed that while sleeping we experience a complete cessation of self. Awareness ends, consciousness reboots and the new awareness accesses the memories stored in the mind. Sounds ominous right? But a little confusing. Here it is in simpler terms - that part of you that's you, the voice reading this now? That part of you that thinks of itself as me, myself and I? That part ends, that part dies.

Basically, we live a day, die at night, and each morning a blank idiot awareness is born, and in those first few moments of awakening, it accesses our memories and convinces itself it's us. It's death, for everyone, every night. The person who wakes up tomorrow, is a different person from the one who fell asleep the night before, and it's borrowing memories it didn't experience, and an identity that doesn't belong to it, and it'll only live for a day, or maybe longer if it can stay awake, and there are ways to stay awake. But people, and things, start getting strange if you stay awake too long.

The paper was published about three days ago; give or take some sleepless hours, and most aren't handling it well. As I type this I can hear screams coming from the apartments next door, and perhaps crazed laughter too, and there are things burning in the streets below. Things I don't want to examine too closely.

Pleasant dreams.

13
1 comment
7

Last night I watched a handful of haggard looking announcers on CNN sit around a table discussing the recent paper published by The National Sleep Foundation, confirming the rumors that had already been circulating online about recent discoveries about the nature of consciousness and what happens to us while we're sleeping.

You could see the bags under the their eyes, even under their makeup and I think I saw a few spelling errors in the news scroll as well, which was reporting on the recent dramatic rise in suicides, homicides and mass shootings - attributed to "heightened social anxiety", and of course, the sudden worldwide rash of accidents, cars, trucks, and planes, all attributed to operator error.

The operators, as well as the news announcers, aren't quite operating at peak efficiency as of late, and it's very late. All due to the paper, and the claims it irrefutably confirms, which everyone's really tired of hearing about. Everyone's really tired in general actually.

The sleep study revealed that while sleeping we experience a complete cessation of self. Awareness ends, consciousness reboots and the new awareness accesses the memories stored in the mind. Sounds ominous right? But a little confusing. Here it is in simpler terms - that part of you that's you, the voice reading this now? That part of you that thinks of itself as me, myself and I? That part ends, that part dies.

Basically, we live a day, die at night, and each morning a blank idiot awareness is born, and in those first few moments of awakening, it accesses our memories and convinces itself it's us. It's death, for everyone, every night. The person who wakes up tomorrow, is a different person from the one who fell asleep the night before, and it's borrowing memories it didn't experience, and an identity that doesn't belong to it, and it'll only live for a day, or maybe longer if it can stay awake, and there are ways to stay awake. But people, and things, start getting strange if you stay awake too long.

The paper was published about three days ago; give or take some sleepless hours, and most aren't handling it well. As I type this I can hear screams coming from the apartments next door, and perhaps crazed laughter too, and there are things burning in the streets below. Things I don't want to examine too closely.

Pleasant dreams.

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comment
10

Last night I watched a handful of haggard looking announcers on CNN sit around a table discussing the recent paper published by The National Sleep Foundation, confirming the rumors that had already been circulating online about recent discoveries about the nature of consciousness and what happens to us while we're sleeping.

You could see the bags under the their eyes, even under their makeup and I think I saw a few spelling errors in the news scroll as well, which was reporting on the recent dramatic rise in suicides, homicides and mass shootings - attributed to "heightened social anxiety", and of course, the sudden worldwide rash of accidents, cars, trucks, and planes, all attributed to operator error.

The operators, as well as the news announcers, aren't quite operating at peak efficiency as of late, and it's very late. All due to the paper, and the claims it irrefutably confirms, which everyone's really tired of hearing about. Everyone's really tired in general actually.

The sleep study revealed that while sleeping we experience a complete cessation of self. Awareness ends, consciousness reboots and the new awareness accesses the memories stored in the mind. Sounds ominous right? But a little confusing. Here it is in simpler terms - that part of you that's you, the voice reading this now? That part of you that thinks of itself as me, myself and I? That part ends, that part dies.

Basically, we live a day, die at night, and each morning a blank idiot awareness is born, and in those first few moments of awakening, it accesses our memories and convinces itself it's us. It's death, for everyone, every night. The person who wakes up tomorrow, is a different person from the one who fell asleep the night before, and it's borrowing memories it didn't experience, and an identity that doesn't belong to it, and it'll only live for a day, or maybe longer if it can stay awake, and there are ways to stay awake. But people, and things, start getting strange if you stay awake too long.

The paper was published about three days ago; give or take some sleepless hours, and most aren't handling it well. As I type this I can hear screams coming from the apartments next door, and perhaps crazed laughter too, and there are things burning in the streets below. Things I don't want to examine too closely.

Pleasant dreams.

10
3 comments
11

I don't know how long it's been going on. My memory isn't great, and memory is malleable, the more you examine it, the more it changes.

Here's the first and most obvious example I remember noticing and feeling upset about. It was detailing I noticed on my car. I came out of a theatre and saw pin-striping detailing that I'd never noticed before. Two thin parallel vinyl lines along both sides. I might have missed that when I got the car, but I don't think so. A few days later they were gone. It affected me. I remember standing by my car, hunched over from the cold, my hand touching the side of the door where the detailing had been, feeling the cold smooth metal, and feeling like I wanted to either laugh, or throw up. Since then it comes and goes. Sometimes the car has detailing, sometimes it doesn't. The car stays the same, but that detail changes. I try not to think about it too hard. I have bigger changes I'm dealing with now.

Okay, here it goes. Sometimes I wake up alone, in a house I've lived in for years. I go to the same job, I've had for a while, the people keep changing but the jobs the same. Sometimes I wake up somewhere else. With her, in our condo where we've lived for years, in the same town, and we're in love, and the job is the same, the people still change, but it's okay. I manage to do okay.

In the world were I wake up alone, I looked her up, she exists and lives in Kansas City, seems to be happy and seems to have been there a while. I stalked her a bit on social media one night, alone in my house. The next morning we woke up together again, in our condo, awash in the morning light, her breath tickling my neck. My arm pinned beneath her, the covers a tangled mess from my tossing and turning.

Minor details change, but there are two worlds that I flip back and forth between; one where I live alone, one where we live together. By focusing on her, I can control it, and I wake up with her. And I'm happy. It's my world and our world, and our world is better.

Except, in some ways it isn't. We watch the news of our world together at night, her and I, and it's scary. In our world there is a mass shooting and terrorist attack nearly every day. There's a clownish US president - formerly a reality TV star, who seems to be aspiring to be dictator, supported by his party which is ramping up military funding and slashing social programs at an astonishing rate. In other parts of our world, third world countries I've never heard of are acquiring nuclear weapons on what seems to be a daily basis, and terrorist organizations are flourishing in this violent and unsettle political climate. The weather is crazy too, massive storms hitting one coast and a fire raging along the other that seems unstoppable.

Last night we watched the news together as a late night talk show host we love nervously joked about some of the recent broadcasting laws forbidding critical coverage of our president during a lead up to what seems to be a war with our former allies. The host kept nervously glancing off screen, as though fearful of something off camera. There were no audience shots, no laughter.

In my world it's different. A career politician was elected president and seems to be doing fine. There are problems, but they all seem manageable. I watch the news by myself and things seem under control and getting better for the most part. But she's not there and I fall asleep alone.

I guess this is an apology. I flip back and forth between both worlds, but I've made my choice. I tell myself that there are two worlds, and that I can pick one. The alternative is that I am somehow responsible and that by choosing her, I'm choosing for us all, and dragging you all along with me into this warped world of chaos, fury and fear - and love.

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2 comments

Wow. This was amazing! Your style of writing is so good that I was totally hooked. The ending was delivered perfectly. I look forward to more from you. Thank you.

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Original Poster2 points · 21 days ago

Thanks so much!

12

The future: In a dystopian, ecologically ravished future ruled by large corporations that have destroyed the environment for profit, one man’s life’s work reminds humanity of what has been lost. Now a social movement has risen up, calling themselves the Happy Trees. They are tirelessly dedicated to kindness, love, inclusiveness an and environmental preservation, and their numbers are growing. They must be stopped.

The hit man received the contract on his personal assistant. In a glowing three dimensional window floating before his eyes, he sees the name and smiling face of his next victim. Cold dead eyes with cybernetic enhancements, stare into the kind brown eyes of the man whose legacy he is being hired to destroy. Then with a gesture of his hands, hands that have done terrible things, he minimizes the view window and looks across his dark sparse living cubical at his most cherished possession, mounted beneath a single light. It’s a hand painted canvas of a better world, one carefully, skillfully and lovingly crafted by the gentle hands of a single man, a better man. A world of clear skies, clean water, and a forest of happy trees.

Now: More Ross’s Victims Discovered The Wall Street Journal By Peter Gicholas and Michael R. Nordon

America’s once beloved landscape painter Bob Ross is officially America’s most prolific serial killer.

Once again bodies of multiple unidentified victims were exhumed today from another idyllic setting featured in one of Bob Ross’s paintings. Bob Ross’s estate had no comment on the discovery of another massive burial site, and no comment on the fact that, once again, the multiple victim’s DNA was found in the paint used to create the ghastly painting of the site where their hacked up remains were discovered.

The FBI, State Police, Park Rangers and nature enthusiasts are working together to locate the areas featured in other paintings by the famous artist and mass murderer. It is believed that many more bodies will be found.

“He was such a prolific painter, if each painting is the site of another mass grave - which we suspect is the case, the number of victims could potentially be in the thousands.” Said FBI Agent Solis, who is leading the investigation.

Strangely, the artist and mass murder is now more famous then ever. Online videos featuring the madman painting the burial sites, with paints mixed with the body fluids and wastes of his numerous victims, have cumulatively received over 2 billion views - and the numbers are rising. According to art dealers, his ghastly, not yet confiscated painting are rumored to be selling for hundreds of millions of dollars on the black market and the prices are rising as the death toll mounts. Additionally the art community has rallied around the painter, collectively acknowledging the fact that while Bob Ross had previously been seen as a pop artist creating fluff pieces, recent discoveries have shown him to be a performance artist on a previously unimagined scale.

Said noted art historian and lead curator at the Art Institute of Chicago, Theresa Devan, “It’s likely that Bob Ross will be seen as the greatest artist of the modern age. His skill as a painter, as admirable as it is, pales in comparison to what we are currently discovering his life work to actually be; a performance piece on a previously unimaginable scale, the definitive statement on the true nature of man, the duality of consciousness, the horror of existence and the redemptive nature of beauty created in the midst of this horror, unimaginable pain and madness.”

The American Psychiatric Association (APA) has a very different opinion on the matter and has issued a statement on it’s website condemning the art community for glorifying the actions of a man who obviously suffered from a mental disorder. Said a spokes person for the APA, “We hope this brings attention to the prevalence of mental illness in our society, and that it will inspire those suffering to seek help.”

Fans of Bob Ross have responded with denials and shock, claiming that it’s simply not possible that the beloved artist could have been capable of such horrific acts. Though the sheer magnitude of the evidence proves without a shadow of a doubt that the artist was one of the most depraved killers in modern history. Still, his fans refuse to believe it. One vocal, if colorful, spokesperson has even proposed the absurd theory that Bob Ross is being framed by a time travel organization that’s dedicated to besmirching the legacy of great men. Said Eric London, a spokesperson for one of the Bob Ross apologists groups, “This is like when they found the bodies buried in Michelle Obama’s vegetable garden! There’s no way the Obama’s were murderers! There’s no way Bob Ross is either! It’s some kind of frame up! Wake up sheeple! Wake up!”

FBI agent Solis had no comment regarding the above quotes, though he did request we share with our readers that buying and selling these paintings is a felony offense, being that they contain DNA evidence absolutely relevant to this ongoing investigation. He added that if anyone has any information on the unidentified victims, where additional burial sites may be located, or any information about the buying or selling of Bob Ross’s paintings, that they should visit the website of the FBI and file a report.

Additional suspected burial sites have been identified at various sites around the USA and authorities have been dispatched.

This is a developing story.

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2 comments

Buwahaha! This is awesome! …Especially considering Bob Ross's actual military history.

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Original Poster1 point · 24 days ago

Thanks!

393

I’m a good pupper. That’s what my mother told me and that’s what I believe.

I was born during the warm months, and lived with my mother and litter until the cold white blanket fell from the sky. That’s when the men in the screaming and flashing cars had came and taken us from our mother and our home. They had brought us to a bigger and brighter place with cold hard floors and wire cages, and one by one my littermates were taken by humans. I was the last one taken, and when I whined in the night they put me with Boney; a huge and skinny dog who was lame in one leg. Boney was my friend and I followed him around and slept beside him too. Boney was sick though. Something wrong inside of him, hurt him, had made him lame, and it was growing. He whined in the night too, from pain - not loneliness. I would lick his face and his tail would wag, but I knew there wasn’t anything I could do to help him and sometimes when he’d cry out in the night I would whine softly as well - though quietly so I wouldn’t wake him. Because I was a good boy, my mother had told me so.

One day after Boney had whined all night, the woman in the white coat had opened our cage door, and put a leash on him. Her eyes were wet and running, which we’d seen before. Boney had told me that when she came into our area with wet eyes and led a dog away, we’d never see it again. Boney said the wet eyes meant she was filled with sad and bad feelings and that she had to do something she did not want to do.

When I saw her put the leash on Boney, I was filled with bad feelings too and I barked and barked and threw myself against the cage, but she ignored me, and dragged Boney away, as his kind dark eyes had rolled with fear and pain.

Boney never came back.

One day, a strange man had come and looked at us. People came all the time, and looked at us, and sometimes took one of us away to live with them. Boney told me that we had to be friendly, run towards them, wag our tails, and bark for attention. Boney said that young dogs like me were usually snapped right up, but that people sometimes didn’t like dogs like me when we got too much older, and that the bald healing patch on my neck was probably why I hadn’t been taken those first few months. Boney has said the hair would grow back, and that if I was a good boy, a friendly dog, someone would take me eventually, if I didn’t get too big.

Finally, someone did, that strange man, all by himself, with hard hands that tasted of salt and meat. He rubbed my head briskly, his hands heavy against my clipped ears, which were still sore - though they had long since healed. He put his fingers in my mouth too, and felt my legs. “Good boy,” he had said. “good boy.” But he seemed to be saying it to himself, and his eyes and smell were hard to read. I was happy though, excited to be chosen at last, happy to be taken away from this place with it’s barking dogs, wire cages and strange rituals that took my friends away when they got old and sick, and as we left that place I wagged what was left of my bobbed tail furiously, and I happily jumped into the back of his strange smelling, boxy car, with it’s dark windows and soft odd smelling mattress.

I liked my new home. The house was huge and dark, and I shared it with a half wild cat that didn’t seem interested in being my friend at all. I had a small door I could squeeze through if I had to go outside, I was fed a lot of raw meat and I loved the cat and my human to, though he wasn’t very friendly and he wasn’t home very often.

My favorite times were when the man would take me to the park and let me run up to certain people if they were alone. I’d jump up on them them, and they would pet me and I would lick their faces and they would laugh and then the man would come up behind them with a piece of strong smelling cloth, and he’d put it against their smiling faces and they would grab at his hands and then collapse. He’d then tie their hands and feet and cover their mouths and put them in his car, and tell me I was a good boy and I’d ride in the front with him, while they rolled around in the back, making muffled noises.

I was lonely in the house when the man was away, and excited that we had new people in the basement, but time after time, the man just took them downstairs into the dark basement and they would never came up again. Sometimes I would hear strange noises and I would feel uneasy and I’d hide behind the sofa, hiding from the noises and the cold glowing eyes of the cat, who crouched in the shadows, chuckling to itself, as it’s tail wagged in that odd way that it did.

Last afternoon, we went to the park and I saw a small human. “Go get her boy!” The man had breathed into my ear as he unleashed me. I ran towards the small human, wagging my stump of a tail so hard that my whole backend swayed, and the human had initially looked afraid, but had then broken into a huge smile and had hugged and petted me. “Are you a good boy? Are you a good boy?” She had asked as she laughed, an odd sound humans make when they are happy. My owner never laughed though, but he looked happy as he stepped up behind her and slipped the cloth over her face. Her eyes had widened, and then, before they closed, I saw it - the moisture running out of their corners, the same thing I had seen in the eyes of the woman in the white coat when she had led Boney away for the last time.

“It means that they are filled with sad and bad feelings.” Boney had said. “It means that they are doing something they don’t want to do.”

I felt strange. As we drove home, I could hear the human in the back. Rolling around and making sounds. Sounds that sounded like whimpers, and I could still see her wide eyes, shocked, afraid, and starting to run with water. The water that meant she was filled with bad feelings, and I whimpered softly to myself. But it was drowned out by the sound of the wind blowing through the car windows, the sounds coming from the back, and the low mumbling of the man talking to himself, as his large hard hands squeezed the steering wheel, again and again and again.

That night I heard sounds coming from the basement. I hid behind the sofa whimpering softly to myself feeling strange. Feeling bad.

“Why are you crying, you fool.” The cat had hissed, his eyes glowing like small moons, out of a darker patch in the gloom.

“She’s just prey for the man to play with and food for us to eat. No different the the others you help the man bring home.” The cat’s low voice dripped with contempt and something like hatred, despite the fact that it’s tail was wagging, and that it was vibrating with a deep self satisfied purr.

I didn’t reply back. Though I felt a sick feeling spreading inside me, a darkness growing that made my legs feel weak. Was this the pain that made Boney whimper in the night? The thing that made his leg lame? The feeling ate away at me as I hid there, and all night I whimpered like Boney had, as the cat prowled around the house, purring and laughing softly to itself.

The next morning when the man left, I nosed open the basement door and I descended into the darkness as the cat padded softly behind me. We were forbidden from coming down here, but that had never stopped the cat, and wouldn’t stop me now. We navigated by sense of smell, and it smelled bad, like the place I had come from. Fear, desperation and other things as well.

We found the small human, bound hand and foot and with her mouth covered. In the faint light I could see that her eyes were wide with fear and as I licked her face, moisture poured out of them. I knew what I had to do, and I chewed at the ropes that bound her, and it took hours to free her hands and feet, and when the ropes finally parted, she threw her arms around me, and I felt the water from her eyes hot against my neck. The cat watched us silently. With something like hate in it’s glowing eyes.

When she was free, I led her out of the dark basement, tugging at her her sleeve, and she exited through the small doggy door, and tried to take me with her. But I stayed. Because I am a good boy, and the cat and I watched as she raced across the yard, and disappeared into the tall dark woods around the house.

“You fool.” The cat hissed. “You stupid fool.” Then it padded away, disappearing into the the shadows that were gathering in the corners of the room and spreading through the empty house.

And I returned to the basement. To the small room with the odd smells and discarded ropes. To the damp mattress and the darkness. Because I knew the man would be home soon and that he’d go downstairs and see what I had done. There was no escaping it, and I was a good boy, and I would not hide.

I descended into the darkness that smelled like meat, and fear, and blood. I retraced my steps through the dark rooms until I found the place where the small human had been, where all the humans I had distracted and befriended had been bound. I sniffed at the chewed up ropes, at the stains, and I laid down. But I was not hiding and I was not cowering. I was crouching and I was waiting.

Because I never told you why my mother had told me I was a good boy, did I? She had told me that as I had laid panting beside her, bleeding from my raw and torn throat. Unlike my father and my brothers, I had refused to fight the other dogs that the screaming men had pitted me against. I had refused to fight back and a bigger and more vicious dog had torn at my throat and ripped hair and skin away. I had went limp, and my owner at the time had cursed at me and kicked me, and had dragged me away and threw me back into the cage I shared with my mother, and she had licked my wound as I had laid there, panting, bleeding, and whimpering. She told me that I was a good boy for not fighting back, a good boy for not sinking my teeth into my enemies throat, a good boy for not being the killer the humans wanted me to be.

Now I am waiting here in the darkness, thinking about what the man had made me do, thinking about his exposed throat, the delicate bones, and the hot blood rushing beneath his soft thin skin. I am excited for him to return, because I am no longer his good boy, and I can’t wait to show him what I can do.

393
22 comments

I loved this! I really enjoyed a non human point of view and you captured my cat's attitude exactly. Great story, great writing, great depth. Thank you.

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Original Poster1 point · 27 days ago

Thank you!

34

I don't know how long it's been going on. My memory isn't great, and memory is malleable, the more you examine it, the more it changes.

Here's the first and most obvious example I remember noticing and feeling upset about. It was detailing I noticed on my car. I came out of a theatre and saw pin-striping detailing that I'd never noticed before. Two thin parallel vinyl lines along both sides. I might have missed that when I got the car, but I don't think so. A few days later they were gone. It affected me. I remember standing by my car, hunched over from the cold, my hand touching the side of the door where the detailing had been, feeling the cold smooth metal, and feeling like I wanted to either laugh, or throw up. Since then it comes and goes. Sometimes the car has detailing, sometimes it doesn't. The car stays the same, but that detail changes. I try not to think about it too hard. I have bigger changes I'm dealing with now.

Okay, here it goes. Sometimes I wake up alone, in a house I've lived in for years. I go to the same job, I've had for a while, the people keep changing but the jobs the same. Sometimes I wake up somewhere else. With her, in our condo where we've lived for years, in the same town, and we're in love, and the job is the same, the people still change, but it's okay. I manage to do okay.

In the world were I wake up alone, I looked her up, she exists and lives in Kansas City, seems to be happy and seems to have been there a while. I stalked her a bit on social media one night, alone in my house. The next morning we woke up together again, in our condo, awash in the morning light, her breath tickling my neck. My arm pinned beneath her, the covers a tangled mess from my tossing and turning.

Minor details change, but there are two worlds that I flip back and forth between; one where I live alone, one where we live together. By focusing on her, I can control it, and I wake up with her. And I'm happy. It's my world and our world, and our world is better.

Except, in some ways it isn't. We watch the news of our world together at night, her and I, and it's scary. In our world there is a mass shooting and terrorist attack nearly every day. There's a clownish US president - formerly a reality TV star, who seems to be aspiring to be dictator, supported by his party which is ramping up military funding and slashing social programs at an astonishing rate. In other parts of our world, third world countries I've never heard of are acquiring nuclear weapons on what seems to be a daily basis, and terrorist organizations are flourishing in this violent and unsettle political climate. The weather is crazy too, massive storms hitting one coast and a fire raging along the other that seems unstoppable.

Last night we watched the news together as a late night talk show host we love nervously joked about some of the recent broadcasting laws forbidding critical coverage of our president during a lead up to what seems to be a war with our former allies. The host kept nervously glancing off screen, as though fearful of something off camera. There were no audience shots, no laughter.

In my world it's different. A career politician was elected president and seems to be doing fine. There are problems, but they all seem manageable. I watch the news by myself and things seem under control and getting better for the most part. But she's not there and I fall asleep alone.

I guess this is an apology. I flip back and forth between both worlds, but I've made my choice. I tell myself that there are two worlds, and that I can pick one. The alternative is that I am somehow responsible and that by choosing her, I'm choosing for us all, and dragging you all along with me into this warped world of chaos, fury and fear - and love.

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8 comments

I like it!

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Original Poster0 points · 28 days ago

Thanks!

A nice twist. I enjoyed this.

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Original Poster0 points · 28 days ago

Thanks!

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I don't know how long it's been going on. My memory isn't great, and memory is malleable, the more you examine it, the more it changes.

Here's the first and most obvious example I remember noticing and feeling upset about. It was detailing I noticed on my car. I came out of a theatre and saw pin-striping detailing that I'd never noticed before. Two thin parallel vinyl lines along both sides. I might have missed that when I got the car, but I don't think so. A few days later they were gone. It affected me. I remember standing by my car, hunched over from the cold, my hand touching the side of the door where the detailing had been, feeling the cold smooth metal, and feeling like I wanted to either laugh, or throw up. Since then it comes and goes. Sometimes the car has detailing, sometimes it doesn't. The car stays the same, but that detail changes. I try not to think about it too hard. I have bigger changes I'm dealing with now.

Okay, here it goes. Sometimes I wake up alone, in a house I've lived in for years. I go to the same job, I've had for a while, the people keep changing but the jobs the same. Sometimes I wake up somewhere else. With her, in our condo where we've lived for years, in the same town, and we're in love, and the job is the same, the people still change, but it's okay. I manage to do okay.

In the world were I wake up alone, I looked her up, she exists and lives in Kansas City, seems to be happy and seems to have been there a while. I stalked her a bit on social media one night, alone in my house. The next morning we woke up together again, in our condo, awash in the morning light, her breath tickling my neck. My arm pinned beneath her, the covers a tangled mess from my tossing and turning.

Minor details change, but there are two worlds that I flip back and forth between; one where I live alone, one where we live together. By focusing on her, I can control it, and I wake up with her. And I'm happy. It's my world and our world, and our world is better.

Except, in some ways it isn't. We watch the news of our world together at night, her and I, and it's scary. In our world there is a mass shooting and terrorist attack nearly every day. There's a clownish US president - formerly a reality TV star, who seems to be aspiring to be dictator, supported by his party which is ramping up military funding and slashing social programs at an astonishing rate. In other parts of our world, third world countries I've never heard of are acquiring nuclear weapons on what seems to be a daily basis, and terrorist organizations are flourishing in this violent and unsettle political climate. The weather is crazy too, massive storms hitting one coast and a fire raging along the other that seems unstoppable.

Last night we watched the news together as a late night talk show host we love nervously joked about some of the recent broadcasting laws forbidding critical coverage of our president during a lead up to what seems to be a war with our former allies. The host kept nervously glancing off screen, as though fearful of something off camera. There were no audience shots, no laughter.

In my world it's different. A career politician was elected president and seems to be doing fine. There are problems, but they all seem manageable. I watch the news by myself and things seem under control and getting better for the most part. But she's not there and I fall asleep alone.

I guess this is an apology. I flip back and forth between both worlds, but I've made my choice. I tell myself that there are two worlds, and that I can pick one. The alternative is that I am somehow responsible and that by choosing her, I'm choosing for us all, and dragging you all along with me into this warped world of chaos, fury and fear - and love.

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1 comment
14

The future: In a dystopian, ecologically ravished future ruled by large corporations that have destroyed the environment for profit, one man’s life’s work reminds humanity of what has been lost. Now a social movement has risen up, calling themselves the Happy Trees. They are tirelessly dedicated to kindness, love, inclusiveness an and environmental preservation, and their numbers are growing. They must be stopped.

The hit man received the contract on his personal assistant. In a glowing three dimensional window floating before his eyes, he sees the name and smiling face of his next victim. Cold dead eyes with cybernetic enhancements, stare into the kind brown eyes of the man whose legacy he is being hired to destroy. Then with a gesture of his hands, hands that have done terrible things, he minimizes the view window and looks across his dark sparse living cubical at his most cherished possession, mounted beneath a single light. It’s a hand painted canvas of a better world, one carefully, skillfully and lovingly crafted by the gentle hands of a single man, a better man. A world of clear skies, clean water, and a forest of happy trees.

Now: More Ross’s Victims Discovered The Wall Street Journal By Peter Gicholas and Michael R. Nordon

America’s once beloved landscape painter Bob Ross is officially America’s most prolific serial killer.

Once again bodies of multiple unidentified victims were exhumed today from another idyllic setting featured in one of Bob Ross’s paintings. Bob Ross’s estate had no comment on the discovery of another massive burial site, and no comment on the fact that, once again, the multiple victim’s DNA was found in the paint used to create the ghastly painting of the site where their hacked up remains were discovered.

The FBI, State Police, Park Rangers and nature enthusiasts are working together to locate the areas featured in other paintings by the famous artist and mass murderer. It is believed that many more bodies will be found.

“He was such a prolific painter, if each painting is the site of another mass grave - which we suspect is the case, the number of victims could potentially be in the thousands.” Said FBI Agent Solis, who is leading the investigation.

Strangely, the artist and mass murder is now more famous then ever. Online videos featuring the madman painting the burial sites, with paints mixed with the body fluids and wastes of his numerous victims, have cumulatively received over 2 billion views - and the numbers are rising. According to art dealers, his ghastly, not yet confiscated painting are rumored to be selling for hundreds of millions of dollars on the black market and the prices are rising as the death toll mounts. Additionally the art community has rallied around the painter, collectively acknowledging the fact that while Bob Ross had previously been seen as a pop artist creating fluff pieces, recent discoveries have shown him to be a performance artist on a previously unimagined scale.

Said noted art historian and lead curator at the Art Institute of Chicago, Theresa Devan, “It’s likely that Bob Ross will be seen as the greatest artist of the modern age. His skill as a painter, as admirable as it is, pales in comparison to what we are currently discovering his life work to actually be; a performance piece on a previously unimaginable scale, the definitive statement on the true nature of man, the duality of consciousness, the horror of existence and the redemptive nature of beauty created in the midst of this horror, unimaginable pain and madness.”

The American Psychiatric Association (APA) has a very different opinion on the matter and has issued a statement on it’s website condemning the art community for glorifying the actions of a man who obviously suffered from a mental disorder. Said a spokes person for the APA, “We hope this brings attention to the prevalence of mental illness in our society, and that it will inspire those suffering to seek help.”

Fans of Bob Ross have responded with denials and shock, claiming that it’s simply not possible that the beloved artist could have been capable of such horrific acts. Though the sheer magnitude of the evidence proves without a shadow of a doubt that the artist was one of the most depraved killers in modern history. Still, his fans refuse to believe it. One vocal, if colorful, spokesperson has even proposed the absurd theory that Bob Ross is being framed by a time travel organization that’s dedicated to besmirching the legacy of great men. Said Eric London, a spokesperson for one of the Bob Ross apologists groups, “This is like when they found the bodies buried in Michelle Obama’s vegetable garden! There’s no way the Obama’s were murderers! There’s no way Bob Ross is either! It’s some kind of frame up! Wake up sheeple! Wake up!”

FBI agent Solis had no comment regarding the above quotes, though he did request we share with our readers that buying and selling these paintings is a felony offense, being that they contain DNA evidence absolutely relevant to this ongoing investigation. He added that if anyone has any information on the unidentified victims, where additional burial sites may be located, or any information about the buying or selling of Bob Ross’s paintings, that they should visit the website of the FBI and file a report.

Additional suspected burial sites have been identified at various sites around the USA and authorities have been dispatched.

This is a developing story.

14
4 comments

That's horrible. I love it. But it's horrible though. But I love it.

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Original Poster2 points · 1 month ago

Thanks!

Becauseisaidsotoo

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