|Our most prolific and dangerous minds|
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The ShackSometime, into the evening, when the sun was off, and had set, in a way, and the sky was deep blue, and strange looking. The shrouded face, stood looking off towards the shack, with the small glowing fire in it. Two hand’s were raised towards the entrance of the shack, and the sign of the cross was made. A little kid of a black and white goat, stepped out of the door way of the shack, and chuckled, and then went back inside the hut.The Shack by BootShopStory
The sun was gone completely, and the star’s had risen into the sky, like slowly falling field’s of fire, shimmering in the night. The shrouded figure walked towards, the shack, and after entering it closed the door.
Two pair’s of eyes watched the fire burning beneath the mantle, while a ghost sat outside of the shack, and hummed with the wind, becoming trance-like with the night, while the sky swooned, and made strange masks of the day, at the constellation’s in their cosmic height.
When the sun rose, the dwelling was empty, as
Cattle Carcattle to the slaughterCattle Car by Ozzkat
chains tinkering against the metal runway
in submission, they march-
but one, she's a martyr.
head steady, she parks in the back,
content; albeit she knows she'll be on the meat rack.
the ride's rocky, jerking her about
into bars and sweat and shrieking hogs.
round 'em up, bring 'em on down;
shhh, dear heart; they'll know if you pound
and into a patty, you'll be ground.
lift your head higher.
obey the constraints;
an orchestra against the metal.
but don't drag your legs-
one heifer strumbles and loses her head.
they said 60 days
for the craze to fester in her head.
beneath the guillotine's claw,
barely dignified still, she but nods.
"but we say seven," says the judge,
"then chop it off and serve to the crowd.
"a sane one will grow back."
i watch the banquet from afar,
their chatter raucous and loud,
and know i'll never turn back.
TorqueoSeptember 30th, 2015Torqueo by Caylee-Slansen
They found another last night. They think it's the same thing, Torqueo.
They have no idea where it came from, but it comes for you in the dead of night - those insomniac nights when you can't get to sleep. Apparently you can't see it but you'll know when it's there. Little things, the "classics": the feeling of being watched, creaking noises, movement in the corner of your eye. Those simple things you try to shrug off as your imagination.
It bides its time, teasing you, trying to get you as susceptible as possible. It wants your imagination to run wild, to envisage the worst things you possibly can. And when you reach that pinnacle moment, it strikes. It turns that worst thought, that worst imagining in your head into a reality. A slow, exceptionally torturous reality.
They find you the next morning. Your body frozen, trapped. But your eyes scream it all. You're still there. It still has you. Torqueo. An eternity of torment.
They haven't worked out how to esc