Original-Scribbles

In the early morning darkness of West Virginia, a man was flattening sod onto a freshly-made burial mound. He had been at it since parking his rental truck hours earlier, yet he could see a sliver of the sun's light over the horizon, signaling that time was running out. As he stood back up, Jay stretched his worn-out muscles, wiped the thick paste of sweat off his face, and surveyed his work. Oh, thank God, I put the sod on right," Jay sighed with relief. Stepping away from his work, he started to walk back to the truck, ready to head home. Part of him wanted to collapse in the front seat and sleep for several hours, maybe even the entire day. However, he knew that the moment he relaxed, he would accumulate new problems. A patrolling police officer could catch him loitering, or some mythical do-gooder could show up thinking he was in distress, or worse, the mound could collapse, making him have to rework the entire thing. He groaned at the thought of having to fix and reshape it

So, I just received the body. The only things I knew beforehand were that the deceased was a prominent athlete and that his murderers were sending him to me. I don't know whether they murdered him due to his skills or other unknown reasons, but I don't need to know. However, judging by the stab wound and the third-degree burns, I'm willing to bet it was somewhat personal. Fortunately for them, so long as I get paid, I won't ask questions. And boy, did I get paid this time. Apparently, the people who commissioned me are extremely wealthy since they somehow managed to buy an Amazon truck look alike to deliver the body discreetly, as well as throw in a fat envelope of unmarked bills. And I'm not going to lie, I was slightly impressed. Not only from the fake Amazon truck but how much they gave me. I have enough to pay off the rent, for the materials for this burial, and a bit

Jay opened his eyes, looking up at the popcorn ceiling he was lying under. He didn't need to look at the clock to know it was late in the afternoon. He sighed, realizing that he had missed his online class lecture again. Jay slowly sat up, rubbing his cheek, trying to convince himself to get out of bed. Even though it had only been a week since he finished his last commission, his funds were running low again. He would need to do another commission. Hopefully, one higher paying than the last one and one that required less effort. Sitting up with a groan, he cradled his forehead. Looking over at his dresser, which was in the middle of puking up papers and socks, covered in many different glasses, filled with either ancient cold coffee sludge or lukewarm water, he finally gets up. Stumbling around his room, he walks down to the kitchen, slamming his foot accidentally against the only kitchen chair. "Ffffffffffffffff-" Jay starts to yell out when he's interrupted by the doorbell's loud

Sitting in front of the screen, Sasha couldn't help but groan as she looked over her work. Or lack of it. She had sat down at her desk earlier in the evening with a nice mug of slightly caffeinated tea to write an entire story over an idea she had thought of for a literary journal she hoped to get it into. Now, it was three am, she had finished off three and a half cups of bitter-tasting matcha tea, and she had nothing to show for it. It felt like the blank page on her computer screen was mocking her as if it wasn't the one preventing her from moving on with her tale. Peering into her now empty fourth cup of tea, she heard a small rumble behind her. Quickly, she got up from her office chair and headed towards the nearby darkened kitchen. She was already stressed out and out of patience. But she couldn't quit now, not with the deadline so close. Opening the fridge, Sasha started to search for anything that might stop the inevitable a bit longer. "Hungry," something whispered faintly

My name is Herman Fontaine. I am 29 years old and live in Ocala Florida with my girlfriend of three years, Sylvia Ramsey, several dogs, cats, turtles, and a couple of capybaras. I am running out of time, and there's no one left on the research vessel Hidden Minnow. Everyone is dead except for me. Though that's going to change pretty soon. Part of me doesn't want to relive this day. I just want to slip into unconsciousness, unaware of the danger lying underneath the floating driftwood I'm stuck on. But I know I can't do that. I can't let others go through what I and everyone onboard did. So, please listen to how we came across something that should have stayed hidden. I am...no, not anymore...I was a successful ocean photographer and I used to love the ocean. No, love isn't right. Obsessed would be a better term. From the first time I saw the sea in person at twelve years old, I knew I had found something that would play a vital role in my life. The sound of the waves periodically

Hello dear future. I started to give life to my story and its characters as some form of refuge for myself. I did what I had to do. It was somewhat instinct and what I write now might be the exegesis of that, years after contemplation: I saw no way for myself to be able to connect to others. I was torn apart, and no one seemed to be interested in dirty rags. I was too much work. Or would have been. And I agree. I was alone and it was either working on myself or getting rid of me and – yes – it was a lot of work. Only some time later did I start to realise that I was giving my problems to said characters. And because, as I assumed, no one would be interested to read a story where problems just disappear with a flick of the finger, I had to start thinking about solutions. Stringent solutions. Nowadays I consider my intention refined. I write to offer others hope. Good, if they just have fun. That’s, of course, fine as well. I may be (or might have been, when you read this) a fool to