Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-34823985-20180228235348

I'm sure I'm not the only one who likes to search silly or strange word combinations to see what pops up. 'Crepe pasta succotash' (I was hungry) lead me to a creepy pasta site which eventually lead me here to this particular creepy pasta site. I had never heard of CPs before. I'm not much of a horror fan, but I decided to try my hand at writing a creepy pasta. I got ahead of myself and submitted a short that upon reflection (a few seconds after submitting it) I realized couldn't possibly pass muster, so I wasn't surprised when I discovered the next day that it had indeed been rejected. Blah, blah, blah... long story short. Is this rewrite (hope it's not too much of a cliche)ready for submission? I've also included my original submission at the bottom if your curious.

Echoism

Elvis Slarn only had to open the door to his basement to mollify the seemingly overwhelming fears and insecurities that cast doubt upon the necessary work he did. The symphonious sounds of muffled whimpering accented by the sweet sanitary scent of bleach was usually enough to lift his spirits and dissipate the thundering storm clouds in his head. The familiar creak, 'eak, creak, 'eak of the old wooden staircase greeted him at each step as he descended into his workshop.

A place for everything and for everything a place. The mantra danced in Slarn's head every time he entered his workshop. He was itching to put a little music on, introduce himself to his new guest, and get to work.

He excitedly hopped up onto the raised platform of workstation number one and greeted his exhausted, frightened, and overwhelmed guest with a soft drumming on the bound man's chest and a light pat, pat on his cheeks. "Good morning, and how did you sleep?"

Slarn nearly came in his pants when his guest's eyes shot wide open and he started to struggle against the bindings that Slarn had meticulously trussed him up in last night. It seems he had dozed off after hours of useless wiggling and squirming. All he could do was lie there on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and hope to God someone would come to his rescue.

"I hope you got a good night's sleep," Slarn said as he began to inspect with a relish the many straps and clasps he spent so much time cleaning and maintaining. "Yep, everything looks shipshape, but before I get underway here, how about a little music to set the mood."

Slarn hopped down and retrieved an old tape recorder from a nearby shelf. Rhythmically shifting side to side as he headed towards his work belt hanging on the wall. He pressed the play button and a cacophony of screams and yelps intermingled with the jarring sounds of a power tool of some sort sprang from the tape recorder. Sam Tinson began to cry and struggle against his bindings. His teeth and tongue frantically fought to break away whatever was tightly covering his mouth. His fingers and toes coiled and uncoiled uselessly.

Slarn set the tape recorder down, grabbed his tool belt and swung it around his waist like he'd done so many times before. Adjusting it on his hips, he grabbed the roll of duct tape that now hung on his left side and headed back towards his guest. He tore off a new strip of duct tape from the roll and ripped the saliva, bile, and sweat soaked strip from his guest's mouth.

Sam immediately leapt into a barrage of screams, curses, and demands as Slarn gingerly wiped Sam's face and mouth with a rag before he applied the new strip; shutting off Sam's caterwauling. While pressing and patting the edges of the tape to make sure it was secure Slarn told his guest about his feelings on the grey tape.

"Duct tape was originally used for, you guessed it, duct work. And you know, your esophagus is a kind of duct." Slarn chuckled and patted his guest on the cheek. "This stuff has got a million and one uses." Slarn chuckled a little more as he stepped down from workstation number one and walked over to a shelf that contained dozens upon dozens of little boxes with names like Tucketts Marguerite, Benson and Hedges no. 7, and Pandora Cigars. Each one was marked on the front with a letter.

He scanned the alphabetically organized boxes and grabbed the one marked with a red letter K. Inside the box were four cassette tapes. Slarn smiled, took the one labeled 'Nathan Kellogg #1' out of the box, and placed the box back on the shelf. A slight limp began to show as he headed towards the tape recorder. The horrific screams and buzzing of power tools hushed as he pressed stop. He switched out the tapes and spoke to his guest.

"Listen up now, it's very important that you listen to this next song. Well, it's more of a monologue, but it's got a great rhythm to it. This kid really cracked up when I strapped him to the very table you're lying on now (comfy isn't it?), but he surprised me and that hasn't happened in quite a long time."

Sam, nearly insane with fear and the feeling of hopelessness, would have cackled just then if he could have. He couldn't imagine what he was going to hear when the maniac dressed up like some sort of homicidal carpenter pressed the play button, but listen was all he could do. Slarn hit play and leaned in close like a kid might do during a really good scene on his favorite cartoon. The tinny voice of a panicked well spoken young man burst out of the recorder.

"Pfft! That's it. That one sound sums up my entire life. For as long as I can remember, people have dismissed me with the imitation of a barely audible fart. My words, my actions, even my appearance have met an onomatopoeic backlash. Dismissed time and time again with that sound.

"I've recited quotes (inspiring and insightful) from the annals of history and received responses like 'Pfft, you were home schooled, weren't you?'. I've repeated my brother's original jokes to people who didn't know him and received pfft in place of the more common boo. My brother's a very funny guy who happens to hate it when I use his jokes. 'Pfft, your delivery would be marked return to sender.' Shove it up your butt, Joshua!"

Slarn pressed the button labeled with a red square and Nathan Kellogg's voice stopped. "Now here is where it gets good." Slarn chuckled, "Exaltation... he's certainly the first to adapt that strategy. I've got dozens of examples of bargaining, threatening, and pleading recorded, but he definitely shined brighter than any of you. I even considered offering him an apprenticeship, but that would be too risky and besides; I work alone. No, sadly when I'm finally dead and done, so will be my work." Slarn sighed, rewound the cassette a bit, and then started it up again.

"...return to sender.' Shove it up your butt, Joshua! But none of that matters now, because I'm finally going to show them all. That's right! Very soon, the hundreds, no, thousands of people that have dismissed me are going to say 'they knew me when'. I'll be famous! My name will be on the shortlist of only a hundred or so people known throughout the country, the world even.

"My picture will be all over the news channels, all over the internet. I'll be immortal! Hell, my meat head brother will probably soon be crying crocodile tears to some reporter about what a wonderful person I was. 'He was such a great guy (sob, sob). Give you (whimper, whimper) the shirt off his back. None of us saw this coming. No, not Nathan.' What a joke! You're a joke, Joshua! Enjoy your fifteen minutes. My picture will be in the newspapers, magazines, even books long after you die."

Slarn shut off the tape recorder and took out the cassette containing Nathan Kellogg's last words. He pulled a new cassette out of his pocket and slid it into the recorder. He walked over to his guest, stepped onto the platform surrounding workstation number one, and slapped the bottom of Sam's left foot hard.

"In a few minutes I'm going to rip off that duct tape and you're going to sing for me while I zip, zip, zip screws into all of your phalanges and that... Well, that's not where it's going to end. I'll make you the same deal I made Nathan Kellogg." Sam recognized the name and knew there was no chance of escape. He was going to die.! "You give me at least five good hours of wriggles and screams and I'll display you for the whole country to see. Think about that! Your family won't have to wonder what happened to you. Expire before then and I'll bury you so deep archaeologists won't dig you up in a hundred years."

Slarn gave his guest's foot another hard slap and stepped down off the platform. He walked over to the tape recorder and pressed record. the end---

Echoism

Pfft! That's it. That one sound sums up my entire life. For as long as I can remember, people have dismissed me with the imitation of a barely audible fart. My words, my actions, even my appearance have met an onomatopoeic backlash. Dismissed time and time again with that sound. I've even recited quotes (inspiring and insightful) from the annals of history and received responses like "Pfft, you were home schooled, weren't you?". I've repeated my brother's original jokes to people who didn't know him and gotten pfft in place of a boo. My brother's a very funny guy... who happens to hate it when I use his jokes. "Pfft, your delivery would be marked return to sender," shove it up your butt, Joshua!

But none of that matters now, because I'm finally going to show them all. That's right! Very soon, the hundreds, no, thousands of people that have dismissed me are going to say they knew me when. Hahaha, I'll be famous! My name will be on the shortlist of only a hundred or so people known throughout the country, the world even. My picture will be all over the news channels, all over the internet. I'll be immortal! Hell, my meathead brother will probably soon be crying crocodile tears to some reporter about what a wonderful person I was. "He was such a great guy (sob, sob). Give you (whimper, whimper) the shirt off his back. None of us saw this coming. No, not Nathan". Hahaha! Enjoy your fifteen minutes, Joshua. My picture will be in newspapers, magazines, hehehe, even books. Hahahahahahahaha...

Shut up already! Who are you even talking to? Wow, you've really cracked it. That's it!... Rip!... There you go, nice and quiet now. You know, duct tape was originally used for, you guessed it, duct work. And you know, your esophagus is a kind of duct, so... Hahaha, this stuff has got a million and one uses. Phew, you are not a light load to carry, and getting you all trussed up was not very pleasant with all your yammering. But, you're the first to not plead for your life. It's commendable, really, it is, but I got to tell you, I find it heart breaking. I was so looking forward to seeing which strategy you were going to try. Bargaining, pleading, threatening... Oh, the list of what people will say and do when they know they're going to die is endless. Bargaining is my favorite, but exaltation... now, that's a new one. I've had hundreds of people, that's right, hundreds on this very table and I still get surprised sometimes. Oh, there you go. You look petrified now. Wow, you are a sharp one. Only took you a few seconds to realize that the world only knows about a hundred or so of my meat puppets. Yeah, now you're squirming! In a few minutes I'm going to rip off that duct tape and you're going to sing for me while I zip, zip, zip screws into all of your phalanges and that... Well, that's not where it's going to end. Stay still and listen to me! I'll make you a deal. Hahaha, now I'm bargaining. You make it 'til sunrise and I'll display you for the whole country to see. Expire before that and I'll bury you so deep archaeologists won't dig you up in a hundred years. Oh, is that a glimmer of hope in your crazy eyes? Hahaha, boy, it ain't even nine o'clock. 