User blog:Prince(ss) Platinum/Top 5 Quickpastas

Dubiousdugong
Mom dropped me off at this stupid park and I hate it! None of the kids ever play with me. They play on the swings, or with those stupid dolls. Dumb kids. On the bright side, doggies come here a lot. I whistle at them, but then they start whimpering and acting all scared of me. The one good thing is the weather; it's usually sunny here.

Sheesh, what did I ever do to those dogs? They put their tail in between their legs and try to run away. I think something’s wrong with me. The only kid who hasn't ignored me was a girl, and when I said hi she ran away and screamed. Ugh, is that rain? I’m going to be here for a while. It’s hard to move when you’re dead, especially with a rope tying your neck to a tree.

CrashingCymbal
The Workhouses were common places for regular, poor peasants during the Great Famine of the 1800's and little Cólm's experience never really differed to that of any other orphan in any different workhouse. There was the usual; decrepit, starved, skeletal bodies that lay frail around the place carrying their grief acceptance that they would most likely die here from either a common disease or starvation. What remained a mystery for quite a while though, was why and how this particular workhouse fed its residents better than any other did around the country.

Everyday, hoards of people would queue up for a small bowl of soup and a tiny bit of bread. It wasn’t a lot by any means, but during those times you would certainly make do. One regular day, after one of Cólm’s friends had disappeared and was presumably dead, Cólm felt and heard a strange, crunching sensation, closely representing to that of chewing an eggshell in his mouth while he was eating his soup, with a sharp part of whatever it was piercing into his tongue. He pulled out the source of the crunching, only to see a split in half, rusty coloured, yellow toenail with a small little dribble of blood blobbed to the end of it. The soup tasted just the same as it had every other day.

TheLongShadow
My grandparents had raised me since I was five. Growing up in their house was rather pleasant, with one exception, the cat that never strayed far away from Grandmother. Her name was Sasha; she was old, ghostly white, and blind in both eyes. I could never explain why but she always made my skin crawl in a way nothing else could. Often times I would wake up in the middle of the night to find her sitting near the doorway, staring at me. Sasha had always stayed close to Grandmother's side and at times she would even get in the way of Grandfather snuggling with her on the coulch. He would simply put her on the floor and say "Move along now, Sasha" and Sasha would always stare at him with those pale, blind eyes.

One day, Grandfather was working in the Garage on his old Chevy that was always breaking down. I was sitting in the living room with Grandmother when we heard a loud crash. I rushed into the garage, worried that Grandfather had hurt himself. He was on the floor, holding his head with his hands, and told us that an oil can on one of the shelves had fallen on his head. He was bleeding rather badly and had to be taken to the hospital. I looked up at the shelf and saw Sasha laying there, once again, staring at Grandfater in that peculiar way. Almost as if she knew what would happen; almost as if she had planned it.

BrookeBattlesAgainst
Normal day at my house; my girlfriend claims me to be crazy, and claims I need "help". I don't need help, but I'd do ANYTHING for her; so I've decided that tomorrow I'll go to see a therapist to "help" me. Late at night I tossed and turned, only getting a few hours of sleep; the only dream I had was that of flames.Flames? Why flames? I woke up to my girlfriend calling out to me, claiming it's time to get "help". I'm still wondering why I need "help" so much, but like I said I'll do anything for her.

Alone I went to the therapist's office; I've never been here before, but it all felt oddly familar. When the therapist greeted me, it's like I knew him. As I'm there shaking his hand, I realized; it's my dead brother. Slowly I thought in my mind that he's supposed to be dead. HE'S SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD. He died in a fire years ago... but that's when he whispered in my ear that I should of died slowly, along with him; that it would of "Helped" me. "HELPED" me? I questioned him but after that I woke up. I thought it was all just a dream, but my lack of heart beat, my burn marks, the smell of smoke, and my burned brother attempting to push me in the flames next to me told me otherwise....

Temmington
I am writing this because I am terrified. I can't move, I'm too afraid to move out of my bed. Paralyzed by fear, shock, and disturbance. I know for a fact it's watching me, just live, in my own damn home! It's just... staring at me. It's as if they can't see me, yet they are somehow looking directly into my eyes. It won't stop looking at me.

This is driving me insane, I know for a fact that it can see me. It has this weird look on its face that I believe is trying to intimidate or scare me. Well, it's working for sure. I am horrified that this... creature is in my own home, invading my privacy. I barely have enough courage and strength to muster writing this. I can't take it anymore. If this human doesn't get out of my home soon, I'm going to do something...