ThePhantomTwinkie

So simple, yet so dangerous. If uttered it will bring death and chaos, or so the legends say. Nobody even knows how this all started or why it continues,all that matters is that people still tell the story and warn each younger generation of what will happen. Though, there is always a brave and foolish one in each group, isn't there? The children like to gather at nights to play and comfort each other while the adults relax without worry over their children. This is where the  danger begins. The story has been recited by and older sibling, the children wide eyed and fearful; but there will always be one that wants to test the fates. They w

The land is completely quiet, only the sound of a lone insect can be heard echoing in the woods. The air is still, thick and hot as fresh blood. The trees are like wild zebras and gazelles, standing proud and tall in supposed safe. A simple breeze blows, making them dance in grace and poise. No danger, none at all. Then the lion's roar. The wind rushes past at unknown speeds, like a lion going in for a kill. The trees struggle to get away, only to loose limbs and leaves. The graceful dance is over and only carnage remains. The screams of pain as gazelle like limps snap and crunch cannot be heard over the sound of the lion's roar.

There's a monster inside of me that I need to get rid of. The longer this monster stays inside of me, the stronger the urge to kill grows. The first time was an accident. The second time, I felt a little disgusted. Now, up to body count in the eighties; I feel no remorse or disgust. I just feel like a monster. Maybe this monster is really a devil, possessing me. Whatever this devil monster is, it gives me orders that I dutifully follow. Capture somebody with the use of drugs. Tie them to a chair and slowly drain their blood while they are still living. Paint their death portrait with their own blood as they scream. If I don't listen

What is this feeling? It has an overpowering presence, always staring and boring it's eyes into the back of my head when I'm not looking; when I least want it. I can feel it's yellow, sickly eyes full of malice waiting for the perfect moment to attack. I can feel it choking me sometimes. Black, sticky fingers bruising and crushing my throat before the feeling roams to the rest of my body. I never protest, I rarely get the chance too. I just remain silent as I am violated physically and mentally by this monster. This presence whispers thing to me, terrible things. I hear words like ugly, useless, worthless and disgusting muttered into my ear

Snow. It delicately falls from the heavens, light as angel feathers as it coats the ground.  It creates such a pure environment of white; like dainty lace covering the trees. It makes the world calmer, more silent in the cold of winter.  Only the wind blows, causing the snow to fly and kiss bare skins of those who dare venture out, and there are plenty who dare to brave its cold kiss. Snow. So white and easily damaged from stains of berries and hoofs of deer. But these stains aren't of berries nor are these marks from a beast. A simple quest to find mistletoe, a seeming simple lover's spat. Bang. A struggle as happene

For three weeks, I was lost in paradise. The mountains and valleys are such a peaceful place with rolling hills of lush green grass with fields of butterflies and grasshoppers. There are trees so heavy with peaches their branches dip low to the earth and ponds with fish just waiting to be caught. Sky Meadows, a fitting name for this piece of heaven. But this heaven, my long needed trip in paradise, isn't all as it looks to be.  Sleep never comes from the nightmares that keep lingering overhead. Bats fighting to escape the attic, rain pounding on the unstable tin roof and mice gnawing on the walls.  Fog in the morning on the trails on top the

Even rows of perfectly shaped stones, a mixture of earthen colors from gray to green. Words carved into their fronts, faded and old; worn and forgotten. The trees whisper while the wind cries, splashing down red leaves. Those ruby leaves litter the ground, marking the ground like puddles of blood. Every stone has a past, one of blood and war. With every name and every date; only the imagination can wonder. What did these forgotten men see? Who mourned and cried? Did somebody dust away the snow, put down flowers and memories? Did somebody love these forgotten soldiers? Even rows of perfectly shaped stones, now a dotted mixture of re