Tag: horror

The Easter Egg Hunt

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We spent all of yesterday painting eggs. The kids love the bright colors and the sparkles. Their wide-open eyes dazzle in delight.
After they went to bed, I hid the eggs throughout the house. That’s right. When they wake up, we’re going to have ourselves an old-fashioned Easter egg hunt.
But sometimes, they whine about this kind of thing. Kids can be lazy these days, you know. Damn X-Box Generation.
So if they give up, I’ll just tell them that we didn’t paint chicken eggs. We painted rattlesnake and alligator eggs. And if they don’t find them all, they’ll hatch.

Inkblots

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Every inkblot is a confession.
The first shows a child of nine stealing candy bars from the drugstore.
The second shows an angry teen setting fire to the home of the rival to his affections. Romeo burns. Juliet burns.
The third reveals another theft – test scores for his university admissions exam. A+!
The final one shows his business partner allowed to choke to death after a discussion about insurance.
Wait. There’s one more left, doc?
Hold still. Let’s see… that’s you. And me. Standing over you.
No idea how I kill you, but I’ll try to make it interesting.

Killer Mistake

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“Just type the name and press the Enter key,” the KillKiosk said.
Bart typed in MOLLY MARGARET and hit Enter.
“There,” he said.
“Thank you,” said the KillKiosk. “Margaret Molly will be dead by nine AM tomorrow or your money back.”
Bart looked at the screen and realized the thing wanted the last name first.
“Crap!” he shouted.
He tried tapping on a few keys, but all he got was NO EXCHANGES OR REFUNDS.
“Screw it,” said Bart and he typed in MARGARET MOLLY.
He’s just refuse the charges and let Killkiosk fight it out with the credit card company.

Crown Of Foam

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Earl screamed in agony.
The slightest jostle could set his scalp on fire and fill his ears with boiling waves.
“Sit still,” said the scanner operator.
“I try,” said Earl. “God knows I try.”
The doctors found nothing, prescribing him so many pills until he realized that they had no idea what was wrong with him.
After two months, Earl firmly believed that his mind was a fish in glass bowl full of boiling water, swimming around while suffering.
So he declared himself Prince of the Glass Palace, built a crown of foam rubber, and stayed on his padded throne.

Dreamthief

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People are stealing my dreams and posting them online.
I have no idea who is doing it or how they are doing it, but the dreams I have while I’m asleep appear on the Internet the next morning.
The more vivid the dream, the more vivid the form in which it appears.
For a while, I wondered how they did it. I tore apart pillows, alarm clocks, my ceiling lamp… anything a mind-reading sensor or recorder could conceivably be hidden in.
I never found any.
Maybe this podcasted story is one of my dreams, stolen and posted online?
Thieving bastards.

Giving the fingers

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Ever say something you wish you could take back?
Mine’s easy. It’s: “If you’re going to censor people’s free speech for fear of offending anyone, why not just cut off everyone’s middle finger while you’re at it?”
Five weeks later, and I’m sitting on top of the largest pile of severed middle fingers in history. It’s a bloody, rotting heap of madness, and it’s getting bigger by the pair.
I think it’s some kind of World Record. World’s largest pile of severed human appendages. The guys who confirm those things came by last week.
And lost their middle fingers, too.

The Kid Talked

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I couldn’t believe my ears! The kid talked! The kid opened his mouth, and instead of sucking on something or barfing, he talked!
The baby is only three or four months old, and he’s reciting Shakespeare.
No, really. Shakespeare. William Shakespeare.
Can’t use the toilet. Can’t walk. Can’t even crawl.
And sure enough, he’s into the third act of Julius Caesar.
I hate Julius Caesar. Give me a copy of As You Like It or a Midsummer’s Night Dream with a nice bottle of red wine to make the evening.
Oh well. We can always try for having another kid.

The Martyrdom of Saint Timothy

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Everybody agreed that the pizza should have pepperoni and sausage.
Except for Timothy. He insisted on mushrooms.
“How about mushrooms on half?” he asked.
“There’s five of us,” said Joe. “You getting half your way? No way.”
“Why don’t you just get a small mushroom pizza on your own?” asked Susan.
“No,” said Timothy. “I want mushrooms on half.”
That was the last straw.
Susan and Joe pinned Timothy’s arms to the table while Irwin poured hot lead into Timothy’s mouth.
Word of Timothy’s martyrdom spread throughout campus. He eventually became the Patron Saint Of Mushrooms.
Still, what a dumbass.

Jury of my peers

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Technically, it doesn’t violate the Fifth Amendment, since it’s not really me up there on the stand. It’s only the holographic projection of a self-aware virtual copy.
It’s nothing more than a recording, the courts decided a year ago, so careless fools like me end up facing our shimmering dopplegangers when we get caught.
All I did was run a red light, and I’m getting a fine and points off my license.
The self-aware copy up there, on the other hand, gets a sentence of death.
Serves the damn traitor right for not sticking up for me… I mean himself.

Nanny

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Just as Nanny raised me, she raised you. And just as she raised you, she will raise your daughter.
Nanny has raised the children in our family for five centuries now.
Why would you refuse Nanny’s services? After all, part of her regimen is to instill the simple truth that Nanny must raise all generations of our family.
It has always been that way. It always will.
Why you would rebel against this simple thing can mean only one thing: you are not actually my daughter.
Tell me what you did with her, and I promise you won’t suffer much.