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Literature Text
Creepypasta: The Whites of their Eyes
Running is all I have known, all I have ever known. Granted, the span of my existence is fairly limited, since I have no memories prior to about ten minutes ago. When I awoke…or should that be “was born”? At any rate, when I came to, I was in a filth-caked room which had the appearance of a slaughterhouse’s kill floor that had been emptied of any cadavers. I had the appearance of a small girl, wearing a dress that looked halfway between formal attire and a ritual sacrifice’s arcane finery. I was not alone, either, and I’m not solely referring to the monster which hunts us in this labyrinthine Hell.
With me was a young man and a much older woman. The man has since told me his name is Thomas; he is the only one among us who knows (remembers?) his name. The older woman says that her husband is dead, that he died to imprison the monster in this place, and that she is mourning him. It certainly explains her dour, drab garb. I hope someone will exist to mourn the fourth member of our group, rest his soul.
He was a middle-aged sort with a Salvador Dali mustache and a pinstripe suit. We never had the chance to ask much of him, because about a half minute or so after we all came to, the flickering 20-watt bulb dangling from the ceiling finally shorted out. One garbled shriek from the fellow a split instant later, and we knew we had to leave this room before the monster claimed us too. Fortunately there was a door leading out, or further in, maybe. But either way, we couldn’t stay, now could we?
The next chamber resembled a very specified sort of funhouse, a hall containing mirrors of varying lengths and curvatures, half molten candles decorating their upper extremes. I had the first chance to really examine my face, and I thought it seems odd that although I could see perfectly fine I had no pupils. My eyes were entirely a sickly white, lending me a diseased appearance. I thought I rather liked it, though.
In one frenzied torrent of activity the candles lighting this extent blew out in a chill gust of wind. We heard a hoarse scream from the poor old woman and we knew she was lost, that we would need to leave to save ourselves. I and the young man bolted to the next door, handily located at the end of the hall. The fact that the door was present in such a logical position from a structural perspective actually seemed more than a tad paradoxically surreal.
But. I deviate.
Myself and my one remaining companion were now trapped, since this room had no door, no egress route that we could possibly claim. Realization dawned in his eyes, and he produced a walnut-handled cavalry revolver from his jacket pocket.
“I almost forgot I had this! Thank God, thank God, we might be saved! There’s only…oh…there’s only one round in the chamber, but that should be enough right? I won’t fire until I see the whites of their eyes.”
I mechanically replied back the last part of the young man’s statement as my lips twisted into a venomous sneer.
“Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes.”
Indeed.
Running is all I have known, all I have ever known. Granted, the span of my existence is fairly limited, since I have no memories prior to about ten minutes ago. When I awoke…or should that be “was born”? At any rate, when I came to, I was in a filth-caked room which had the appearance of a slaughterhouse’s kill floor that had been emptied of any cadavers. I had the appearance of a small girl, wearing a dress that looked halfway between formal attire and a ritual sacrifice’s arcane finery. I was not alone, either, and I’m not solely referring to the monster which hunts us in this labyrinthine Hell.
With me was a young man and a much older woman. The man has since told me his name is Thomas; he is the only one among us who knows (remembers?) his name. The older woman says that her husband is dead, that he died to imprison the monster in this place, and that she is mourning him. It certainly explains her dour, drab garb. I hope someone will exist to mourn the fourth member of our group, rest his soul.
He was a middle-aged sort with a Salvador Dali mustache and a pinstripe suit. We never had the chance to ask much of him, because about a half minute or so after we all came to, the flickering 20-watt bulb dangling from the ceiling finally shorted out. One garbled shriek from the fellow a split instant later, and we knew we had to leave this room before the monster claimed us too. Fortunately there was a door leading out, or further in, maybe. But either way, we couldn’t stay, now could we?
The next chamber resembled a very specified sort of funhouse, a hall containing mirrors of varying lengths and curvatures, half molten candles decorating their upper extremes. I had the first chance to really examine my face, and I thought it seems odd that although I could see perfectly fine I had no pupils. My eyes were entirely a sickly white, lending me a diseased appearance. I thought I rather liked it, though.
In one frenzied torrent of activity the candles lighting this extent blew out in a chill gust of wind. We heard a hoarse scream from the poor old woman and we knew she was lost, that we would need to leave to save ourselves. I and the young man bolted to the next door, handily located at the end of the hall. The fact that the door was present in such a logical position from a structural perspective actually seemed more than a tad paradoxically surreal.
But. I deviate.
Myself and my one remaining companion were now trapped, since this room had no door, no egress route that we could possibly claim. Realization dawned in his eyes, and he produced a walnut-handled cavalry revolver from his jacket pocket.
“I almost forgot I had this! Thank God, thank God, we might be saved! There’s only…oh…there’s only one round in the chamber, but that should be enough right? I won’t fire until I see the whites of their eyes.”
I mechanically replied back the last part of the young man’s statement as my lips twisted into a venomous sneer.
“Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes.”
Indeed.
Literature
March of Time
March of Time
Time marches to its own sound.
Tick tock, thump thump, click boom.
In a fraction of a second everything you know and love can be gone.
Life ends and life begins but time pays no mind.
It just keeps marching to its own beat.
Tick tock, thump thump, click boom.
Literature
Time
Dark grey clouds hung in the sky, lifeless, obscuring the sun, casting the world in perpetual twilight. The air spun listlessly, without purpose, meandering, lost. Lightning flashed in the distance, but it was dull, and arched lazily among the clouds; no thunder followed.
He knelt on his knees on the barren ground, head bowed with eyes closed, as if asleep. But he was not sleeping; how could he sleep? The pain of incredible loss and despair seared through him, leaving a cold ache that seeped into his bones. No, he did not sleep, could not sleep.
The last words of the prophecy slipped into his mind, unbidden:
When all has come to end,
a
Literature
Purity.
I have a mask, a guise, a camoflauged contour of my soul.
I put it on at sunrise and for most of my wakefullness, so it remains.
Only when I have the luxury of my own company do I reveal my true self and only to myself.
It awaits a trigger, a feeling, a certain serenity as nothing else brings me out except me.
It is a necissary sense of selfishness.
Humans are naturaly selfish creatures.
Deny me my right to myself and you rid yourself of my bliss.
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Alright, I think that, after considering the possibilities, that I've figured out what you've done here. The memory blanks are somewhat unexplained, as is how the young girl really went about killing them all without any of the others knowing. I rather did enjoy the description "Salvador Dali mustache". It was rather interesting. The description of the original room was pretty decent, although I feel that the "or was I born...?" was a little overboard to describe an amnesia filled child. However, as always, the descriptiveness and imagery is really quite advanced and I continue to urge you to keep writing. Well done once again, Shackle.