I'm going to do a a story about space.

The Attic
By: Pinpoint Densell

The surface of the planet was not rock or soil or gas, even. They didn't know what it was. As the crew of B.O.A. Boys continued to follow the same path where their little wheel thing that explores planets had gone, they noticed that its tracks would sort of disappear in segments along the ground. The foremost traveler in the bunch had kept going, as the second gentleman out of the seven stopped in his tracks and kneeled down to look at the one of the points where the tracks had stopped.

"It's a completely straight edge! On.. on both sides!" He looked up at the leader of the excursion for a response. The leader gave nothing but a blank stare before turning around to continue.
All of the others did share a small look of confusion but didn't bother to out-rightly respond just because the man up front hadn't said anything. The second man got back up and just continued following the path. At this point, his feelings were kind of hurt, but he just figured it was the change in atmosphere that caused his brain chemistry to give him those emotions. "My job is to follow the path," he thought, "I'll give my opinion later. Simple. Stop, stop, stop".

Lyndon Baines Johnson

At 3:13pm I received a blank text message from an unspecified number.
[draft]
was all it read.  Naturally I thought nothing of it and continued on with my day.  At 6:26pm I received an identical text message.  Unusual, no doubt, but I paid no attention.  Then again at 9:39, but this time I was considerably more curious.  I opened the text's information menu and found that the text was from a three digit number.
313
"What the hell."  I sent a text to 313 simply asking
"what"
I received no response.  At 3:13am I was awakened by a obnoxious buzzing beside my ear.  My phone.  There was another text from an unspecified number.  But this time it was a picture message.  I opened it and was greeted with a photo of Lyndon Johnson.  I had never seen this particular photo of him before, and was intrigued.  Someone I didn't know sent me a picture of LBJ.  I needed to know who was sending me this and why.  I replied with
"why lbj"
Immediately my phone buzzed with another message.  I opened it to find another photo of LBJ, but it was different.  It was a high resolution shot of the back of his head.  I set my phone down and stared at the ceiling.  My breathing was quick and short, but incredibly quiet.  More than anything I wanted to sleep, but because of what I'd seen, that seemed unlikely.
A knock at the door.
I stopped breathing.  My eyes darted around in the darkness.
Another knock, followed by the sound of someone sliding the palm of their hand all the way down the door.  Three knocks, and sliding from top to bottom.  I slipped out of the sheets and hid underneath my bead.  I had no other option.  Loud knocking, and a hand sliding down the door, periodically slapping it.  I was horrified.
Silence soon followed.  My pathetic body was trembling on the ground, not knowing what to do next.  I must have laid there for fifteen minutes, but I did not hear any more knocking or any footsteps.  Outside the door, a deep voice broke the silence.
"I'm going to come in now."
I froze.  It was a southern accent.
The doorknob slowly rotated allowing the door to creak open.  I couldn't see in the darkness, but I could make out the shape of an incredibly tall man as he entered the room.  His footsteps were silent, but his irregular breathing was not.  Fear overtook me, I could not move.  He took three steps and was standing at the foot of my bed.  I thought about making a break for the door.  I hesitated, and felt a massive hand grab my shoulder.  With incredible strength the man pulled me from under the bed and slammed me into my dresser.  I could barely see but he seemed at least two heads taller than me.  His hands grabbed me again and threw me on the ground.  The ungraceful fall knocked the wind out of me, and I struggled to regain my breath.  Slowly he crouched down and squatted beside me.  I looked up and saw something strange.  He was wearing a mask.  It was a cheap plastic mask, the kind a child would wear at Halloween, but it was unlike any I had seen before.  It was of LBJ.
Behind the plastic face his breathing was more uneven than ever, between desperate breaths he spoke to me.  "Do you remember me?"  He stopped to let in a few labored breaths.  "Do you remember me?"
I didn't know what to say.  I didn't know what was going on.  I replied honestly, "N-no."
He placed his right hand over my face and just pushed down.  Lightly at first but then with sudden strength, and he groaned as he did so.  It hurt immensely.  He let up and started speaking again, but his words were muffled by his mask.  His words were strikingly calm.  I noticed a glint of light by the mask's eyehole.  What was it?  He pushed again. 
His pushing was considerably harder, and the pain was unbearable.  I started to gag involuntarily.  I had an animal urge to scream "MOM! HELP ME!" but it was drowned out in the squabble.  He would stop breathing for ten seconds and then abruptly start again.  I was losing my energy in the struggle, and my flailing arms had knocked into the bed's legs several times.  He slowly brought his masked face down in front of mine.  I felt a lone drop of water fall onto my face.  It was a tear.
I noticed it now, he was crying.  He groaned and began to push down on my face again, harder than ever. 

Fingernails

I shuffle my feet and look across the horizon. The wind is so cold it nearly freezes my eyeballs. From my perspective, the water below is indistinguishable from the sky. This observation comforted me for a moment, but then I remembered my duty.
"No more funny business, I die today," I mumbled aloud.
I readied my feet to jump, and pushed off from the ledge. Both hands extended and loose, my body was welcoming the sweet release of death, like a vessel being carried to the other side.
On my way down, I remembered Carrie, and how horribly I had treated her. All of the heated arguments leading to physical abuse were my doing. How I wish I could take it all back. Her beautiful face, distorted by a scowling expression, still haunts me to this day.
I'm halfway down now, and the violent sound of uneasy waters fills my ears.
What was it she said to me that night? Time has muddled the details, but I remember the feeling. I remember the guilt and despair as she walked out my door. I remember her fingernails tearing open my flesh as she lashed out at me in tears. I remember the loneliness encompassing my body like water, surrounding me as I sank deeper.
I'm nearly at the bottom. Will it hurt? Will it even kill me? I pray it won't go as poorly as last time. Those few months ago when I stood alone in my apartment, quivering as I put a noose around my neck. It fit snug around my neck, burning the four slender wounds underneath. To think that I hung there for hours, slowly wriggling out of my poorly devised suicide plan.
Not this time. I'm going to die, leaving all else behind. Goodbye world. Goodbye wasted life, failed suicides, and...
Carrie.
I hit the water hard, linger underwater for a few moments, and eagerly emerge. "That was huge!" squeals my younger brother, brimming with excitement. My large splash impressed him, as it always does.
"Did Carrie see?" I exhale.
"No she ran inside. I think she scraped her knee."
"Is she hurt?"
"I don't know!" replies my brother, clearly annoyed.
She's hurt. But it will be years until it's me who hurts her. Years until she leaves her mark on my neck. It's those fingernails that make me kill myself.

Rock the pool.

fuck this is dumb.

Moons

"How do you think the moons got up there?" Vincent asked me. His tone suggested that he genuinely did not know, and was hoping I could clear up the matter for him.
"No one really knows," I sighed in response, "but considering they get significantly closer every day, the answer shouldn't be too far off."
Vincent chuckled, but not with amusement, I detected fear in his wavering voice.
"Tell me the theories then? Oh pray tell me!" he said as he hopped down from the telescope.
"Pray tell me?" I laughed in confusion.
"I read it in a Mark Twain book."
"Ah, I see you've discovered ole Sam Clemens. I was hoping you'd eventually pull your nose out of those wretched Upton Sinclair books."
Vincent laughed, but glanced nervously out the window. "Are you going to tell me the theories?"
"Of course! But where to start?" I stroked my chin in a contemplative fashion, and reveled in the idea that I even resembled my old friend Twain. I had grown out my mustache in an attempt to resemble the man, but I think the similarity exists only in my head.
"Indeed. I suppose I could start with the Century Egg Theory." I returned to my chair, lit my pipe and began to regale Vincent with the oldest theory I know. "The Century Egg Theory is a seemingly simple matter, but as one begins to look deeper into the concept the true madness is slowly unraveled. I shall give you the most concise account I can muster.
"The origin of the theory is unknown, but my colleagues and I estimate the idea is several hundreds of thousands of years old. The concept is as follows: as long as moons seem to undergo what we consider to be cycles, the curvature of the shadows etched on their hides speaks the language of deadly spacial screams. Fuck you, and I hate you. I will not tell you this theory after all."

When The Mice Attacked

I was screaming. It was all I could do as hundreds of mice assaulted me, biting every square inch of my bare chest. My flesh was torn, but my spirits were high. These mice were going to die before I collapse.
I suppose you'll want some context.
For about eight hours I had been soaking in the local hot spring, rejuvenating my entire body.  Foolishly, I hooked up a payphone beside the spring, thinking that I may need to make a call while I was enjoying the water.  I was wrong of course, but it still took me 45 minutes to hook the damn thing up.  So yeah, I was pissed.  I needed to relax.
Anyway, I was just taking it easy but I couldn't shake the feeling that I had forgotten something really important.

The Night the World Exploded

The night I proposed to Clara was the spookiest night of my entire life.
I had just returned home from prison that morning, and by lunchtime I decided to ask my woman for her hand in marriage. On my way to buy the ring I decided to snag a quick bite at Applebee's. As I stepped foot inside the establishment I could feel my bones chime as if some sort of deep resonance rang out from the soul of the restaurant. Something was wrong. My body began to quake and my trembling hands couldn't hold a firm grip on anything around me. I collapsed onto the sticky carpet. With a hoarse voice I just managed to whisper...
"Need... french fries..."
Twenty minutes later I was seated at a table munching a wholesome meal. I grinned wide as I shoved another fully loaded baked potato in my mouth. My waiter was so disgusted by my ravenous hunger that he promptly called the police.  I was blissfully unaware of this as I ordered three more ripe farm raised tomatoes.
The authorities soon arrived at the restaurant weighed down with countless guns and blades ready to kill me if they had to.  I was just finishing my third helping of seasoned cinnamon shrimp scampi when the police chief calmly approached me, joyfully asked "How are you doing today?" and pointed a gun directly to my temple.  I reluctantly dropped my fork, and swallowed a mouthful of deliciously fresh butterscotch apple roasted veal.
I whispered "Please don't kill me," and the police chief assured me wasn't planning on it, assuming I cooperate.  I agreed.  I was immediately cuffed and escorted from my chair.  As gained my footing, I asked "Why are you arresting me?  Is it because I ordered too many honey-roasted salmon wraps?"  The police chief guffawed, which unnerved me.  He continued laughing, and apparently one of the police snipers three blocks away panicked and began shooting at me, narrowly missing my head but destroying the beer-battered aged wheat-berry toast I was planning on eating in the cop car.
"YOU SON OF A BITCH!" was the last thing I screamed before one of the armored deputies beat me unconscious.  I was out for a long time.
I remember... floating... in the abyss that was my inner consciousness.  I remember the freedom, the joy, and the inexplicable hunger for baked rigatoni with pesto sauce.
Suddenly I was jolted awake.  By what I did not yet know, but I was immediately aware that something was not quite right.  I felt cold, and I was alone.
But not ENTIRELY alone, for I felt as if I heard someone laughing in the distance.  A laugh that was eerily similar to the police chief's.  I wanted to stand up to pursue the disembodied laughter, but I soon discovered that I was tied to a chair.  I had a knife though, so it was really no trouble.  I was free in an alarmingly short amount of time.  Quicker than it takes to drink a Dixie cup full of orange juice.  More importantly though, I was free to investigate the weird sound.
It was very dark, there was a single light in the massive room but it wasn't particularly bright and I could only just barely see what was in front of me.  I followed the laughter and it lead me to an old wooden door with a grimy window in it.  I wiped my hand across the filthy glass and peered inside.  I could only hardly tell what I was looking at, but it appeared to a long hallway light by three flickering light bulbs.  I stepped back from the door.  "Where the hell am I?"

The Fez

I was surrounded by small mountains of gold coins.  They felt amazing under my bare feet.
fuck i hate myself