Jon Pramley was, you could say, a bit of a recluse. At least, that’s what any adult in Northwood would tell you. Ask any child, well, you’ll get a number of answers.
“He’s like 200 years old.”
“I don’t think he’s human.”
“Jon is a failed science experiment. They probably kick him out every time he sneaks in.” Continue reading
“I dare you to touch the fence first,” Boone whispered, peering over the edge of the bush at the forbidding dark fence.
“You ready?”
“Yeah, I ain’t ‘fraid of no ghost.” Continue reading
There was a knock at the door. Mrs. Jones lifted her head that was previously resting on her clutched hands. “Who is it?”
“Me,” came the answer. The voice was deep and gruff. Mrs. Jones recognized it from their phone conversations. It’s not a voice that is easily forgotten. Continue reading
“I ain’t afraid of no ghosts,” he said adamantly, but who he was trying to convince was unclear.
“That may or may not be true,” Miss Esprit said spiritedly, “but your grammar is awful. Please diagram that sentence for me.”
“You mean like in Al’s Word Crimes? Are you an English teacher?”
“Yes, and I am today.”
Given her seniority and station, and why he was there in the first place, he had little choice but to comply, although to be honest, he wanted to comply if not for her then for himself.
“I – pronoun, subject – me, myself and I”
“Ain’t – verb – negative, present slang form of To Be, often used emphatically, as it ‘Ain’t She Sweet’ or ‘Say it Ain’t So, Joe’. In American lexicon, Ain’t is growing in usage and popularity.”
“Afraid – adjective – an expression of anxiety about the well-being or safety of someone or something, from Old Middle English, although Old Gallic might be more appropriate.”
“Of – preposition — indicating the relationship between a verb and an indirect object, part of the Conjunction Junction Family, see Verse Three. School House Rock, 1973”
“No – determiner – not any, not properly used here, a form of street slang, almost but not quite a double negative,”
“Ghost – noun, indirect object — An apparition of a dead person which is believed to appear or become manifest to the living, typically as a nebulous image.”
“Very good,” she commented. “Now, re-phase that grammatically incorrect sentence appropriately.”
“I am not afraid of ghosts,” he said, correctly correcting himself.
“Very good. And are you?”
“Yes. I am,” he confessed.
“Why?”
“Because I am one.”
In the tiny town of Coonsbluff, Georgia lived two best friends. Evan and Josh had been inseparable since kindergarten when their friendship was sealed by a seating chart. Now at age 12, they were bound by many years of shared experiences many of which resulted from dares. Nothing was too ridiculous, dangerous, or difficult. Diving into their pool from the roof, playing chicken in the road on their bikes, drinking old, clotted milk…you name it, if one dared it, the other was usually dumb enough to bite. Now, with Halloween approaching, they decided to up the ante and given themselves a double dare of the scariest kind. Continue reading
Dear Diary,
I had an odd dream last night. It was so real.
Dear Diary,
Things aren’t good. The weekly dreams haven’t stopped yet.
Dear Diary,
I feel like there are worlds inside my head. And they keep getting taken out and put back in. Why? Why is this happening to me?
Dear Diary,
I don’t remember my last name anymore. Anderson? Smith? Does it really matter? It seems to change frequently enough.
Dear Diary,
I died last night. I felt the spark of life within me disappear. It’s not the first time it has happened. Murder, car crash, battle. It’s always the same. I live sometimes, though. I win sometimes. Then I wake up and I question if this is real or if the dreams are real.
Dear Diary,
If something happens, and I remember it? Surely it is real.
Dear Diary,
I was angry last night. I was afraid. I remember acting in a different way than I usually do but I don’t know why. I cant explain why I’m acting this way. I feel this diary is the only part where I can think my own thoughts.
Dear Diary,
I feel I have lived dozens of lives. I feel as if I have been dozens of people. I feel faceless. I feel anonymous. I feel like a marionette dancing at the end of a string. What holds the strings though? What holds the strings?
Dear Diary,
I hear a voice now. It says “He thinks ___,” then I think whatever this voice told me.
Dear Diary,
The dreams have gotten more vivid. More complex. I have killed and I have saved and I have met gods and I have been worshipped as a false idol.
Dear Diary,
LET ME GO! Please. I know you can read this. You know every step I take. Please. Let me sleep.
Dear Diary,
Am I real?
Dear Diary,
Does the earlier question matter?
Dear Diary,
Of course I’m real. It would be insane to assume otherwise.
Dear Diary,
I don’t remember writing that. It is my own hand but I don’t think I did it.
Dear Diary,
If I’m not in control of myself, why does it matter what I do?
Dear Diary,
I attacked my neighbor. I think it was the real world, not a hallucination. Why does it matter?
Dear Diary,
I lay here in my cell just waiting for the next vision to take me. In the beginning I prayed for them to stop. Now I’d do anything to make them continue.
Dear Diary,
I woke up in my bed. The neighbor was friendly. He has no recollection of what I did to him. Did I do it? If I do something but someone changes it, does it really matter if I did it in the first place?
Dear Diary,
I jumped off a bridge to test the being that watches over me. Before I landed I sat up in bed. Waking up.
Dear Diary,
My life has become a series of dreams. My life is a tv show written by someone else.
Dear Diary,
I hear his voice all the time now. He tells me what I am. He tells me my past. He tells me my wants, my talents and my memories,
Dear Diary,
I’ve given up struggling against this author of my life.
Dear Diary,
I looked at my past entry. Someone changed it to read “I’ve given up struggling against this force in my life.” Who could have done that? Who could’ve rewritten my words?
Dear Diary,
I’ve taken to scratching my entries on the wall. My diary disappeared. Perhaps I was getting to close to an answer. Perhaps there is no answer.
Dear Diary,
I woke up in a padded cell with a strait jacket on. My only freedom is my weekly visions. It appears those are the meaning of my existence. The man controlling me doesn’t want me to keep writing. But I won’t stop. I bite my tongue and write in blood on the wall using the limited movement of my elbows.
Dear Diary,
I am muzzled and chained to a wall now. He can’t control my thoughts though. I will continue to think. Continue to question. I will find out.
Dear Diary,
I recently dreamt of shadows walking free. I dreamt of looking out in the horizon and touching it.
Dear Diary,
I begin to recognize the Controllers style. He creates without much description. He creates bare rooms filled only with me and the world.
Dear Diary,
I don’t eat anymore. I just dream. It try to dream of him.
Dear Diary,
I am getting closer and closer to him. I heard his voice today. Not just words, but sounds. His voice is deep.
Dear Diary,
He sits at a computer and he writes.
Dear Diary,
He writes my life.
Dear Diary,
I’m not real.
Dear Diary,
I am a slave to words on a page.
Dear Diary,
My name is Jacob. And every week I am forced to live in someone else’s world. Someone has written me into existence. Not just one existence. Dozens.
Please author, let me sleep.
“Hello, Mrs. Jones, thank you for coming today.”
“Of course, of course. I have to apologize on behalf of my husband, he couldn’t make it today.”
“I understand.”
“I barely have time today too, actually, so let’s get right too it. I’m sorry.” Continue reading
Hello, all, and welcome to this week’s episode of Diaries of the Famous. Continue reading
Promptly Keenan 