A Poorly Written Horror Story-- "Clowns Arn't funny"

So there is this thing people are doing. It is called 'poorly written horror stories.' It's basically a 220 word story where you write it as terribly as you can. misspell words, forget punctuation. Just anything to make it sound like a six year old write it. There are some hilarious ones. For Halloween coming up here is my spooky, poorly written, story.

Clowns Arn't Funny

Me my friend Davey went down to the carnival because it cometo our town. we where having fun. Well we had just got off the feris wheel when I seen a bunch of clowns locking at us funny. Not funny haha but funny like who are these guys.They came up to us and asked us if we likked games I said games is fun. The clown with red paint on face held a baseball batt out of noweher and said run. I laughed until he started beating Davey with it. He hit him until Davey died. I saw brains. All the clowns chassed me yelling. I screamed helpbut nobody cared I guess. I ran straight into a pole because I had been looking back at them runing. When I woke up I was in a dark room full of clowns looking at me funny. Not funny haha but funny who is this guy. I toldthem and let me go. The blue clownlaughed and so did the rest.he said to me he was going to show me some fun. A game. The game wasn't fun for me. Idon't like rusty plyers and hammerrs. I woke up in heavven.

Now Im happy in heaven and writing this for other angles to read. They laugh at my wrtining I don kno y.

Photopathy

Prologue- A Picture of Sam

The sun was escaping over the horizon as the car slowly crept down the pot-holed road. I was in the back seat crushed between two men with guns on their hips. The grips were digging into my sides so I attempted to block my ribs with my arms, but the men were too bulky, too solid formed for me to move so much as an inch. “Here?” Matthew asked from the driver’s seat.”Is this the place you saw?” I nodded, but he couldn’t see it, so he turned his head as I answered with an even smaller nod. There was an overhanging bridge devoid of traffic, a strange sight until lately.  Below it was small knee-deep river. Tarpaulins were set up and the homeless looked on at us warily from their shelters. We drove past, farther into the empty part of the city. It was just ahead, A feeling washed over me. Cold dread. A sense of smothering darkness. Claustrophobia so bad I began to sweat. I suddenly wanted out of the car, but I said nothing and we kept going. We were so close, but I feared too late. Too late by minutes, if not seconds. “Almost there.” I said, my voice wavering. I looked down at the picture held in my hand. A young girl, maybe sixteen. A school picture, she was smiling. Healthy. Breathing. As I looked  I began to choke. The air trapped in my lungs, begging to escape. I closed my eyes and it became real. The suffocation, the feel of thick plastic. I choked and coughed and the car stopped dead. I pushed Ryan on my right with all of my force. He opened the door and jumped out. I followed, falling to my knees on the wet pavement. My hands on tiny, pressing rocks. I drew a strained breath. “Here,” Was all I could say. I threw the picture back into the car as Matt stepped out of the driver’s seat, gun in hand. “Where is she?” I pulled in a breath of fresh air finally and pointed. A small grotto-like place was set into an old cement pillar and a giant boulder. She was in there. I hoped she was still alive. I had never met her, but her name was Samantha. The pretty young girl in the picture. The closest I had ever gotten to her in the real sense was the picture, although I had been there with her for unspeakable torments. Things that made tears spring to my eyes on thought. In the darkness we had shared visions...and pain. So so much pain. Terrible acts that I cursed God for, because he had turned away. The four men were out of the vehicle, cautious. I managed to pull myself up on the open door and sit on the edge of the car seat. They didn’t need me for this, and I could not move my shaking legs enough to stand. The horizon was turning a deep red, the color of blood. Wispy clouds moved across the sky as the detectives approached the grotto. My head was throbbing in pain. I took out my bottle and popped one of my painkillers, hoping it would take soon. I had nowhere to snort it, not with them around, but it was my preferred way of taking my morphine. Originally it had been for my leg, hit by a car and broken in eight places. It still hurt, but the picture hurt more. It hurt deep every time. I could imagine myself going mad in the coming years. It was only a matter of time. I saw the men disappear into the darkness and I put my hands on my head. I waited, knowing the answer before they returned. Too many minutes went by until they returned with grim faces. Guns holstered. Matt was on the phone, talking in low tones of regret. Ryan’s eyes met mine and I knew. Sam was dead not one hundred yards away. Strangled and stuffed into a body bag. I began to cry, the tears burned. This was my last time, I told myself. It was going to kill me if I kept on like this. I couldn’t stomach the feelings as I dry-heaved, then screamed. It was my eighteenth birthday.

Chapter One

12 Years Later

The knocking on the door had an urgent force behind it. It surely wasn't my sister's weekly stop with groceries and other things for her recluse brother, no--this was a cop. I whipped off the sheets, I had been lying awake for two hours already, staring at the bare ceiling and walls adorned with no pictures, mirrors; nothing. Quickly, I pulled on a pair of dirty jeans from the floor. My image never mattered much to me. I hardly went out, I didn't want people to like me. I didn't want relationships. I knew who I was, and I was the sort to be alone. I wore the shirt I had slept in, and had been wearing for the past two days. It would do just fine for a friendly visit with the police, and whatever they needed me for this time.
I descended the twelve stairs separating the two floors of my house in seconds, almost bounding down them like a child at play-time.I hit the floor running and was at the door in moments, a little winded, I opened the door, and was greeted by Cal Holloway, the Chief of police. A respected, dignified man in his early fifties. He looked younger, though. He had a boyish air about him, his eyes almost sparkled with a youthful mischief hidden somewhere, an aspect I noted was serenely absent from him now. His hair was salt-and-peppered, and his hands rested on his belt, the casual police waiting posture. His face was a bushy beard, and the lips hidden in there were turned down in a frown.
"Hey, Cal. Chief." I said, hand brushing my hair down. It wasn't working. It was sticking up everywhere. I needed a shower.
"Hey, Danny. How's things?" The frown turned neutral.

"I'm living. Pretty low, like always. Haven't been to the bar in six months." That had been a big step for me. Not going to the bar, not drinking. The Photopathy had taken so much from normal life I tended to live life in a bottle for years. Now I was four months sober, and bored as hell.

"Yeah, I know. I never see you."

"That's the idea. Come on in." Cal tipped his hat and took it off as he entered from the scorching heat outside. The sun was on full blast, and the mosquitos were ravenous being so close to the marshes. 

"Glass of water or O.J. Anything?" I asked. He waved the question away.

"I'm fine. There's a matter, though. It's just come up and we're going to have to talk. Officially, down at the station." I stopped and gave him a quizzical look.

"Why? What's going on?" Cal seemed unsure of himself, as if he were debating whether or not to tell me details in his mind. He seemed to come to an agreement with himself.

"There's been a murder."

"You know I don't do the photopathic stuff for the law any more, Cal. I just can't handle--"

"Nothing to do with that." He said grimly, cutting me off. "There's a note at the scene of the crime. Left by the killer."

"What about it?" I felt my hackles rise.

"Danny...it's addressed to you."

To Be Continued..

x

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I am looking to begin a new online video series. What Can it be about? Something good with a twist. It might be a simple fun venture that can take off into a pay-check. Being a youtube channel these days is the new hot-spot for finding your voice, doing what you love to do, and making a lot of money. Hit me up! This is the new job anyone can do and make a lot of money with. With the right idea and partners.

Using Inspiration When You Are Not Inspired

If you wait for inspiration to write, then you fail. This is such as my predicament has been Inspiration strikes, and I ride along as long as I can before I fall into not writing again. The hardest thing about writing is repetition, to keep practicing and writing whatever you can. Doing writing exercises. Keeping yourself spry. Lately, I have been trying to get myself out of the whole 'wait for inspiration to strike ideal' and into the 'write as you go, and do it even when you don't want to' approach, which is harder, but only at first.
If you have that 'drive' to write a story and need it to get told, or just have the bare bones of a story you really like, then you need to work on it ALL THE TIME. This isn't some busy-work you do. You have to make yourself write those damn chapters, even when you don't feel like writing, which can be the hardest part about writing. The ability to pick up that ink and keep writing your story, even at those times you feel uninspired.
If you only wait for inspiration you will either be really good for a moment or two, or you won't have anything at all that is finished to show for it.
Inspiration should be the first thing you find about something you are going to write, and each sequential time you write in that story, you have to remember the sensation you had when you had started, that feeling of inspiration, draw it not only from the inspiration itself, but from the feelings you had when you felt the inspiration. Remember what that felt like when you first came up with the idea. Chances are, the greatness of your idea or plot or character will get dull to your senses after a time, dealing with it all the time, but if you can only re-capture, even for a second, the sheer exhilaration you felt at the original time of the inspiration, maybe that can be a light for the future for you.

Speeding Evil

"But you don't understand!" She was frantic, crazed, almost out of her mind. "They are evil!"
"Yes, you said that before." He replied, looking at a woman who looked as though she had been through hell. By what her testimony was, it was damn near close. Beaten, raped, bitten, the list went on.
The culprits: two eighty three year old men. Staples in the small community for decades. Upstanding.
The story didn't make sense, but here the woman was, telling this story that sounded straight out of a horror story.
"They said they want to hurt a lot of people. I'm just alive because they wanted you to know. I shouldn't have come here."
"They said you had to come here, or they would kill you."
"Yeah." her voice had gone hoarse. Lindsay Balmer, now Linny McQueen, was not one to make things up. She was in recovery from drugs, but even in her heyday this was a stunt no one would want to pull. It would be risky to put these allegations up in the first place, which was what Officer Leo Molnak had been thinking for some minutes by now
"You said they were armed."
"Yes...but they don't need the weapons, really."
"Why not?"
"They...they can kill with the power they brought here."
"Oh, right the 'evil incarnate' that they had conjured up. That power?" She nodded her head solemnly. That was where her story fell apart. The old men being some kind of sorcerors and bringing to life some evil creature. Their reasons were very unclear at this point. Linny had come screaming into the station to see someone. They had given her a drug test and found her to be negative on all accounts. Her speech was normal, she wasn't high as far as he could tell. She believed what she was telling him, that he could see, without a doubt.
But the story was so...unreal.
"They said they're going up the road to Milner. To have some fun, they said." She said the words softly, looking down, caught up in bad memories. How badly wounded the woman's psyche must be, from telling the truth, or not, could not stand up to the world in all its rugged edges and sharp points.
But really, what could two men in their eighties really do?


The truck sped down the road, and the evil came in close pursuit, invisible to the human eye. Chester and Roan sat quiet, but happy. In their laps fingers were on the triggers. Chester was driving, smoking a cigar, about halfway through. The smell made Roan almost queasy these recent days, but he wasn't about to say anything, his life's goal was achieved at last. Now they could roam free, however long they wished.
Milner was just ahead, and the people there were going to find a new meaning the word pain.
Evil followed with them.


Jason liked to do his running at dusk, just as the sun was setting, and getting into the early darkness of the night. It was quiet out here, he enjoyed that, too. There wasn't anybody waiting at home for him, and he liked it that way for now. The last relationship had been long and messy, now he just wanted to be him. Life was good.
Behind him he heard a car coming, he glanced over his shoulder to see it was a truck. He moved farther to the side of the road as they passed.
Then he felt something suddenly strike him. Where, he didn't know. He just didn't know. He just knew nothing anymore. He was gone.


Roan was looking in the rearview mirror to see it happen. The young man running on the side of the road suddenly bucked, and fell straight forward onto his face, dead. He smiled, a gap-toothed one.
"One down." Milner was only a few miles away, and he was feeling especially giddy, He told himself so many times that he could do this his whole life, always doubting his words. Now it had come to pass and it felt right.
    The truck sped down the road to Milner, and the evil came in close pursuit.

Alpha Or Omega?

Jules almost didn't care about the bones the more he stared at them. Of course people had died here, people had died everywhere. Nothing registered in his mind as off, almost like a sticky honey had blotted out his fight or flight mode. The tree was too beautiful to leave. The leaves were so beautiful, that dark hue of green, he never thought he had seen a more vivid shade of any color in his life, almost as if the color itself were alive.
Jules knew he had to sit down at the base of the tree and just enjoy being against it. He had seen seldom living things he had liked in his sixteen years of miserable existence, and of all of them paled in comparison to his feeling of ecstasy as he relaxed against it.
It felt as if the world melted off of his shoulders. Nothing mattered, there was nothing he could do. He accepted that freely now. It had been harder before. Life went on as it had, or it didn't for some, while others, such as the tree, grew in the devastation and had purpose, that defied the prickly law of nature. There was no possible way the tree could be here. There hadn't been any trees in close to fifteen years now, when he was only a baby. The fact that it stood here meant something. Something cosmically deep. Jules couldn't seem to think too much harder on it before that, too slipped away.
When he awoke the roots had already begun to twine around his feet.

Thoughts and Truths About Me

           I am an alcoholic. I am a drug addict. I have depression, anxiety, occasional anger issues and many other problems. I'm not going to let these stop me. For years they held me down in my tracks, like moving through mud. They are not good qualities, but they make up part of me. I try and be the best person I can be, despite this, and I think I do a good job most of the time. I know I'm not living up to my potential, and it galls me. It is the worst when I get into a depression. I know I need to do more things to help myself. I need to go to more meetings, I need to focus on living I guess you could say a 'Godlier' life. My religious beliefs and feelings have seemed to take a back seat lately. I want to be able to live my life like God or any other higher power would intend for me to. I try this on my own, but it doesn't always follow what I believe his will would be. I always look back on my day and realize what I could have done better, how I could have acted better, and who I could have helped more. Sometimes it's me.
          It's time I stop relying on saying and telling myself I'm depressed or have an addiction, because that's not all there is to me. Sure, for a while when I was in recovery and getting through the toughest stages it was the biggest part of my life, and I'm not saying it isn't now. Recovery should be my number one thing still, because I want to stay sober. I want to not be depressed. I don't want to be known solely for my negative qualities. Getting sober is hard, it takes time and it takes resolve and it takes fucking up and falling many times. There is not much trust with those who are very familiar with me, mainly family. I put them through the shit so many times that I am surprised they haven't yet given me the tough love and thrown my ass to the curb. Building trust has not been easy, because I have broken it so many times. My depression on top of my addiction is where I get to rock bottom. I feel like I don't belong. I don't deserve to live. I sometimes have felt like if I died, I would save my family and friends grief in the future. Almost like that one bad thing of me dying would be less grief in the long run to me keeping on breaking trust and losing myself and having them worry about me constantly. It's a fucked up way to think, that if I were gone there would be less trouble for them in life. I have never attempted suicide, I have never gotten to planning it, either. I have had friends die from suicide and I know how it feels to lose someone like that. If I kill myself by overdosing then I am essentially pulling the trigger myself. I can't do that. I can't lose my focus and my drive to live. It's hard not to, especially when I can't pull myself out of bed, sometimes for weeks when I'm in one of those black moods. I don't have self-confidence. I used to joke how I don't have mojo, i only have 'mo.'  I will always believe I am not good looking, that is something I can't get over. Maybe I have nice eyes or something, but I can't bring myself to admit I am a decent looking man. It's one of those things, maybe something like an anorexic at eighty pounds believing they're overweight. I don't know. Maybe I'm right. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I look good to only some.

I want to be defined by my good qualities. Not my bad ones.

          I try and give more than I take. That is so fucking taxing, though. I give and I give, even most times when I am not asked, I just do it because I feel the person could use what I am giving more than me, or I just want to put a smile on their face. I feel like an asshole sometimes because then I see them not giving back, even though I gave without them asking and should not expect anything in return, it's like I do, though.  I expect to get something back after I have given. This is not a Godly way of looking at it. I am not the normal Christian. I don't have the same beliefs as most people do, I follow my own, but it does follow close to that of Christianity more than anything else. I like to go to church, I enjoy listening to sermons, and I believe in the message more than anything in most of the things I hear. But expecting things from people is not right. I suppose it makes me feel like people don't care about me as much as I care about them, and that is probably true, because I care about people too much almost. I care if they are having a bad day. I try to make them smile or give them a compliment. I try to talk to them and listen to their problems. I know that listening can do a lot more good than talking does a lot of the time. Being a good listener is a quality I have possessed for most of my life. It's hard not to listen only to wait to speak, but to listen to everything the other person says before making a response in my mind.
          It's time for me to make a push. I need to push myself to do more. To be more. That's one reason I started this blog, so I can get back into writing so I can push out stories and send them to publishers. I am going back to school, and this time I am not slacking. I'm reading the chapters, I'm doing the work. I've been told so many times to 'get my shit' together that I want to pull out my hair, but it's true. Priorities. Always priorities. School. Work. Housing. Writing. Abstinence from drugs.
          I've felt so alone for a long time now. It's been two and a half years since my actual last relationship and I just want someone there who I can talk to, that I can joke with, have things in common with, fuck, watch movies. It was so hard with being in the middle of so much shit in my life, but now that it has hopefully started to calm down, maybe I can find someone. They say that you can't love someone until you love yourself. I think that's bullshit. I don't think I will ever truly love myself, but loving someone else is different. Maybe I'll never find a love that will last, who knows.  I know how eccentric I am, and it will be hard finding someone who appreciates my oddities and can accept them along with my anxiety and everything else. I find it hard as hell to love myself, but I don't find it hard at all to love others.
          Just please let me be the best me I can be. I'm going to be the best I can today and maybe tomorrow I will be even better. I'm working on loving myself, and that is a tough thing to do.