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Our trip started in late February as my three friends, John, Steve, Max, and I drove in my truck deep into the backwoods of Boxwood Gulch to follow the North Fork of the South Platte River. Steve owns a cabin up in the backcountry so we left my truck there and began our 57 mile hike into the wooded terrain following the river.

Back in the woods, in a little ol’ town. There sits a grave on unholy ground. It’s covered in leaves and things that crawl. Buried in weeds and the vines that sprawl. The light is dim and the wind grows cold. Her name was Nellie, she was ten years old. She killed her family and fed on their fat. She killed their dog to feed her cat. She haunted the neighbors with her spells and her tricks. She stabbed at their ankles with nails and sharp sticks.

I’ve been diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder, or what most people would call Multiple Personality Disorder. I haven’t told a lot of people about it, because, well, it’s not an easy thing to talk about. And I have this constant fear of seeming like I’m seeking attention, and since I can’t prove it then it’s just kind of useless to talk about.

After college my boyfriend and I went our separate ways and I moved into an apartment that I could more easily afford on my own. It was one of those modern apartment complexes with paper-thin walls (and apparently floors), a cookie-cutter layout, and minimal landscaping. Despite their bright white sterility, my rooms decorated up nicely and most of the other inhabitants of Greenfield Court were good, kind people. My only real complaint was my downstairs neighbor. The elderly man who lived…

Have you ever thought of a person that you knew for sure couldn’t be human? That could never die even if you tried everything in your might to stop him. I am not talking about Jeff or Jane The Killer, no. I am talking about someone equally, or possibly, more terrifying than them: Tulo Beloff A.K.A. "The Home Run Killer."

“Are you sure the other kids won’t notice?” Conner asked as he looked up to his sister while she smeared the foundation-covered makeup pad over his cheek. The boy winced and pulled slightly away as it came in contact with the ugly, purplish bruise that marred his cheek.

One month ago, on a rain-slicked street My mother and I got a bite to eat But on the way back, I slipped and fell And I suppose the car coming didn’t see me well Because the next thing I knew, as I lifted my head I was staring at the sheets of a hospital bed! I could not move my legs, nor my right arm My left was okay (it escaped from harm) My mother came in, with a frown, and then Said “honey, I’m afraid you’ll never walk again.” A feeling came over me, not sadness or hate

Every now and then, I get a snatch of a song running through my head. When that happens, it can drive me nuts, and it's a devil of a time trying to get another song in there to replace it. It's gotta be another song, though. I can't ever just have a head full of peace and quiet. Sometimes the song I try to listen to and replace the persistent one will instead mix with it, creating this weird cacophonic mash-up in my skull that makes me want to stab somebody.

-11/8/12 -

I cannot describe to you how I feel right now. What I’m experiencing is so detached from the normal, I’m almost convinced I’ve finally gone insane. Almost. My wife, Bea, died during childbirth. She was gorgeous, funny, intelligent – stubborn. A woman whose laugh was so loud, eating in restaurants was a challenge. A woman whose stare was so intense, it made my hands shake. I lost her as she gave birth to our daughter. Sam.

I'm very worried about my son. More than worried, at this point. Terrified. His behavior these past few weeks is not normal, not healthy. It makes me think there's something wrong. At first, he would just come and stand at the door way. He did this at night, just before I'd be ready to fall asleep. I'd roll over to turn off the lamp, and he'd be standing there, in the doorway. I used to try to speak to him. I don't do that anymore. He never has answered me. He just stares.

Call me a misanthrope, an introvert, whatever. The fact is, I always thought I preferred being alone. I had a couple of friends. Well, mainly acquaintances. People I worked with. People I lived near. Family.

Maybe it's late at night, but you can't sleep. You're bored, or you can't stop a bazillion thoughts from racing through your skull, or maybe you had too much coffee, or you're a little drunk. Whatever the case, I've been there, my friend. I know how it feels to sit there and realize that you're not really living right now. You're just existing. Surely there's something you can do, right?

I've never been what you'd call a "gamer". Sure, I own a console. It's outdated by now. I like to play the odd game. But that's about it. I'm almost forty. Old enough now that when I was at the height of my "gaming" years, all that really entailed was getting together with friends to play Mario or Castlevania, or Excite Bike, or Punch-Out. Maybe Sonic if a friend had a Genesis, which no one does anymore.

Grandpa was 97 years old when he passed away. He lived far from where his three children had settled. Grandma died when I was a small child, and he ended up remarrying another woman a few years later who demanded that he move out west so that she could be nearer to her sons. She was a piece of work, was Grandma Hester. We all wondered how Grandpa could stand her. It turns out that perhaps he could not.

Melinda hated driving at night. She did her best to avoid it. Short trips to the store if she just realized she ran out of tampons or had nothing for dinner after getting home; that sort of thing happened now and then. But she did her best not to go out after dark unless someone was coming to pick her up. So, naturally, she found herself on the longest drive of her life tonight, with no moon, few stars, swirling clouds above her, and acres of forest on either side.

Log of Captain Kyle Wright June 15, 2012 Off the island of Banaba, Kiribati, South Pacific

Hello readers. I'm writing this because a few hours ago I woke up from a nightmare and there's this... Really weird coincidence, but I'll get to that in a minute. The dream was about this story I read in, I think, 2001 or maybe 2002 I can't quite remember, on a forum I used to go to called bourftforums.net, which was a forum built around this Norwegian indie band called Bourft. Their songs were okay, but I hardly ever listened to them. I only went there because my older sister did, and I stayed…

For me, life was a whirlwind of lights and smoke, music and men. I lived in a beaten up shanty close to North Edsa, crammed in a closet-like room with a bunch of other woman. We slept on mats on the dirt floor and shared the space with mange-infested dogs, flea-bitten cats and cockroaches. My wardrobe consisted mostly of skimpy skirts, tank tops and the cheapest high heels you can buy in Quiapo.

My parents died in a car crash when I was fourteen. Don't feel bad for me or anything. I've made my peace with that years ago. Life with them was never great, but I do miss them. It's just that if they taught me one thing it's to not sit around wallowing in self-pity. I just wish they hadn't sent me to live with my Aunt Louise.