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“Peter, can you even see anything up there?” Harry, the oldest yet least mature forest Ranger, said over the two-way. High on my perch in Tower 3, I had a full three hundred sixty degree view of A_____ National Forest that stretched out to the horizon. This was a dumb joke he liked to ask every time I drew the short straw for this position. “Yes, vision is clear. No smoke. No fires. No adverse weather conditions.”

I am not trying to pull any Shane Dawson conspiracies, like saying a specific pizza joint’s pizza is recycled, or at the very least, this isn’t about Chuck E. Cheese. Also, I should warn you that if you are eating pizzas or, at the very least, very squeamish about what I am going to speak about and are uncomfortable with the mention of arteries and stuff. Please stop reading beyond this point; however, this may be important to read regardless.

Have you ever wished to go back? Even if it was just for a short while? I’ve seen many collapse under the weight of reality and instead choose the comfort of rose-colored glasses. It’s strange how we accept language for what it is and rarely question its origins. Take idioms, for instance—we use them every day with carelessness, never respecting their weight or power. I hear you hurl them into the void, not realizing how close you are to unveiling a path not meant to be traversed. These phrases…

In the early years of social media, there was a cult following or I’d prefer to say secret society of fast food coinsures. We’d scowler message boards and chat rooms to find the most iconic or rarest off menu foods, or better referred to today as “secret menu” items. When I first learned about this trend I was immediately hooked, I mean who wouldn’t be. At the time these were the first internet scavenger hunts that pushed in to the real world. And at the end of it all, you would either try the…

“Dude, SHUT UP!” “What?” “Yeah, he’s right so please shut up. You’ve been telling the same exact setup, it is always something like someone just hunting a guy down and then everybody dying. Be original for once.” My friend, let’s call her Lucy, said to Jake. I threw my head back and laughed as I put the melted marshmallow inside the s'mores, broke chocolate bars, and slid them inside of the graham crackers.

"Guys, you gotta come see this." Cruz had just popped his head into the cabin where Tiago and I were playing cards. He had a wild look in his eye that Cruz only got when he laid down a winning hand or his horse won big at the track. As we were currently floating in the middle of the ocean on a crab boat, I knew what he wanted to show us had nothing to do with racehorses.

“Can you sign for this?” the impatient UPS driver said after handing me a small box. “I’m not expecting anything. Who’s it from?” They shrugged. “I just deliver ‘em, man. Maybe somebody out there wanted to surprise you with a gift.” I signed, and they headed to their next stop. I looked down at the box in my hands. There wasn’t a return address. Despite its size, the package was heavy.

Jason watched the hands of the clock ticking. The hour hand was moving to nine o’clock. The hour he dreaded so much. His eyes darted around the room. In the corner his blue lava lamp cast fleeting shadows that resembled dogs, silhouettes and long-fingered hands, prancing and clawing up and down the bedroom walls and on the window curtains. He clutched his beloved teddy, Bubbles, very tightly.

She stopped as her legs ached from hours of walking. She had come far. Very far. The day and night seemed to intertwine; never being distinct if there could be said to be a circadian movement in the subtly shifting grey above at all. There did seem to be very occasional dim light patterns or movements in the misty sky, but she put it down to the trickery of her sleepy eyes. She closed and gently rubbed them before brushing a long strand of black hair out of the way. Determined to carry on, she…

Two Days Before the Harvest Festival Sky’s End Annual Harvest Festival Fall, fun, and tradition! Join us for the annual March to St. Asbeel Stay for the bonfire! - flier in Sky’s End “It’s a church,” Mom said, staring at the stained glass windows of Jesus hanging on the cross. Her narrowed eyes and pursed lips told me she was clearly holding back additional commentary. “It was a church,” I said. “Now it’s a bookstore. My bookstore.” “What?” “I bought it! That was the surprise!”

“That’s my childhood house.” I wasn’t turning down the street I grew up in. I wasn’t standing near the large oak in the front yard of the house where I’d lost all my baby teeth. I wasn’t sitting inside the kitchen, where, on my fifteenth birthday, I accidentally dropped the cake my mom had baked, which made my family laugh so hard that we shed tears. No. I was holding an oil painting at a Goodwill on the other side of the country. “That can’t be possible,” my husband said.

In the heart of the city stands an abandoned bakery. It is a high, sprawling complex of brick and granite, and its great smokestack still stands watch over the loading bays where fleets of gleaming trucks once began their journeys to supermarkets across New England.

Within the dark penetralia of the human soul, where fear of the unknown festers and finds its deepest dwelling, there stood a town named Desdemon. Hidden among towering pines, shrouded in perpetual mist, its days were sunless, its nights without dawn. The air was frigid and damp, steeped with whispered tales of cosmic dread, as though even the churning fog carried secrets too terrible for the tongue.

I still have my Wii U set up underneath the TV; most people don’t even use theirs anymore, but I never saw a reason to unplug it. My dad bought it when Mario Kart 8 came out in 2014; racing games were kinda his thing. He wasn’t loud about it at all; he just wanted to improve his times, shaving a few seconds off each lap. He always picked Luigi; something about it was handled better, and I guess I picked Luigi too, mostly out of habit.

You know my name by now; I don’t want to keep starting my posts like this, but... if you are new regardless, the name is Jay. After the L.P.I. incident and the death of Crane, there was something I found when I came back to Super Nintendo World that dated way back before the Junior Playtesting Program experiments. I found something old, something buried underneath layers of dust, rubble, and countless lies. Something I almost missed but am very glad I found it before anyone else threw it away.

May 22, 2011, started off as any other typical day in Joplin, Missouri. Churches were in service; students were in the process of graduating. Birds were chirping. Everything was in a state of peace. It was hard to believe that the tranquil city of Joplin would transform into a near war zone with its devastation and collateral damage.

"Mister Germain told us he tripped and fell down the stairs" the doctor said. I thought it was weird, but I played it cool. "Is he okay?" "Yes, he is fine, he broke one arm and a few ribs, but he will be alright" answered the doctor. "I see, thanks doc" I followed the doctor to Germain's bed in the emergency ward. He was lying on bed still, the doctor gave him a prescription for painkillers and the report copy, then we got out and went back to my car.

I know I have started the previous post like this, but I like to keep reminding people that it’s me writing this; the name’s Jay. The same boy who escaped the Junior Playtesting Program. I know I am breaking my promise to stay away from all Nintendo-related properties, but I want to put this to rest, and that’s seeing what they’re hiding in Super Nintendo World.

Poster: DoomBathRoom033 Subject: Weird story (?) I found in my attic This is my first time posting on this part of the forums and if I'm breaking any of the rules please let me know! Quick background: my husband and I recently bought a house and we've been documenting our DIY adventures as we renovate it. Here's a link to the thread, check it out if you enjoy questionable design choices and photos of our superstar celebrity cat, Mr. Scratch!

> “There’s comfort in routine.” — Productivity Coach — I woke up with a crick in my neck and the taste of stale beer in my mouth. The room was dim. The light outside, dusky and gray spilled through the slats in the blinds like diluted blood. Not morning. Not night. That same, goddamn almost-evening glow. I blinked a few times, disoriented. My mouth was dry. The clock on the wall read 6:49 PM. “Wait… what the…?” I mumbled, but my voice cracked like I hadn’t used it in days.