Jersey mike's near me
Information and resource sharing for subscribers to the Optimum ISP owned by Altice
2014.06.16 06:15 Janeyjo Information and resource sharing for subscribers to the Optimum ISP owned by Altice
This is an unofficial, informal discussion forum about Optimum, where you can share concerns and information, and organize to advocate for better service! Disclaimer: This sub is not affiliated with Optimum or Altice USA in any way. If you want a response from the company it is best to contact Customer Support. For a list of helpful threads please check the sidebar on old.reddit.com/optimum. This sub DOES NOT VERIFY Altice/Optimum employees except for u/ItsOptimum. Do not ask or give PII.
2017.04.16 13:25 tiltedsun Oasis, the Amazon television drama series
A place to talk about the new Amazon show, "Oasis" based on Michel Faber's 2014 novel "The Book of Strange New Things" about the adventures of a Scottish chaplain on an exoplanet colony. Let me know if you want to be an admin or help improve this subreddit.
2016.05.12 17:27 chillaxin4life Milwaukee's Bicycle Community
Welcome to Milwaukee's bike subreddit! From the urban commuters to the beach cruisers, everyone and their bike is welcome here for newbie advice, pro events, and everything in between! Bike maps and bike shops are listed in the wiki.
2023.05.28 19:28 SupplementsVilla1 protein supplement shop near me
2023.05.28 19:28 decentlytallpuppet Starting Technique PA28
I’m a PPL working on IR and I rent from a flying club near me on the weekends. I was doing a checkout with a CFI for the Arrow when he mentioned that I shouldn’t start the alternator before starting the engine. I’ve always turned the battery and the alternator on together, before engine start. The CFI doesn’t have a preferred technique himself but he says the owner of the aircraft wants the alternator turned on after engine start.
Does anyone know if there’s any value in flipping that switch before or after starting the engine?
Thanks in advance, I’ll be away from my computer for a bit.
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decentlytallpuppet to
flying [link] [comments]
2023.05.28 19:27 Sensitive_Object7205 Bobcat 300 changing location
Hello, my miner was not active for 2-3 months first because of me leaving the country and then solana came and everything. So i transfered my miner to new place and i am trying to make it work. When i connect via bluetooth to set wifi it just say error 'error' and doesnt allow me to set wifi password. Because its hard for me to have both antena near window or outside and miner connected to lan, i am using laptop and share internet via lan. I've got ip adress in diagnostic on bluetooth so i open start page in browser and it says 'Onboarding key error'. Lamp is staying yellow and nothing i do helps. Can someone please give some idea to fix it?
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HeliumNetwork [link] [comments]
2023.05.28 19:27 msnavidad 21 [TF4R] #Chicago - Trans girl looking to start a new relationship :D
Hi!! My name is Elise and I’m a Black and Mexican trans woman from Chicago. I’m here looking for a local partner I can hang out and have fun with!!
About me: I’m really into anything creative, movies, art, fashion, and especially music. I’ve been working on music as a hobby for nearly a decade, but now I think I’m finally ready to finally release some music and hopefully make a career out of it!! For the music I make, it’s mainly rap, though I do love to dive into EDM and Rock as well. Some of my favorite artists are Denzel Curry, $uicideboy$, Tennis, Alfa Mist, Rico Nasty, and Slipknot. I’d love to hear some of your favorite artists and songs!! Right now, I’m listening to a playlist from my childhood, the original soundtrack to Midnight Club 3 (IYKYK lol)!!
Anyway, for other artistic endeavors, Im starting to learn how to draw and especially how to 3D sculpt. I’ve always been into visual art but never tried to pursue it, that is, until I bought an iPad and realized it would just be a paper weight if I did nothing with it 😭.
For my other passions, I really want to make movies and clothing in the future, I might get started with script writing this summer if I feel ready for it!!
One more thing, I’m really into tech, but if you know anything about trans gals that was already a given 😝.
About you: Just someone that’s fun to be around, talk to, and hang out with that’s in Chicago!!
So yeah, that’s about it!! Hope to meet some wonderful people soon :D
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polyamoryR4R [link] [comments]
2023.05.28 19:27 IndustryFew4693 frustrated, venting
After being really good for like two years, i decided to try and get off my antidepressants (that also have anxiolytic effect) at the beginning of the year. First few months were okay, then i started getting more and more anxious in daily life, apathetic, less resilient to stress. I went back on the same medication and started feeling a bit better again.
Then my country RAN OUT of the specific meds i take (there is no replacement, only one brand), and i had to take half the dose to spread it out till it shows up again, now ive been taking it like before and im still not feeling too good.
im an introvert, working in a very busy, understaffed clothes retail store (so many people come in a day that you LITERALLY cant walk more than 10 meters without 3 people stopping you to ask you something, and the fact that 70% of people are disrespectful, demanding and rude certainly doesn't help.. i like to talk back (ive learned not to take shit from anyone after high school), but working and interacting with so many people is so draining and stressful...
ive been taking as many shifts as possible to make more money to go on a summer holiday, and its really taken a toll on me.
i feel like ive overworked myself and its making me feel overwhelmed, numb and anxious, i just want to dissappear somewhere without any outer stimulants for like a week
my psychiatrist suggested me we could try a new medication, but i dont really want to, im scared of the side effects, especially sexual disfunction since my libido is naturally really high and im a very sexual person
ive just been so frustrated because i thought i was better for good, that ive beat it forever (how naive) because ive really been feeling great for like a year and a half- two years, and now its back to unstable/low mood/anxiety. (not nearly as bad as before i started getting help, but still)
i feel defeated, its tiring to fight it through
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Anxiety [link] [comments]
2023.05.28 19:26 Johnwestrick The House on Jackson Street
I used to walk with her, now I walk alone. We used to marvel at the beautiful houses together, now I look down at my feet. Each home a grain of salt in the wound, each house a reminder of what I lost. Even though it hurts, I still find myself continuing our walks. Sometimes pain is good. I’d rather feel the pain of her passing, than not feel her at all. She’s alive when I walk. She’s the shadow that strolls behind. Though I can’t see her, I can feel her. Her presence is like a windbreaker draped across my shoulders in an especially violent storm. The pain isn’t gone but it’s bearable when I’m moving. I can’t speak to her, but she’s there. When I trip over a root, a hand steadies me. When I veer off course, I feel a gentle nudge. And every day I end up in front of the same house on Jackson Street. A grand home, at least at one point it must’ve been. The windows are boarded closed. The door is locked. Beware trespasser signs are strewn haphazardly across the tangled mess of the once impressive lawn. I feel her presence strongest here. It is almost tangible, as if she’s hiding behind a thin curtain. I call to her, yet she never answers. I reach for her, yet I can never lay hands on her. It is here on my journey where my emotions get the best of me. Every day I come, every day I cry. The neighbors look at me with trepidation, but long gone are my days of caring what others think. I stand there an old man, face in my hands and weep for the woman I lost. Let them think what they want, but my Lenore was worth every tear. I feel a tap on my shoulder, and look up to see the front door of the house swung wide. Light is pouring out of it, and there she is, my Lenore. I rush towards her and the gaping maw, towards the woman I’ve lost. The woman who heard my cries and has returned for me. As I barrel forward through the brambles and overgrown weeds, I hardly am aware of the scrapes and cuts. Nor does it bother me that I trip over a hidden bottle and go tumbling face first in the dirt. I sling myself forward with the stamina of a much younger man. And then, I am there standing in touching distance from her. It’s her. She’s got the same strawberry blonde hair that always tended to leave me breathless. It’s wrapped in a French braid with a daisy tucked behind her left ear. She looks younger by nearly twenty years. Her nose and cheeks are dusted with a fine layer of freckles. I began to giggle like a schoolboy as I remember I once tried to count them. Twenty-three is the highest I got before I found my mouth on hers. And suddenly I have an inappropriate urge to pull her close and continue the kiss in front of God and all the neighbors. Shortly before I do just that, she vanishes, leaving me standing in the front door alone once more. I look around the hallway and notice it’s fully furnished. There is no dust or decay. The parlor is in perfect condition. Even more shockingly I hear someone playing the piano. It’s Fur Elise and I could recognize that sound anywhere. Lenore was playing it the day she died. The Turkish rug leading down the hall looks familiar, the pattern of the wolf howling at the moon, the picture of the ship sailing in rough seas. I know it. I walk forward, no longer in control over my own body. Instead, everything begins to flash in front of me like a movie. I see my own hand reach for the gilded door knob. I know on the other side of this door is a set of stairs that leads to the great room. Still, I don’t remember, I can’t remember. They threaten to come back, but I don’t let them. I don’t want to remember. I’m back. Oh God have mercy on me, I’m back to the day my wife died. I come to this conclusion even as my own traitorous hand throws wide the hallway door. I fight for control. I do everything in my power to not see. My eyes fling wide and I look to see the back of my sweet Lenore’s head, the damned daisy still perched behind her ear. She’s playing and she doesn’t know I’ve arrived. I know what is coming but I don’t want to. Yet those damned feet, those mutinous mother fuckers keep pushing me forward. First up one step then two, before I even know it, I’ve scaled half of them. Now I can see her back, she’s in a flowery dress with what looks to be hummingbirds sucking at the honey. Fur Elise is ramping up, and the song is nearing its climax. And then I see it. Him to be precise. He’s lounging in my chair, drinking my whiskey, with his shirt partially unbuttoned. Rage, white hot fills me once more. I look to the left and then the right, and that’s when I see my cavalry saber hung on the wall for decoration. I remember the outcome, yet I can’t force myself to let go of its hilt. My hand turns white from grasping it so hard. There’s nothing I can do to lessen my grip. I see myself marching up behind her sword held high in one hand. Fur Elise climaxes as my arm swings. I strike her left shoulder blade and with a discordant whine the music stops altogether. Inwardly I scream. I curse my God’s damned temper. I watch as she slumps out of her chair. Without a second glance, I am charging the man just beginning to look up from his comfortable spot in my seat. My blade penetrates his right abdomen, he lets out one shriek before my second swing catches him directly in the throat. I am appalled at the blood spurting from his nearly decapitated neck. My hands are scarlet, I feel wet stickiness oozing down my face. Yet I can’t control my own limbs as they swing and swing and swing, chopping the man into kindling. I try to close my eyes but they won’t, so I see his hand go flying. I watch as his innards come bubbling out of his abdomen. I split his head like a grape and watch his brain matter leak out of the side of it. To my dismay, I hear a gurgling sound coming from behind me. I turn knowing what I’ll see but powerless to stop it. I look to see my Lenore’s face towards me trying to speak. Blood bubbles drizzling out of the side of her mouth. I don’t need to hear the words to know what she is trying to say. “Please, no more.” Pity fills my heart and my own eyes refuse to cry. “Please don’t do this,” I scream at myself in vain. I watch as I slowly move towards my former wife letting the blade carve a wicked groove into the marble floor. With no mercy my arm swings the blade up once then twice then three times, and all goes black. Finally, I regain control of my limbs and body. I look up to see a vandalized great hall with a nasty groove in the marble floor, and there my chopped wife lying on the floor looking up at me with dead yet still very much alive eyes. I see the monstrosity of my late wife clamber to her feet. Her left eye slides out of its socket running like egg yolk down her face. Black pustule blood leaks from her wounds. Her right eye locks with mine and in a slobbering wet noise she said, “I will never let you forget what you did here. Jail wasn’t enough for you. You didn’t stay your hand, so even in your Alzheimer’s I won't let you forget. Same time tomorrow, honey?”
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2023.05.28 19:26 Johnwestrick The House on Jackson Street
The House on Jackson Street
By John Westrick
I used to walk with her, now I walk alone. We used to marvel at the beautiful houses together, now I look down at my feet. Each home a grain of salt in the wound, each house a reminder of what I lost. Even though it hurts, I still find myself continuing our walks. Sometimes pain is good. I’d rather feel the pain of her passing, than not feel her at all.
She’s alive when I walk. She’s the shadow that strolls behind. Though I can’t see her, I can feel her. Her presence is like a windbreaker draped across my shoulders in an especially violent storm. The pain isn’t gone but it’s bearable when I’m moving. I can’t speak to her, but she’s there. When I trip over a root, a hand steadies me. When I veer off course, I feel a gentle nudge.
And every day I end up in front of the same house on Jackson Street.
A grand home, at least at one point it must’ve been. The windows are boarded closed. The door is locked. Beware trespasser signs are strewn haphazardly across the tangled mess of the once impressive lawn.
I feel her presence strongest here. It is almost tangible, as if she’s hiding behind a thin curtain. I call to her, yet she never answers. I reach for her, yet I can never lay hands on her. It is here on my journey where my emotions get the best of me. Every day I come, every day I cry.
The neighbors look at me with trepidation, but long gone are my days of caring what others think. I stand there an old man, face in my hands and weep for the woman I lost. Let them think what they want, but my Lenore was worth every tear.
I feel a tap on my shoulder, and look up to see the front door of the house swung wide. Light is pouring out of it, and there she is, my Lenore. I rush towards her and the gaping maw, towards the woman I’ve lost. The woman who heard my cries and has returned for me.
As I barrel forward through the brambles and overgrown weeds, I hardly am aware of the scrapes and cuts. Nor does it bother me that I trip over a hidden bottle and go tumbling face first in the dirt. I sling myself forward with the stamina of a much younger man.
And then, I am there standing in touching distance from her. It’s her. She’s got the same strawberry blonde hair that always tended to leave me breathless. It’s wrapped in a French braid with a daisy tucked behind her left ear. She looks younger by nearly twenty years. Her nose and cheeks are dusted with a fine layer of freckles.
I began to giggle like a schoolboy as I remember I once tried to count them. Twenty-three is the highest I got before I found my mouth on hers. And suddenly I have an inappropriate urge to pull her close and continue the kiss in front of God and all the neighbors.
Shortly before I do just that, she vanishes, leaving me standing in the front door alone once more. I look around the hallway and notice it’s fully furnished. There is no dust or decay. The parlor is in perfect condition. Even more shockingly I hear someone playing the piano. It’s Fur Elise and I could recognize that sound anywhere. Lenore was playing it the day she died.
The Turkish rug leading down the hall looks familiar, the pattern of the wolf howling at the moon, the picture of the ship sailing in rough seas. I know it. I walk forward, no longer in control over my own body. Instead, everything begins to flash in front of me like a movie. I see my own hand reach for the gilded door knob. I know on the other side of this door is a set of stairs that leads to the great room.
Still, I don’t remember, I can’t remember. They threaten to come back, but I don’t let them. I don’t want to remember. I’m back. Oh God have mercy on me, I’m back to the day my wife died.
I come to this conclusion even as my own traitorous hand throws wide the hallway door. I fight for control. I do everything in my power to not see. My eyes fling wide and I look to see the back of my sweet Lenore’s head, the damned daisy still perched behind her ear. She’s playing and she doesn’t know I’ve arrived.
I know what is coming but I don’t want to. Yet those damned feet, those mutinous mother fuckers keep pushing me forward. First up one step then two, before I even know it, I’ve scaled half of them. Now I can see her back, she’s in a flowery dress with what looks to be hummingbirds sucking at the honey. Fur Elise is ramping up, and the song is nearing its climax.
And then I see it. Him to be precise. He’s lounging in my chair, drinking my whiskey, with his shirt partially unbuttoned. Rage, white hot fills me once more. I look to the left and then the right, and that’s when I see my cavalry saber hung on the wall for decoration.
I remember the outcome, yet I can’t force myself to let go of its hilt. My hand turns white from grasping it so hard. There’s nothing I can do to lessen my grip. I see myself marching up behind her sword held high in one hand.
Fur Elise climaxes as my arm swings. I strike her left shoulder blade and with a discordant whine the music stops altogether. Inwardly I scream. I curse my God’s damned temper. I watch as she slumps out of her chair.
Without a second glance, I am charging the man just beginning to look up from his comfortable spot in my seat. My blade penetrates his right abdomen, he lets out one shriek before my second swing catches him directly in the throat.
I am appalled at the blood spurting from his nearly decapitated neck. My hands are scarlet, I feel wet stickiness oozing down my face. Yet I can’t control my own limbs as they swing and swing and swing, chopping the man into kindling. I try to close my eyes but they won’t, so I see his hand go flying. I watch as his innards come bubbling out of his abdomen. I split his head like a grape and watch his brain matter leak out of the side of it.
To my dismay, I hear a gurgling sound coming from behind me. I turn knowing what I’ll see but powerless to stop it. I look to see my Lenore’s face towards me trying to speak. Blood bubbles drizzling out of the side of her mouth. I don’t need to hear the words to know what she is trying to say. “Please, no more.”
Pity fills my heart and my own eyes refuse to cry. “Please don’t do this,” I scream at myself in vain. I watch as I slowly move towards my former wife letting the blade carve a wicked groove into the marble floor. With no mercy my arm swings the blade up once then twice then three times, and all goes black.
Finally, I regain control of my limbs and body. I look up to see a vandalized great hall with a nasty groove in the marble floor, and there my chopped wife lying on the floor looking up at me with dead yet still very much alive eyes.
I see the monstrosity of my late wife clamber to her feet. Her left eye slides out of its socket running like egg yolk down her face. Black pustule blood leaks from her wounds. Her right eye locks with mine and in a slobbering wet noise she said, “I will never let you forget what you did here. Jail wasn’t enough for you. You didn’t stay your hand, so even in your Alzheimer’s I won't let you forget. Same time tomorrow, honey?”
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2023.05.28 19:26 Tiira_miisu I am not strong enough to handle all of this
I've come to the decision today that I am going to die by suicide. I don't want to do this anymore; I am not nearly in the slightest of being interested in doing this anymore.
I am tired of constantly being ripped apart by my seams and I have finally reached the point where I am out of thread. I've been running low for a long time but this is the end. I have constantly expended myself over and over, and am forcibly (By my own livelihood) unable to decompress.
Every moment given to myself is two more that are ruined by the constant misgoings of those who surround me in my life. They rip me apart constantly. The little family I have created out of my own love are the things that cause me the most pain. I hate it. I hate them. I hate the constant struggle of having to keep them happy and satisfied when I myself am miserable.
I am depressed. I am enraged. I feel betrayed and most of all- Exhausted.
I don't know if it'll be today, but I know in the future that I will be the one to kill myself.
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Tiira_miisu to
venting [link] [comments]
2023.05.28 19:26 BornNectarine4450 Best way to deal with Amex debt collection agency (NCOeurope)
Hey guys, really need some help.
So I was made redundant a few months ago. Stupidly I buried my hand in the sand and got depressed. I've learned my lesson and I've finally received my redundancy pay which was nearly lost.
Amex have since passed off my account to a debt collection agency. I am paying off other debts and won't be able to afford this one completely.
They offered me a settlement for £890 which I couldn't accept at the time. Is it worth contacting the company and coming up with a settlement? How would that impact me? Should I call Amex too and see if I can work something out with them?
Many thanks, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel so to speak.
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2023.05.28 19:25 Johnwestrick The House on Jackson Street
I used to walk with her, now I walk alone. We used to marvel at the beautiful houses together, now I look down at my feet. Each home a grain of salt in the wound, each house a reminder of what I lost. Even though it hurts, I still find myself continuing our walks. Sometimes pain is good. I’d rather feel the pain of her passing, than not feel her at all. She’s alive when I walk. She’s the shadow that strolls behind. Though I can’t see her, I can feel her. Her presence is like a windbreaker draped across my shoulders in an especially violent storm. The pain isn’t gone but it’s bearable when I’m moving. I can’t speak to her, but she’s there. When I trip over a root, a hand steadies me. When I veer off course, I feel a gentle nudge. And every day I end up in front of the same house on Jackson Street. A grand home, at least at one point it must’ve been. The windows are boarded closed. The door is locked. Beware trespasser signs are strewn haphazardly across the tangled mess of the once impressive lawn. I feel her presence strongest here. It is almost tangible, as if she’s hiding behind a thin curtain. I call to her, yet she never answers. I reach for her, yet I can never lay hands on her. It is here on my journey where my emotions get the best of me. Every day I come, every day I cry. The neighbors look at me with trepidation, but long gone are my days of caring what others think. I stand there an old man, face in my hands and weep for the woman I lost. Let them think what they want, but my Lenore was worth every tear. I feel a tap on my shoulder, and look up to see the front door of the house swung wide. Light is pouring out of it, and there she is, my Lenore. I rush towards her and the gaping maw, towards the woman I’ve lost. The woman who heard my cries and has returned for me. As I barrel forward through the brambles and overgrown weeds, I hardly am aware of the scrapes and cuts. Nor does it bother me that I trip over a hidden bottle and go tumbling face first in the dirt. I sling myself forward with the stamina of a much younger man. And then, I am there standing in touching distance from her. It’s her. She’s got the same strawberry blonde hair that always tended to leave me breathless. It’s wrapped in a French braid with a daisy tucked behind her left ear. She looks younger by nearly twenty years. Her nose and cheeks are dusted with a fine layer of freckles. I began to giggle like a schoolboy as I remember I once tried to count them. Twenty-three is the highest I got before I found my mouth on hers. And suddenly I have an inappropriate urge to pull her close and continue the kiss in front of God and all the neighbors. Shortly before I do just that, she vanishes, leaving me standing in the front door alone once more. I look around the hallway and notice it’s fully furnished. There is no dust or decay. The parlor is in perfect condition. Even more shockingly I hear someone playing the piano. It’s Fur Elise and I could recognize that sound anywhere. Lenore was playing it the day she died. The Turkish rug leading down the hall looks familiar, the pattern of the wolf howling at the moon, the picture of the ship sailing in rough seas. I know it. I walk forward, no longer in control over my own body. Instead, everything begins to flash in front of me like a movie. I see my own hand reach for the gilded door knob. I know on the other side of this door is a set of stairs that leads to the great room. Still, I don’t remember, I can’t remember. They threaten to come back, but I don’t let them. I don’t want to remember. I’m back. Oh God have mercy on me, I’m back to the day my wife died. I come to this conclusion even as my own traitorous hand throws wide the hallway door. I fight for control. I do everything in my power to not see. My eyes fling wide and I look to see the back of my sweet Lenore’s head, the damned daisy still perched behind her ear. She’s playing and she doesn’t know I’ve arrived. I know what is coming but I don’t want to. Yet those damned feet, those mutinous mother fuckers keep pushing me forward. First up one step then two, before I even know it, I’ve scaled half of them. Now I can see her back, she’s in a flowery dress with what looks to be hummingbirds sucking at the honey. Fur Elise is ramping up, and the song is nearing its climax. And then I see it. Him to be precise. He’s lounging in my chair, drinking my whiskey, with his shirt partially unbuttoned. Rage, white hot fills me once more. I look to the left and then the right, and that’s when I see my cavalry saber hung on the wall for decoration. I remember the outcome, yet I can’t force myself to let go of its hilt. My hand turns white from grasping it so hard. There’s nothing I can do to lessen my grip. I see myself marching up behind her sword held high in one hand. Fur Elise climaxes as my arm swings. I strike her left shoulder blade and with a discordant whine the music stops altogether. Inwardly I scream. I curse my God’s damned temper. I watch as she slumps out of her chair. Without a second glance, I am charging the man just beginning to look up from his comfortable spot in my seat. My blade penetrates his right abdomen, he lets out one shriek before my second swing catches him directly in the throat. I am appalled at the blood spurting from his nearly decapitated neck. My hands are scarlet, I feel wet stickiness oozing down my face. Yet I can’t control my own limbs as they swing and swing and swing, chopping the man into kindling. I try to close my eyes but they won’t, so I see his hand go flying. I watch as his innards come bubbling out of his abdomen. I split his head like a grape and watch his brain matter leak out of the side of it. To my dismay, I hear a gurgling sound coming from behind me. I turn knowing what I’ll see but powerless to stop it. I look to see my Lenore’s face towards me trying to speak. Blood bubbles drizzling out of the side of her mouth. I don’t need to hear the words to know what she is trying to say. “Please, no more.” Pity fills my heart and my own eyes refuse to cry. “Please don’t do this,” I scream at myself in vain. I watch as I slowly move towards my former wife letting the blade carve a wicked groove into the marble floor. With no mercy my arm swings the blade up once then twice then three times, and all goes black. Finally, I regain control of my limbs and body. I look up to see a vandalized great hall with a nasty groove in the marble floor, and there my chopped wife lying on the floor looking up at me with dead yet still very much alive eyes. I see the monstrosity of my late wife clamber to her feet. Her left eye slides out of its socket running like egg yolk down her face. Black pustule blood leaks from her wounds. Her right eye locks with mine and in a slobbering wet noise she said, “I will never let you forget what you did here. Jail wasn’t enough for you. You didn’t stay your hand, so even in your Alzheimer’s I won't let you forget. Same time tomorrow, honey?”
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nosleep [link] [comments]
2023.05.28 19:25 Oculusfluffy Easter with Avocado - By Oculus (with art by Carpdime & PeppermintParchment)
| EASTER WITH AVOCADO A tribute to Carpdime’s Avocado Featuring art by Carpdime & PeppermintParchment ~ “You’re becoming a big boy, Avo!” It was a warm day in early March when Melissa made the statement. The snow had thawed not too long ago, and the cold of winter had mostly dissipated. And indeed, Avo was now in what could be considered the adolescent phase of his upbringing. Our little green foal had been about the size of a finger as a new-born, and then the size of a hand. But having passed half a year of age, he was starting to experience the larger growth spurts. Now, Avocado was the size of a potted plant, just like one near the window. And yet, he was still the same loveable little foal Melissa knew when she first fed him that burrito all those months ago. Reflecting on his current size, Melissa felt a little inspired. “Avo!” “Yus, gwamma?” “Picture time!” she said, holding up a polaroid camera. “Oh goodie! Fwuffy wub picshas!” And indeed, Avocado loved those human things called “fotos”. Whether they magically came out of a polaroid, or if they were printed out from a computer, he was enamoured with how memories could be captured in those contraptions. He sometimes wondered, what bizarre “sains” could achieve a miracle such as this. It was very much a feat of magic. Foal by the pot (Artist: Carpdime) Grandma slowly placed Avo beside the pot. Avo was a little confused as to why Grandma picked that spot of all places, but he went with it. “Say Cheese!” Cheese!!” And with a flash, the picture was taken. The polaroid camera whirred, and a photograph came out. “Beautiful shot,” grandma beamed, as she looked at the photograph of Avocado. She then commented, “my little angel.” Angel. Avocado had heard that word before a few times, especially in a certain way. And it was at this point that Avo decided to ask a big question. “Gwamma, wai ‘ou sez fwuffy am wike a wingie-hummeh?” “Winged human? Oh, you mean, why am I comparing you to an angel?” “Yus,” Avocado nodded. “Well, my little cherub – you’ve been a good boy. You behave yourself, you listen to your daddy, as well as to your grandpa and I.” Avocado remember when his granpa told him about the winged humans. But he also reminded that period, when he was exposed to a unique name. It led Avocado to ask a rather peculiar question. “Gwamma, huu am Cheezas?” Melissa was a little taken aback. She was not sure if she was ready to answer that question. Nevertheless, she smiled, and tried her best. “Well, Jesus was a very good human. When people had the worstest sick, he healed them. When people. He was a good story teller, and he told many important stories to people he knew.” “And gwampa sez Cheezas am tawk to da wingie hummehs?” “That he talked to the angels…. Why, why yes he would. He talked to a lot of people, but I think he definitely talked to the Angels.” “Gwamma, wen babbeh had wowstest huwties, did ‘ou hab tawkies wif Cheesas?” ~ Not too long after Chapter 7 Avocado was at the vet. He was still recovering from his fight with Bullsquid. Earlier, his teacher Candy and his friends had visited him. Now, he was being visited by his grandmother, Melissa. The mother of his daddeh, watching over him. “Gwamma….” “Shh… please rest Avo.” As she said this, she started to hum a song. “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, That saved, a wretch, like me Who once was lost, but now am found, Was blind, but now, can see.” Melissa’s song was like a soothing and reassuring balm to Avo’s pain. After a while, he was able to close his eyes. And yet, the pain was preventing him from sleeping fully just yet. His senses prevailed, and it would be a while before he could fully drift into the realm of sleep. Avo could hear the words from his grandmother, saying something rather odd. “Please, please Jesus, please watch over little Avocado. He’s our special little boy.” ~ As Avocado related that memory to Melissa, she was a little astounded by the rather clear memory that Avo had. And yet, she felt a little touched. “Yes, Avo. I was talking to Jesus. I was praying.” “Pwaying”? Prayer would be a difficult word to convert into fluffspeak. Melissa had to be concise with what she meant. “Having talks with Jesus. Talking to him. Praying, its not the same as playing. But you know that words can have more than one meaning.” Melissa had not anticipated Avocado to ask such a question related to her faith. And while she tried to give answers, it led to even more questions. “Buh… Cheezas nuu dewe.” “Well, it’s like, Jesus is with us in spirit.” “Whut am spiwit?” “Spirit is like…. Spirit is like something we all have. Humans, fluffies, animals, we all have a spirit, a soul. And Jesus is with us in spirit. He doesn’t have to be there to be with us in spirit.” “Abo nah suwe ib undah-stahn. It am wike daddeh am wif us in spiwit?” “Is your dad with us in spirit…. Why yes, you could say that.” Avo was ecstatic when he heard that. “So, when daddeh hab tawkies wif Avo, den am daddeh’s spiwit!” Melissa couldn’t help but laugh as she heard that sentence. Avo was clearly mistaken, though he couldn’t be faulted. And that slight confusion also provided a chance. “It’s not quite the same thing. Also Avo, we need to go over your math lessons.” ~ The incident had left Melissa reflecting quite a bit. So much so that she ended up mentioning it to Harold after Avo went to bed. “Dear, Avo has been interested in Jesus lately.” “Oh, really?” Harold respondend nonchalantly. At that time, his mind was focused on the newspaper in his hands. “Should tell him more about Jesus? And Church?” “Do we have to? I mean, he’s a fluffy. Its not like he needs to go to church.” “Well, we did him take to church on Christmas.” “That was Christmas.” “And Harold, you’ve seen some of the community bring their fluffies to church. And those are well-behaved. And the Father has not made a fuss about it.” Deciding to give Melissa a bit more time of his day, he moved the newspaper out of his sight, as he faced her. “What are you implying?” “Why don’t we at least let Avo know a bit more about our faith?” ~ An elderly man was entering the book shop of his neighbourhood church. Earlier, he had been at the nearest fluffmart and had attempted to enquire about a specific kind of book written in fluffspeak, on a topic that he imagined some fluffies would be interested in. “I’m sorry sir, we don’t carry that kind of product here.” It was a genuine response, the kind given by a young man who was fully aware of the inventory he was tasked with, and was also merely doing his job. “Alright then, where can I find such a book?” “Have you tried your church? I heard the shops were carrying those kinds of books.” The old man was a little taken aback. It was not that he wasn’t a god-fearing man. However, he had been avoiding attendance at the local place of worship for most of the months, aside from an appearance at Easter and Christmas. Yet, he knows that his spouse would always dutifully attend the church service every week. And now, she made a request to him that, while unusual, he could not help but oblige. A few hours later he found himself at the entrance of the church. As he walked towards the entrance, he could hear the ringing of the bells and the marching of the people walking up towards the priest to received their Daily Bread. It was impromptu, perhaps even uncouth, yet our old man found himself joining the line. “Amen.” After the service had concluded, our old man made his way to the adjacent shop located near the church. It had all the religious iconography and texts one would expect from a shop like this., And yet, our old man would never imagine he’d ask for books of this specific nature. “Why yes, we do!” And as she says this, she shopkeeper brings our old man to a small but dedicated section of the church bookshop. Looking over the wares, it resembled a lot of the religious books he had read as a child, and he too had passed to his son. Filled with cartoonish imagery and gentle language. The difference, of course, was that the language was the even more simplistic fluffspeak, as these were religious books that were meant to teach the catechism in as simple a manner as possible. “I’m a bit surprised that our church carries books on this.” “Well, fluffies aren’t quite like ordinary animals, are they? They kind of speak like us, although a bit limited. And they can understand some concepts better than the average animal.” “But doesn’t the Church say that animals don’t have souls? I think one of the past Popes said that animals aren’t called to Heaven.” “Ah, but Pope John Paul II said that animals will join us in Heaven. As did Pope Benedict.” “But aren’t fluffies artificial animals? I remember they were marketed as toys.” “They do have an artificial origin, but most fluffies are born, live and die just like us. And with their ability to learn and develop, they are very humanlike. It is a complicated topic, and different religions have different says on it. Our current Pope has asked us not to discount fluffies despite their artificial origin, as they are not that different from human clones.” The old man was a little confused by the past discussion. “It just seems so different from how things were when I was younger.” “Well, times change I guess.” He had heard those words before. He remembered hearing him from his firstborn, on the day when he had opted not to go to Church anymore. Briefly flipping the pages, Harold recognized some of the stories in the book. It reminded him a lot of a similar book he passed to Mark, once upon a time. Only difference was that the language used here was in the seeming indecipherable fluffspeak, which had its own lexicon, and grammatical rules separate from “standard” English. Remembering the unique fluffspeak and the complexity of teaching fluffies to be familiar with their interactions with the human world, it prompted Harold to ask another question. “Is there a bible in fluffspeak?” “There are! But people usually don’t buy them.” “That’s odd. You’d think that, if owners are trying to get fluffies to be Christians, they’d have them read the Bible.” “Yes, but fluffies usually don’t have the attention span to manage long books. Most children’s bibles are made based on the premise that the adult reads with the child. However, not a lot of fluffies express an interest in religion beyond following what their owners tell them about the faith, or learning how to pray. Its why we don’t import a lot of the Bibles in fluffspeak.” ~ Avocado was enamoured by the book he was reading. It was written in simple fluffspeak. But it told so many different stories. There was the story of Nowa, and how he built a large boat so large that he could put his family and every animal on it. The boat helped his family survive a terrible storm of wawa that flooded the land. There was the story of Moses, who was helping his people leave a terrible place to find a new home and, with the help of Sky-daddeh, was able to part the sea into two. There was the story of Debid, a humble sheep herder who went up against the big bully Gowiat, and would later become King. And then there was Cheezas. Cheezas, who could turn water into wine. Cheezas, who healed a blind man, and allowed him to see. Cheezas, who could walk on wawa. Cheezas, the storyteller, who told many stories, including the one about the prodigal son, and how the son came back to his daddeh. And how said daddeh loved both of his sons equally, even the one who stayed loyal by his side. It was a very fun storybook. To Avo, it was just a storybook. But it had stories he wanted to share with his friends. ~ “Class, we have a special guest today. His name is Ajit.” The orange foal was different from everyone else in the class, by virtue of having a piece of cloth wrapped around his head. His owner was a big man, with a very bushy beard. And like his charge, what was just unique about him was a larger cloth that he was wearing that was wrapped around his head. “Fwuffy hab big happies to meet ‘ou aww.” “Why fwen am weawing a siwwy hat?” As Chilli asked that, the entire class giggled. Even the bearded man laughed. With a smile, Amber explained, “Ajit here, like his owner, is a Sikh.” “Fwuffy hab wowstest sickies?” “No, it’s the herd he belongs to.” Trying to explain a religion to fluffies is difficult, and trying to explain to them the existence of other religions would be even more difficult. Any person would balk at the idea of their community being compared to with a herd, but Mr Singh was familiar with the limited capacity and knowledge that fluffies had. Ajit’s week at East Side Daycare went as normally as it did for any visiting fluffy. He took part in the activities, played at lunch time, he could eat most of the food as he did not have any dietary complications nor restriction, and he generally was friendly with everybody at the daycare. But there was one little incident that affected Avo a little when it came to Ajit. And it happened during the middle of the week. Avo had been sharing with his friends about the stories from the book that’s his grandparents had given him. Almost all of his classmates had interest in the stories, and listened to him attentively. However, when Ajit started hearing about Cheezas, he merely shook his and went off to play with the blocks by himself. Avo was wondering if there was something wrong. Finishing the story about the time Cheezas walked on water, and amazed his friends, he went up to Ajit. “Hewwo, fwen.” Ajit remained silent. “Fwen?” The only response was the sound of the stacking of blocks. “Fwen am otay.” In a huff, Ajit turned out around. He did it so quickly, one of his hooves hit the stack, and the blocks claim tumbling down. “Wook. ‘ou beweib in Cheezas, but dat am yer sky daddeh. Nuh mine. Fwuffy nu beweib in yer Cheezas. Nao. Pwease weave fwuffy awone.” Avocado was a little taken aback by Ajit’s curt response. Even though it was rude, he wonder what it was about talking about Cheezas that had so offended Ajit. He wanted to apologize, but, Ajit wouldn’t listen to him. With no one else to turn to, he decided to head to the sleeping room. The Auburn was there, tending to some of the foals who were sleeping at that time. A sshe was watching over the foals, she could feel a fluffy’s hoof tapping on her leg. “Why Avo, whats the matter?” Avo tthen told the Auburn about the incident that happened that day. “There, there little Avocado. Not everybody has the same religion as you do.” “W-w-we-we-shion?” It was a big word. “Well Avo, a lot of hummehs and fluffies would believe in one type of Sky Daddy. That’s a religion. Ajit over there belongs to a different type of herd. And his owner belongs to another type of herd. And they believe in their own thoughts about Sky Daddy.” “Ooooh, so wike, they go to a diffewen pwayie pwace?” Avo was surprised to hear the word “pwayie pwace”. But she had a rough idea of what Avo meant. “Exactly! And there is a lot of religions, Avo. Not everyone has the same religion. It’s like how Buttercup prefers sports while you prefer reading.” The Auburn felt she was grossly simplifying the vast differences of religions and followings in the world. She was not sure if Avo would understand what she was saying. “Abo undahstan…. Abo thinks.” The Auburn could only smile as she heard that. Just then, Avo asked a rather expected question to her. “Do 'ou bewieb in sky daddeh, mummah Amba?” “Not really, Avo,” the Auburn said, shaking her head. “I don’t go to church.” “Wai?” “Well, I wasn’t brought up in it. As a little baby, my mommy and daddy never took me to church.” Avo was surprised as to hear that. He thought that most humans would go to this special school, this special “prayer place”, even though different herds had different prayer places. But Amber was telling her that she didn’t. “But see, I’m rather happy. Not everybody needs a to believe in sky daddeh to be happy. And If believing in sky daddeh makes you happy, that’s a good thing.” Feeling like he understood the situation a bit better, Avo could only smile cryptically. He then stated, “Fwuffy undahstahn.” ~ Soon it was Holy Week. For Avocado, it was like any other ordinary week. He went to the daycare, followed the lessons he was taught, came home, had his dinner, and slept. The exam that was to grade was about a month away, but, other then that, there was nothing special. But for Melissa and Harold, it was a different story. And Harold was adamant on a stance. “The book didn’t mention anything about Jesus dying.” “But how can Avo learn about Jesus if he doesn’t know about the Crucifixion and Resurrection?” That question left Harold a little cold. He knew where his wife was coming from. “Does he need to know? If Mark doesn’t take him to church, then there is no need for him to know more about the religion.” “But what if he asks?” “Well, that is IF he asks. If you take him on Good Friday, he’s just going to ask more questions.” Melissa was feeling dejected. Harold came up to her, and place his hands on her shoulders. “Look. I know it was difficult for both of us when Mark stopped going to church. But even though Avo is special to us, ultimately he is Mark’s pet, not ours.” Harold could feel a lump in his throat as he said that. In the months of the close bond that he developed with Avo, the fluffy definitely felt more than just a pet. Melissa sighed. She knew her husband had a point. And she also knew that she was initially hesitant to have Avo follow them to church all those months ago at Christmas. And yet, there was one thing she did want to ask. “Can we still take him on Easter Sunday?” Harold thought for a moment. “Sure.” ~ Good Friday came and went. As Avo was at the daycare for most of the day, he would have been unaware of the church service that his grandmother attended on that day. Nor would he have known about the significance of this one day in the Christian calendar. But to Avo, it was just yet another day. ~ And then, it was Easter Sunday. Avocado was dressed with a neat little green ribbon around his body, complete with a cute little bow. According to gwamma, the other fluffies that were going to the Church today were also going to wear a similar bow. And Avo was feeling a little excited – he heard there was going to be a little party at the Church. Avo wondered if it was going to be anything like the one he experienced at Christmas. It was the second time that Avocado was at the place that his grandparents called church. It was the same as he had remembered it at Christmas – a building where a lot of people gathered, and windows with a coloured glass showing a bearded man doing miracles and other things. Avo now understood that this man was Cheesas, and that the Church was what his grandmother and Melissa described as being a “pwayie pwace”, or “prayer place.” Though the one thing that Avo was not prepared for was the long talk by the silly human in silly white clothes. The speech went for so long, and used big words that it nearly made Avo fall asleep. He tried his best to understand it, and he could understand the priest was talking about “a new life” and “new beginnings”. But that was about the half of it, and the poor quality of the microphone meant that Avo could not really understand what the man was saying. Feeling a little distracted, Avo decided to look around, and see more of the statues near him. And as he looked, he saw the statue of Cheesas, on a large plan of wood, his arms outstretched, with prickly things on his head, and boo-boo juice streaming from down his face. A look of intense sadness and agony was on Cheesas’s face. It was like nothing Avo had seen before. He wondered why he had not seen this statue before. He wondered why the book that his grandma had given him had not shown this statue. It made him want to ask questions. But he was also a little terrified by the vision of it. Looking away, he then started to snuggle up to his grandmotter, Melissa. Melissa was a bit surprised by Avo laying his head on her side. However, and understanding that the church service would be rather boring to both children and fluffies, she gently patted him, and allowed the adolescent foal to rest by her side. ~ Just outside the prayer place, a number of stalls had already been erected, and people were already playing games. The Easter celebrations were here, though Avocado noted that they were rather muted. It didn’t seem to be as exciting as the celebrations for Christmas. Or for Halloween. As he was walking by his grandparents side, Avo felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around, and was met with a surprise. “Mawigowd!” Marigold was wearing a silver-coloured ribbon. She was standing next to her owners, as well as a bigger fluffy, who resembled a little, but with a reddish mane. “Fwuffy ne’er thot dat Abo gu to chuwch!” “This am secondies tiem, fwen.” “Weww, Mawi go to Chuwch with fwuffy mummam and hummeh mummah ewewy Sundae!” As she said this, she introduced her fluffy mother to Avo. “Dis am fwuffy mummah, Coppah.” “Nice to meet ‘ou, mummah Coppah,” Avo said bowing his head. “Mawigowd hab big tawkies about ‘ou. Sez ‘ou am a smawt boi!” Avo looked at the bigger fluffy sheepishly. Feeling a shy, he merely said, “Abo onwy twy am bestest.” There were not that many notable games or activities at the Easter celebration, and Avocado felt it was overall, rather boring. Not to mention that it was rather hot as it was mostly outdoors, and Avo found himself sweating after a bit. But there was one game that Avo did enjoy, which he played with the other kids and fluffies. There was an egg hunting game. The game required a group of fluffies and children to work together. They were attached to at least one adult, and they had to work together to find the eggs within a specified area of the church. Avo was in a group with Marigold and Copper, and they were attached to Melissa, who agreed to watch over the group as they combed the area. Most of the fluffies had found the missing coloured eggs, but there was one egg that was still missing. All the fluffies had been wondering where this one egg had been hidden – it had been painted green, with red spots. The picture of the egg reminded Avo of the nearby bush with the red flowers. Feeling a little intuitive, Avo went to bush, going inside it. It was an area most of the fluffies preferred not to go into, as they had not been told to be careful of entering random dark places. But luckily enough, the missing egg was there! “Atta boy, Avo!” Harold said, as he saw the little green foal return with the missing egg. Happy Easter (Artist: PeppermintParchment) After the games, the foals and fluffies were given a treat of various foods. There was a bunny-shaped chocolate that they all shared, along with various jellybeans. It was a somewhat fun experience but, perhaps not as fun as Christmas. (Or Halloween) ~ Avocado never asked again about going to Church, or Cheesas. It came as a bit of a surprise to Melissa, as she had remembered the interest he had expressed to her. However, and remembering the life choices that her own son made, she had come to accept that, as a fluffy, perhaps Avocado would not be interested in knowing more about the religion. As for Avo, he tried to forget the statue of Cheesas that he saw. It was rather disturbing, and did not seem to make sense with everything else that he had seen at the Church. But Avo had also understood from the Auburn that there were other prayer places, other herds that existed in the world. He wonder what the prayer place of Ajit’s would look like. He wondered what other kinds of Sky-daddehs there were. The world was a mysterious place, and he was hoping to learn more about it as he got older. submitted by Oculusfluffy to fluffycommunity [link] [comments] |
2023.05.28 19:24 Johnwestrick The House on Jackson Street
The House on Jackson Street
By John Westrick
I used to walk with her, now I walk alone. We used to marvel at the beautiful houses together, now I look down at my feet. Each home a grain of salt in the wound, each house a reminder of what I lost. Even though it hurts, I still find myself continuing our walks. Sometimes pain is good. I’d rather feel the pain of her passing, than not feel her at all.
She’s alive when I walk. She’s the shadow that strolls behind. Though I can’t see her, I can feel her. Her presence is like a windbreaker draped across my shoulders in an especially violent storm. The pain isn’t gone but it’s bearable when I’m moving. I can’t speak to her, but she’s there. When I trip over a root, a hand steadies me. When I veer off course, I feel a gentle nudge.
And every day I end up in front of the same house on Jackson Street.
A grand home, at least at one point it must’ve been. The windows are boarded closed. The door is locked. Beware trespasser signs are strewn haphazardly across the tangled mess of the once impressive lawn.
I feel her presence strongest here. It is almost tangible, as if she’s hiding behind a thin curtain. I call to her, yet she never answers. I reach for her, yet I can never lay hands on her. It is here on my journey where my emotions get the best of me. Every day I come, every day I cry.
The neighbors look at me with trepidation, but long gone are my days of caring what others think. I stand there an old man, face in my hands and weep for the woman I lost. Let them think what they want, but my Lenore was worth every tear.
I feel a tap on my shoulder, and look up to see the front door of the house swung wide. Light is pouring out of it, and there she is, my Lenore. I rush towards her and the gaping maw, towards the woman I’ve lost. The woman who heard my cries and has returned for me.
As I barrel forward through the brambles and overgrown weeds, I hardly am aware of the scrapes and cuts. Nor does it bother me that I trip over a hidden bottle and go tumbling face first in the dirt. I sling myself forward with the stamina of a much younger man.
And then, I am there standing in touching distance from her. It’s her. She’s got the same strawberry blonde hair that always tended to leave me breathless. It’s wrapped in a French braid with a daisy tucked behind her left ear. She looks younger by nearly twenty years. Her nose and cheeks are dusted with a fine layer of freckles.
I began to giggle like a schoolboy as I remember I once tried to count them. Twenty-three is the highest I got before I found my mouth on hers. And suddenly I have an inappropriate urge to pull her close and continue the kiss in front of God and all the neighbors.
Shortly before I do just that, she vanishes, leaving me standing in the front door alone once more. I look around the hallway and notice it’s fully furnished. There is no dust or decay. The parlor is in perfect condition. Even more shockingly I hear someone playing the piano. It’s Fur Elise and I could recognize that sound anywhere. Lenore was playing it the day she died.
The Turkish rug leading down the hall looks familiar, the pattern of the wolf howling at the moon, the picture of the ship sailing in rough seas. I know it. I walk forward, no longer in control over my own body. Instead, everything begins to flash in front of me like a movie. I see my own hand reach for the gilded door knob. I know on the other side of this door is a set of stairs that leads to the great room.
Still, I don’t remember, I can’t remember. They threaten to come back, but I don’t let them. I don’t want to remember. I’m back. Oh God have mercy on me, I’m back to the day my wife died.
I come to this conclusion even as my own traitorous hand throws wide the hallway door. I fight for control. I do everything in my power to not see. My eyes fling wide and I look to see the back of my sweet Lenore’s head, the damned daisy still perched behind her ear. She’s playing and she doesn’t know I’ve arrived.
I know what is coming but I don’t want to. Yet those damned feet, those mutinous mother fuckers keep pushing me forward. First up one step then two, before I even know it, I’ve scaled half of them. Now I can see her back, she’s in a flowery dress with what looks to be hummingbirds sucking at the honey. Fur Elise is ramping up, and the song is nearing its climax.
And then I see it. Him to be precise. He’s lounging in my chair, drinking my whiskey, with his shirt partially unbuttoned. Rage, white hot fills me once more. I look to the left and then the right, and that’s when I see my cavalry saber hung on the wall for decoration.
I remember the outcome, yet I can’t force myself to let go of its hilt. My hand turns white from grasping it so hard. There’s nothing I can do to lessen my grip. I see myself marching up behind her sword held high in one hand.
Fur Elise climaxes as my arm swings. I strike her left shoulder blade and with a discordant whine the music stops altogether. Inwardly I scream. I curse my God’s damned temper. I watch as she slumps out of her chair.
Without a second glance, I am charging the man just beginning to look up from his comfortable spot in my seat. My blade penetrates his right abdomen, he lets out one shriek before my second swing catches him directly in the throat.
I am appalled at the blood spurting from his nearly decapitated neck. My hands are scarlet, I feel wet stickiness oozing down my face. Yet I can’t control my own limbs as they swing and swing and swing, chopping the man into kindling. I try to close my eyes but they won’t, so I see his hand go flying. I watch as his innards come bubbling out of his abdomen. I split his head like a grape and watch his brain matter leak out of the side of it.
To my dismay, I hear a gurgling sound coming from behind me. I turn knowing what I’ll see but powerless to stop it. I look to see my Lenore’s face towards me trying to speak. Blood bubbles drizzling out of the side of her mouth. I don’t need to hear the words to know what she is trying to say. “Please, no more.”
Pity fills my heart and my own eyes refuse to cry. “Please don’t do this,” I scream at myself in vain. I watch as I slowly move towards my former wife letting the blade carve a wicked groove into the marble floor. With no mercy my arm swings the blade up once then twice then three times, and all goes black.
Finally, I regain control of my limbs and body. I look up to see a vandalized great hall with a nasty groove in the marble floor, and there my chopped wife lying on the floor looking up at me with dead yet still very much alive eyes.
I see the monstrosity of my late wife clamber to her feet. Her left eye slides out of its socket running like egg yolk down her face. Black pustule blood leaks from her wounds. Her right eye locks with mine and in a slobbering wet noise she said, “I will never let you forget what you did here. Jail wasn’t enough for you. You didn’t stay your hand, so even in your Alzheimer’s I won't let you forget. Same time tomorrow, honey?”
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MrCreepyPasta [link] [comments]
2023.05.28 19:23 Johnwestrick The House on Jackson Street
The House on Jackson Street
By John Westrick
I used to walk with her, now I walk alone. We used to marvel at the beautiful houses together, now I look down at my feet. Each home a grain of salt in the wound, each house a reminder of what I lost. Even though it hurts, I still find myself continuing our walks. Sometimes pain is good. I’d rather feel the pain of her passing, than not feel her at all.
She’s alive when I walk. She’s the shadow that strolls behind. Though I can’t see her, I can feel her. Her presence is like a windbreaker draped across my shoulders in an especially violent storm. The pain isn’t gone but it’s bearable when I’m moving. I can’t speak to her, but she’s there. When I trip over a root, a hand steadies me. When I veer off course, I feel a gentle nudge.
And every day I end up in front of the same house on Jackson Street.
A grand home, at least at one point it must’ve been. The windows are boarded closed. The door is locked. Beware trespasser signs are strewn haphazardly across the tangled mess of the once impressive lawn.
I feel her presence strongest here. It is almost tangible, as if she’s hiding behind a thin curtain. I call to her, yet she never answers. I reach for her, yet I can never lay hands on her. It is here on my journey where my emotions get the best of me. Every day I come, every day I cry.
The neighbors look at me with trepidation, but long gone are my days of caring what others think. I stand there an old man, face in my hands and weep for the woman I lost. Let them think what they want, but my Lenore was worth every tear.
I feel a tap on my shoulder, and look up to see the front door of the house swung wide. Light is pouring out of it, and there she is, my Lenore. I rush towards her and the gaping maw, towards the woman I’ve lost. The woman who heard my cries and has returned for me.
As I barrel forward through the brambles and overgrown weeds, I hardly am aware of the scrapes and cuts. Nor does it bother me that I trip over a hidden bottle and go tumbling face first in the dirt. I sling myself forward with the stamina of a much younger man.
And then, I am there standing in touching distance from her. It’s her. She’s got the same strawberry blonde hair that always tended to leave me breathless. It’s wrapped in a French braid with a daisy tucked behind her left ear. She looks younger by nearly twenty years. Her nose and cheeks are dusted with a fine layer of freckles.
I began to giggle like a schoolboy as I remember I once tried to count them. Twenty-three is the highest I got before I found my mouth on hers. And suddenly I have an inappropriate urge to pull her close and continue the kiss in front of God and all the neighbors.
Shortly before I do just that, she vanishes, leaving me standing in the front door alone once more. I look around the hallway and notice it’s fully furnished. There is no dust or decay. The parlor is in perfect condition. Even more shockingly I hear someone playing the piano. It’s Fur Elise and I could recognize that sound anywhere. Lenore was playing it the day she died.
The Turkish rug leading down the hall looks familiar, the pattern of the wolf howling at the moon, the picture of the ship sailing in rough seas. I know it. I walk forward, no longer in control over my own body. Instead, everything begins to flash in front of me like a movie. I see my own hand reach for the gilded door knob. I know on the other side of this door is a set of stairs that leads to the great room.
Still, I don’t remember, I can’t remember. They threaten to come back, but I don’t let them. I don’t want to remember. I’m back. Oh God have mercy on me, I’m back to the day my wife died.
I come to this conclusion even as my own traitorous hand throws wide the hallway door. I fight for control. I do everything in my power to not see. My eyes fling wide and I look to see the back of my sweet Lenore’s head, the damned daisy still perched behind her ear. She’s playing and she doesn’t know I’ve arrived.
I know what is coming but I don’t want to. Yet those damned feet, those mutinous mother fuckers keep pushing me forward. First up one step then two, before I even know it, I’ve scaled half of them. Now I can see her back, she’s in a flowery dress with what looks to be hummingbirds sucking at the honey. Fur Elise is ramping up, and the song is nearing its climax.
And then I see it. Him to be precise. He’s lounging in my chair, drinking my whiskey, with his shirt partially unbuttoned. Rage, white hot fills me once more. I look to the left and then the right, and that’s when I see my cavalry saber hung on the wall for decoration.
I remember the outcome, yet I can’t force myself to let go of its hilt. My hand turns white from grasping it so hard. There’s nothing I can do to lessen my grip. I see myself marching up behind her sword held high in one hand.
Fur Elise climaxes as my arm swings. I strike her left shoulder blade and with a discordant whine the music stops altogether. Inwardly I scream. I curse my God’s damned temper. I watch as she slumps out of her chair.
Without a second glance, I am charging the man just beginning to look up from his comfortable spot in my seat. My blade penetrates his right abdomen, he lets out one shriek before my second swing catches him directly in the throat.
I am appalled at the blood spurting from his nearly decapitated neck. My hands are scarlet, I feel wet stickiness oozing down my face. Yet I can’t control my own limbs as they swing and swing and swing, chopping the man into kindling. I try to close my eyes but they won’t, so I see his hand go flying. I watch as his innards come bubbling out of his abdomen. I split his head like a grape and watch his brain matter leak out of the side of it.
To my dismay, I hear a gurgling sound coming from behind me. I turn knowing what I’ll see but powerless to stop it. I look to see my Lenore’s face towards me trying to speak. Blood bubbles drizzling out of the side of her mouth. I don’t need to hear the words to know what she is trying to say. “Please, no more.”
Pity fills my heart and my own eyes refuse to cry. “Please don’t do this,” I scream at myself in vain. I watch as I slowly move towards my former wife letting the blade carve a wicked groove into the marble floor. With no mercy my arm swings the blade up once then twice then three times, and all goes black.
Finally, I regain control of my limbs and body. I look up to see a vandalized great hall with a nasty groove in the marble floor, and there my chopped wife lying on the floor looking up at me with dead yet still very much alive eyes.
I see the monstrosity of my late wife clamber to her feet. Her left eye slides out of its socket running like egg yolk down her face. Black pustule blood leaks from her wounds. Her right eye locks with mine and in a slobbering wet noise she said, “I will never let you forget what you did here. Jail wasn’t enough for you. You didn’t stay your hand, so even in your Alzheimer’s I won't let you forget. Same time tomorrow, honey?”
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2023.05.28 19:23 Johnwestrick The House on Jackson Street
The House on Jackson Street
By John Westrick
I used to walk with her, now I walk alone. We used to marvel at the beautiful houses together, now I look down at my feet. Each home a grain of salt in the wound, each house a reminder of what I lost. Even though it hurts, I still find myself continuing our walks. Sometimes pain is good. I’d rather feel the pain of her passing, than not feel her at all.
She’s alive when I walk. She’s the shadow that strolls behind. Though I can’t see her, I can feel her. Her presence is like a windbreaker draped across my shoulders in an especially violent storm. The pain isn’t gone but it’s bearable when I’m moving. I can’t speak to her, but she’s there. When I trip over a root, a hand steadies me. When I veer off course, I feel a gentle nudge.
And every day I end up in front of the same house on Jackson Street.
A grand home, at least at one point it must’ve been. The windows are boarded closed. The door is locked. Beware trespasser signs are strewn haphazardly across the tangled mess of the once impressive lawn.
I feel her presence strongest here. It is almost tangible, as if she’s hiding behind a thin curtain. I call to her, yet she never answers. I reach for her, yet I can never lay hands on her. It is here on my journey where my emotions get the best of me. Every day I come, every day I cry.
The neighbors look at me with trepidation, but long gone are my days of caring what others think. I stand there an old man, face in my hands and weep for the woman I lost. Let them think what they want, but my Lenore was worth every tear.
I feel a tap on my shoulder, and look up to see the front door of the house swung wide. Light is pouring out of it, and there she is, my Lenore. I rush towards her and the gaping maw, towards the woman I’ve lost. The woman who heard my cries and has returned for me.
As I barrel forward through the brambles and overgrown weeds, I hardly am aware of the scrapes and cuts. Nor does it bother me that I trip over a hidden bottle and go tumbling face first in the dirt. I sling myself forward with the stamina of a much younger man.
And then, I am there standing in touching distance from her. It’s her. She’s got the same strawberry blonde hair that always tended to leave me breathless. It’s wrapped in a French braid with a daisy tucked behind her left ear. She looks younger by nearly twenty years. Her nose and cheeks are dusted with a fine layer of freckles.
I began to giggle like a schoolboy as I remember I once tried to count them. Twenty-three is the highest I got before I found my mouth on hers. And suddenly I have an inappropriate urge to pull her close and continue the kiss in front of God and all the neighbors.
Shortly before I do just that, she vanishes, leaving me standing in the front door alone once more. I look around the hallway and notice it’s fully furnished. There is no dust or decay. The parlor is in perfect condition. Even more shockingly I hear someone playing the piano. It’s Fur Elise and I could recognize that sound anywhere. Lenore was playing it the day she died.
The Turkish rug leading down the hall looks familiar, the pattern of the wolf howling at the moon, the picture of the ship sailing in rough seas. I know it. I walk forward, no longer in control over my own body. Instead, everything begins to flash in front of me like a movie. I see my own hand reach for the gilded door knob. I know on the other side of this door is a set of stairs that leads to the great room.
Still, I don’t remember, I can’t remember. They threaten to come back, but I don’t let them. I don’t want to remember. I’m back. Oh God have mercy on me, I’m back to the day my wife died.
I come to this conclusion even as my own traitorous hand throws wide the hallway door. I fight for control. I do everything in my power to not see. My eyes fling wide and I look to see the back of my sweet Lenore’s head, the damned daisy still perched behind her ear. She’s playing and she doesn’t know I’ve arrived.
I know what is coming but I don’t want to. Yet those damned feet, those mutinous mother fuckers keep pushing me forward. First up one step then two, before I even know it, I’ve scaled half of them. Now I can see her back, she’s in a flowery dress with what looks to be hummingbirds sucking at the honey. Fur Elise is ramping up, and the song is nearing its climax.
And then I see it. Him to be precise. He’s lounging in my chair, drinking my whiskey, with his shirt partially unbuttoned. Rage, white hot fills me once more. I look to the left and then the right, and that’s when I see my cavalry saber hung on the wall for decoration.
I remember the outcome, yet I can’t force myself to let go of its hilt. My hand turns white from grasping it so hard. There’s nothing I can do to lessen my grip. I see myself marching up behind her sword held high in one hand.
Fur Elise climaxes as my arm swings. I strike her left shoulder blade and with a discordant whine the music stops altogether. Inwardly I scream. I curse my God’s damned temper. I watch as she slumps out of her chair.
Without a second glance, I am charging the man just beginning to look up from his comfortable spot in my seat. My blade penetrates his right abdomen, he lets out one shriek before my second swing catches him directly in the throat.
I am appalled at the blood spurting from his nearly decapitated neck. My hands are scarlet, I feel wet stickiness oozing down my face. Yet I can’t control my own limbs as they swing and swing and swing, chopping the man into kindling. I try to close my eyes but they won’t, so I see his hand go flying. I watch as his innards come bubbling out of his abdomen. I split his head like a grape and watch his brain matter leak out of the side of it.
To my dismay, I hear a gurgling sound coming from behind me. I turn knowing what I’ll see but powerless to stop it. I look to see my Lenore’s face towards me trying to speak. Blood bubbles drizzling out of the side of her mouth. I don’t need to hear the words to know what she is trying to say. “Please, no more.”
Pity fills my heart and my own eyes refuse to cry. “Please don’t do this,” I scream at myself in vain. I watch as I slowly move towards my former wife letting the blade carve a wicked groove into the marble floor. With no mercy my arm swings the blade up once then twice then three times, and all goes black.
Finally, I regain control of my limbs and body. I look up to see a vandalized great hall with a nasty groove in the marble floor, and there my chopped wife lying on the floor looking up at me with dead yet still very much alive eyes.
I see the monstrosity of my late wife clamber to her feet. Her left eye slides out of its socket running like egg yolk down her face. Black pustule blood leaks from her wounds. Her right eye locks with mine and in a slobbering wet noise she said, “I will never let you forget what you did here. Jail wasn’t enough for you. You didn’t stay your hand, so even in your Alzheimer’s I won't let you forget. Same time tomorrow, honey?”
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2023.05.28 19:22 xtracheesepleass Beginners guide to trading and end of May update. In cap values (PSN).
Disclaimer- You are responsible for any trade you make. These are my values and estimations based on my interpretation of the market. The market changes frequently, and this is meant to serve as a guide, not an end all be all. Some or all things may sell at, over, or under the posted value. ALSO, I know many will disagree with my junk values, but I personally feel that at the rarity junk is sold that price values need to be increased to account for market changes.
Apparel............................
-Tattered field jacket 800k
-Red asylum 700k
-Leather coat 600k
-Traveling leather coat 535k
-Forest camo 475k
-Responders set 550k (this value is way up near tfj this past week)
-Responders outfit 300k
-Loon 265k
-Reverse usa fsa. 220k
-Fiend 180k
-Bos jump 130k
-Hag 150k
-Demon 150k
-White powder jump 120k
-Responders helmet 140k
-Buffoon 120k
-Brahmin 110k
-Fsa (forest scout) 100k
-Usa ( urban scout) 90k
Level 50 ONLY prototype hazmat 80k
-Deathclaw 40k
-Crazy guy 35k
-Winterman 35k
-Forest asylum 35k
-Raven 35k
-Yellow asylum 20k
-Pink asylum 15k
-Hunters long coat 10k
-Longshoreman 8k
-Blue ridge set 8k
highs.....................
-Q2525 Rail is trading around 2.5 mil
-Q2525 fixer is around 2 mil
-Q2525 handmade is around 1.6 mil
-B2525 aligned auto is around 2mil ( with perfect mods)
-Qe15r or qe90 lmg 1.4 mil
-Q2515r or q2590 peppershaker 1 mil (up to 2mil based on rarity)
-Qe15r or qe90 50 cal 1.25
- for qe and q50 versions of commando knock off about 500k from whichever type they are of the 2525 price. Also, qe is selling cheaper than q50 currently
Things on the rise......................
-Enclave flamer mods are trading between 40 and 200k crazy
-Two Shot flamers (not enclave) and cryo have a jump in price now around 200 to 250k based on upcoming patch still a gamble
-Cobalt flux is trading closer to 200 caps. ( often see posts for 125 to 150 go unfulfilled)
-Crimson seems to have recovered to 90 to 100 caps
- leaders are closer to 550 to 650 each.
-ALL apparel above a bos value seems to be moving up in value except fas masks, especially this week's 🔥 item, the responders set.
Things on the fall
-Eprs unrolled down to around 60k to 80k from 120k
-Godroll eprs epfs epp eps all down in value because of recent market flooding.
-Two Shot everything regardless if it is being nerfed price falling ( except actual flamer, cryo, alien blaster) because people are afraid it might get nerf even if it isn't supposed to
Quick values
-Maps 100caps ash heaps and cranberry bog are typically considered rarer and may sell slightly higher
-All bobbles except named 50 to 100c
-Leaders 550 to 650c
-Small guns 200 to 250c
-Explosive, energy, big guns 200c
-Melee 150c
-luck 100 to 125c
--berry mentats 60 to 75 caps
- mixed flux is 100 caps per
- junk
-aluminum 3c
-black titanium 5c
-bone 1c
-ceramic 3c
-circuits 3c
-coal 1c
-concrete 2c
-copper 5c
-cork 1c
-crystal 2c
-adhesive 5c
-fiber optic 10 to 12c
-fiberglass 1c
-glass 1c
-gold 6c
-lead 4 or 5c
-gears 4c
-screws 3c
-springs 6c
-plastic 3c
-nuclear waste 1c
-asbestos 3c
-cloth 2c
-fertilizer 3c
-leather 1c
-rubber 1c
-silver 6c
-steel 1c
-ultracite 18c
-gunpowder 2c
- acid 6c
- waste oil 7 or 8c
-wood 1c
Ammo
-Regular .5 to 1 cap
-Ultracite 1 cap Rarer ammo like fuel, cryo, 2mm ect can go for 1 to 2 caps
-Missile, mini nuke, 40mm look at junk cost to make, divide total caps by number made with max legendary ammo craft, then prolly divide by 2 or 1.5
If your new and need help please feel free to chat me. I'll try to answer or respond to comments as well, and if this gets enough traction, I'll try to do a weekly update. Also, for anyone who tries to start an argument over prices, I'll just ignore you cause if i need toxicity, I'll go see Larry. I hope everyone has a wonderful day
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2023.05.28 19:22 LoFinality 24, Male, Columbus Ohio. Hmu. [Friendship]
I figured having an online pen pal of sorts would be cool. I've a LOT of interest and I'm really not judgemental lol. If you're feeling lonely, or wanna dork out with me about damn near anything. Hmu! I'm down to learn something new.
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2023.05.28 19:21 Johnwestrick The House on Jackson Street
I used to walk with her, now I walk alone. We used to marvel at the beautiful houses together, now I look down at my feet. Each home a grain of salt in the wound, each house a reminder of what I lost. Even though it hurts, I still find myself continuing our walks. Sometimes pain is good. I’d rather feel the pain of her passing, than not feel her at all. She’s alive when I walk. She’s the shadow that strolls behind. Though I can’t see her, I can feel her. Her presence is like a windbreaker draped across my shoulders in an especially violent storm. The pain isn’t gone but it’s bearable when I’m moving. I can’t speak to her, but she’s there. When I trip over a root, a hand steadies me. When I veer off course, I feel a gentle nudge. And every day I end up in front of the same house on Jackson Street. A grand home, at least at one point it must’ve been. The windows are boarded closed. The door is locked. Beware trespasser signs are strewn haphazardly across the tangled mess of the once impressive lawn. I feel her presence strongest here. It is almost tangible, as if she’s hiding behind a thin curtain. I call to her, yet she never answers. I reach for her, yet I can never lay hands on her. It is here on my journey where my emotions get the best of me. Every day I come, every day I cry. The neighbors look at me with trepidation, but long gone are my days of caring what others think. I stand there an old man, face in my hands and weep for the woman I lost. Let them think what they want, but my Lenore was worth every tear. I feel a tap on my shoulder, and look up to see the front door of the house swung wide. Light is pouring out of it, and there she is, my Lenore. I rush towards her and the gaping maw, towards the woman I’ve lost. The woman who heard my cries and has returned for me. As I barrel forward through the brambles and overgrown weeds, I hardly am aware of the scrapes and cuts. Nor does it bother me that I trip over a hidden bottle and go tumbling face first in the dirt. I sling myself forward with the stamina of a much younger man. And then, I am there standing in touching distance from her. It’s her. She’s got the same strawberry blonde hair that always tended to leave me breathless. It’s wrapped in a French braid with a daisy tucked behind her left ear. She looks younger by nearly twenty years. Her nose and cheeks are dusted with a fine layer of freckles. I began to giggle like a schoolboy as I remember I once tried to count them. Twenty-three is the highest I got before I found my mouth on hers. And suddenly I have an inappropriate urge to pull her close and continue the kiss in front of God and all the neighbors. Shortly before I do just that, she vanishes, leaving me standing in the front door alone once more. I look around the hallway and notice it’s fully furnished. There is no dust or decay. The parlor is in perfect condition. Even more shockingly I hear someone playing the piano. It’s Fur Elise and I could recognize that sound anywhere. Lenore was playing it the day she died. The Turkish rug leading down the hall looks familiar, the pattern of the wolf howling at the moon, the picture of the ship sailing in rough seas. I know it. I walk forward, no longer in control over my own body. Instead, everything begins to flash in front of me like a movie. I see my own hand reach for the gilded door knob. I know on the other side of this door is a set of stairs that leads to the great room. Still, I don’t remember, I can’t remember. They threaten to come back, but I don’t let them. I don’t want to remember. I’m back. Oh God have mercy on me, I’m back to the day my wife died. I come to this conclusion even as my own traitorous hand throws wide the hallway door. I fight for control. I do everything in my power to not see. My eyes fling wide and I look to see the back of my sweet Lenore’s head, the damned daisy still perched behind her ear. She’s playing and she doesn’t know I’ve arrived. I know what is coming but I don’t want to. Yet those damned feet, those mutinous mother fuckers keep pushing me forward. First up one step then two, before I even know it, I’ve scaled half of them. Now I can see her back, she’s in a flowery dress with what looks to be hummingbirds sucking at the honey. Fur Elise is ramping up, and the song is nearing its climax. And then I see it. Him to be precise. He’s lounging in my chair, drinking my whiskey, with his shirt partially unbuttoned. Rage, white hot fills me once more. I look to the left and then the right, and that’s when I see my cavalry saber hung on the wall for decoration. I remember the outcome, yet I can’t force myself to let go of its hilt. My hand turns white from grasping it so hard. There’s nothing I can do to lessen my grip. I see myself marching up behind her sword held high in one hand. Fur Elise climaxes as my arm swings. I strike her left shoulder blade and with a discordant whine the music stops altogether. Inwardly I scream. I curse my God’s damned temper. I watch as she slumps out of her chair. Without a second glance, I am charging the man just beginning to look up from his comfortable spot in my seat. My blade penetrates his right abdomen, he lets out one shriek before my second swing catches him directly in the throat. I am appalled at the blood spurting from his nearly decapitated neck. My hands are scarlet, I feel wet stickiness oozing down my face. Yet I can’t control my own limbs as they swing and swing and swing, chopping the man into kindling. I try to close my eyes but they won’t, so I see his hand go flying. I watch as his innards come bubbling out of his abdomen. I split his head like a grape and watch his brain matter leak out of the side of it. To my dismay, I hear a gurgling sound coming from behind me. I turn knowing what I’ll see but powerless to stop it. I look to see my Lenore’s face towards me trying to speak. Blood bubbles drizzling out of the side of her mouth. I don’t need to hear the words to know what she is trying to say. “Please, no more.” Pity fills my heart and my own eyes refuse to cry. “Please don’t do this,” I scream at myself in vain. I watch as I slowly move towards my former wife letting the blade carve a wicked groove into the marble floor. With no mercy my arm swings the blade up once then twice then three times, and all goes black. Finally, I regain control of my limbs and body. I look up to see a vandalized great hall with a nasty groove in the marble floor, and there my chopped wife lying on the floor looking up at me with dead yet still very much alive eyes. I see the monstrosity of my late wife clamber to her feet. Her left eye slides out of its socket running like egg yolk down her face. Black pustule blood leaks from her wounds. Her right eye locks with mine and in a slobbering wet noise she said, “I will never let you forget what you did here. Jail wasn’t enough for you. You didn’t stay your hand, so even in your Alzheimer’s I won't let you forget. Same time tomorrow, honey?”
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2023.05.28 19:21 TigerMushroom Has anyone else seen this seller at Adjacent, they traced some art right up from Virtuevalentine but made it more obvious at the event Frank is playing at 🙄 and keep deleting comments and doing promo for it ???
2023.05.28 19:20 Johnwestrick The House on Jackson Street
The House on Jackson Street
By John Westrick
I used to walk with her, now I walk alone. We used to marvel at the beautiful houses together, now I look down at my feet. Each home a grain of salt in the wound, each house a reminder of what I lost. Even though it hurts, I still find myself continuing our walks. Sometimes pain is good. I’d rather feel the pain of her passing, than not feel her at all.
She’s alive when I walk. She’s the shadow that strolls behind. Though I can’t see her, I can feel her. Her presence is like a windbreaker draped across my shoulders in an especially violent storm. The pain isn’t gone but it’s bearable when I’m moving. I can’t speak to her, but she’s there. When I trip over a root, a hand steadies me. When I veer off course, I feel a gentle nudge.
And every day I end up in front of the same house on Jackson Street.
A grand home, at least at one point it must’ve been. The windows are boarded closed. The door is locked. Beware trespasser signs are strewn haphazardly across the tangled mess of the once impressive lawn.
I feel her presence strongest here. It is almost tangible, as if she’s hiding behind a thin curtain. I call to her, yet she never answers. I reach for her, yet I can never lay hands on her. It is here on my journey where my emotions get the best of me. Every day I come, every day I cry.
The neighbors look at me with trepidation, but long gone are my days of caring what others think. I stand there an old man, face in my hands and weep for the woman I lost. Let them think what they want, but my Lenore was worth every tear.
I feel a tap on my shoulder, and look up to see the front door of the house swung wide. Light is pouring out of it, and there she is, my Lenore. I rush towards her and the gaping maw, towards the woman I’ve lost. The woman who heard my cries and has returned for me.
As I barrel forward through the brambles and overgrown weeds, I hardly am aware of the scrapes and cuts. Nor does it bother me that I trip over a hidden bottle and go tumbling face first in the dirt. I sling myself forward with the stamina of a much younger man.
And then, I am there standing in touching distance from her. It’s her. She’s got the same strawberry blonde hair that always tended to leave me breathless. It’s wrapped in a French braid with a daisy tucked behind her left ear. She looks younger by nearly twenty years. Her nose and cheeks are dusted with a fine layer of freckles.
I began to giggle like a schoolboy as I remember I once tried to count them. Twenty-three is the highest I got before I found my mouth on hers. And suddenly I have an inappropriate urge to pull her close and continue the kiss in front of God and all the neighbors.
Shortly before I do just that, she vanishes, leaving me standing in the front door alone once more. I look around the hallway and notice it’s fully furnished. There is no dust or decay. The parlor is in perfect condition. Even more shockingly I hear someone playing the piano. It’s Fur Elise and I could recognize that sound anywhere. Lenore was playing it the day she died.
The Turkish rug leading down the hall looks familiar, the pattern of the wolf howling at the moon, the picture of the ship sailing in rough seas. I know it. I walk forward, no longer in control over my own body. Instead, everything begins to flash in front of me like a movie. I see my own hand reach for the gilded door knob. I know on the other side of this door is a set of stairs that leads to the great room.
Still, I don’t remember, I can’t remember. They threaten to come back, but I don’t let them. I don’t want to remember. I’m back. Oh God have mercy on me, I’m back to the day my wife died.
I come to this conclusion even as my own traitorous hand throws wide the hallway door. I fight for control. I do everything in my power to not see. My eyes fling wide and I look to see the back of my sweet Lenore’s head, the damned daisy still perched behind her ear. She’s playing and she doesn’t know I’ve arrived.
I know what is coming but I don’t want to. Yet those damned feet, those mutinous mother fuckers keep pushing me forward. First up one step then two, before I even know it, I’ve scaled half of them. Now I can see her back, she’s in a flowery dress with what looks to be hummingbirds sucking at the honey. Fur Elise is ramping up, and the song is nearing its climax.
And then I see it. Him to be precise. He’s lounging in my chair, drinking my whiskey, with his shirt partially unbuttoned. Rage, white hot fills me once more. I look to the left and then the right, and that’s when I see my cavalry saber hung on the wall for decoration.
I remember the outcome, yet I can’t force myself to let go of its hilt. My hand turns white from grasping it so hard. There’s nothing I can do to lessen my grip. I see myself marching up behind her sword held high in one hand.
Fur Elise climaxes as my arm swings. I strike her left shoulder blade and with a discordant whine the music stops altogether. Inwardly I scream. I curse my God’s damned temper. I watch as she slumps out of her chair.
Without a second glance, I am charging the man just beginning to look up from his comfortable spot in my seat. My blade penetrates his right abdomen, he lets out one shriek before my second swing catches him directly in the throat.
I am appalled at the blood spurting from his nearly decapitated neck. My hands are scarlet, I feel wet stickiness oozing down my face. Yet I can’t control my own limbs as they swing and swing and swing, chopping the man into kindling. I try to close my eyes but they won’t, so I see his hand go flying. I watch as his innards come bubbling out of his abdomen. I split his head like a grape and watch his brain matter leak out of the side of it.
To my dismay, I hear a gurgling sound coming from behind me. I turn knowing what I’ll see but powerless to stop it. I look to see my Lenore’s face towards me trying to speak. Blood bubbles drizzling out of the side of her mouth. I don’t need to hear the words to know what she is trying to say. “Please, no more.”
Pity fills my heart and my own eyes refuse to cry. “Please don’t do this,” I scream at myself in vain. I watch as I slowly move towards my former wife letting the blade carve a wicked groove into the marble floor. With no mercy my arm swings the blade up once then twice then three times, and all goes black.
Finally, I regain control of my limbs and body. I look up to see a vandalized great hall with a nasty groove in the marble floor, and there my chopped wife lying on the floor looking up at me with dead yet still very much alive eyes.
I see the monstrosity of my late wife clamber to her feet. Her left eye slides out of its socket running like egg yolk down her face. Black pustule blood leaks from her wounds. Her right eye locks with mine and in a slobbering wet noise she said, “I will never let you forget what you did here. Jail wasn’t enough for you. You didn’t stay your hand, so even in your Alzheimer’s I won't let you forget. Same time tomorrow, honey?”
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2023.05.28 19:20 Johnwestrick The House on Jackson Street
The House on Jackson Street
By John Westrick
I used to walk with her, now I walk alone. We used to marvel at the beautiful houses together, now I look down at my feet. Each home a grain of salt in the wound, each house a reminder of what I lost. Even though it hurts, I still find myself continuing our walks. Sometimes pain is good. I’d rather feel the pain of her passing, than not feel her at all.
She’s alive when I walk. She’s the shadow that strolls behind. Though I can’t see her, I can feel her. Her presence is like a windbreaker draped across my shoulders in an especially violent storm. The pain isn’t gone but it’s bearable when I’m moving. I can’t speak to her, but she’s there. When I trip over a root, a hand steadies me. When I veer off course, I feel a gentle nudge.
And every day I end up in front of the same house on Jackson Street.
A grand home, at least at one point it must’ve been. The windows are boarded closed. The door is locked. Beware trespasser signs are strewn haphazardly across the tangled mess of the once impressive lawn.
I feel her presence strongest here. It is almost tangible, as if she’s hiding behind a thin curtain. I call to her, yet she never answers. I reach for her, yet I can never lay hands on her. It is here on my journey where my emotions get the best of me. Every day I come, every day I cry.
The neighbors look at me with trepidation, but long gone are my days of caring what others think. I stand there an old man, face in my hands and weep for the woman I lost. Let them think what they want, but my Lenore was worth every tear.
I feel a tap on my shoulder, and look up to see the front door of the house swung wide. Light is pouring out of it, and there she is, my Lenore. I rush towards her and the gaping maw, towards the woman I’ve lost. The woman who heard my cries and has returned for me.
As I barrel forward through the brambles and overgrown weeds, I hardly am aware of the scrapes and cuts. Nor does it bother me that I trip over a hidden bottle and go tumbling face first in the dirt. I sling myself forward with the stamina of a much younger man.
And then, I am there standing in touching distance from her. It’s her. She’s got the same strawberry blonde hair that always tended to leave me breathless. It’s wrapped in a French braid with a daisy tucked behind her left ear. She looks younger by nearly twenty years. Her nose and cheeks are dusted with a fine layer of freckles.
I began to giggle like a schoolboy as I remember I once tried to count them. Twenty-three is the highest I got before I found my mouth on hers. And suddenly I have an inappropriate urge to pull her close and continue the kiss in front of God and all the neighbors.
Shortly before I do just that, she vanishes, leaving me standing in the front door alone once more. I look around the hallway and notice it’s fully furnished. There is no dust or decay. The parlor is in perfect condition. Even more shockingly I hear someone playing the piano. It’s Fur Elise and I could recognize that sound anywhere. Lenore was playing it the day she died.
The Turkish rug leading down the hall looks familiar, the pattern of the wolf howling at the moon, the picture of the ship sailing in rough seas. I know it. I walk forward, no longer in control over my own body. Instead, everything begins to flash in front of me like a movie. I see my own hand reach for the gilded door knob. I know on the other side of this door is a set of stairs that leads to the great room.
Still, I don’t remember, I can’t remember. They threaten to come back, but I don’t let them. I don’t want to remember. I’m back. Oh God have mercy on me, I’m back to the day my wife died.
I come to this conclusion even as my own traitorous hand throws wide the hallway door. I fight for control. I do everything in my power to not see. My eyes fling wide and I look to see the back of my sweet Lenore’s head, the damned daisy still perched behind her ear. She’s playing and she doesn’t know I’ve arrived.
I know what is coming but I don’t want to. Yet those damned feet, those mutinous mother fuckers keep pushing me forward. First up one step then two, before I even know it, I’ve scaled half of them. Now I can see her back, she’s in a flowery dress with what looks to be hummingbirds sucking at the honey. Fur Elise is ramping up, and the song is nearing its climax.
And then I see it. Him to be precise. He’s lounging in my chair, drinking my whiskey, with his shirt partially unbuttoned. Rage, white hot fills me once more. I look to the left and then the right, and that’s when I see my cavalry saber hung on the wall for decoration.
I remember the outcome, yet I can’t force myself to let go of its hilt. My hand turns white from grasping it so hard. There’s nothing I can do to lessen my grip. I see myself marching up behind her sword held high in one hand.
Fur Elise climaxes as my arm swings. I strike her left shoulder blade and with a discordant whine the music stops altogether. Inwardly I scream. I curse my God’s damned temper. I watch as she slumps out of her chair.
Without a second glance, I am charging the man just beginning to look up from his comfortable spot in my seat. My blade penetrates his right abdomen, he lets out one shriek before my second swing catches him directly in the throat.
I am appalled at the blood spurting from his nearly decapitated neck. My hands are scarlet, I feel wet stickiness oozing down my face. Yet I can’t control my own limbs as they swing and swing and swing, chopping the man into kindling. I try to close my eyes but they won’t, so I see his hand go flying. I watch as his innards come bubbling out of his abdomen. I split his head like a grape and watch his brain matter leak out of the side of it.
To my dismay, I hear a gurgling sound coming from behind me. I turn knowing what I’ll see but powerless to stop it. I look to see my Lenore’s face towards me trying to speak. Blood bubbles drizzling out of the side of her mouth. I don’t need to hear the words to know what she is trying to say. “Please, no more.”
Pity fills my heart and my own eyes refuse to cry. “Please don’t do this,” I scream at myself in vain. I watch as I slowly move towards my former wife letting the blade carve a wicked groove into the marble floor. With no mercy my arm swings the blade up once then twice then three times, and all goes black.
Finally, I regain control of my limbs and body. I look up to see a vandalized great hall with a nasty groove in the marble floor, and there my chopped wife lying on the floor looking up at me with dead yet still very much alive eyes.
I see the monstrosity of my late wife clamber to her feet. Her left eye slides out of its socket running like egg yolk down her face. Black pustule blood leaks from her wounds. Her right eye locks with mine and in a slobbering wet noise she said, “I will never let you forget what you did here. Jail wasn’t enough for you. You didn’t stay your hand, so even in your Alzheimer’s I won't let you forget. Same time tomorrow, honey?”
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2023.05.28 19:19 workinfast1 Transmission service dealership vs chain shop?
Hi. I own a 2020 Accord 2.0 T sport. Last oil change I was advised by the dealership that the transmission needed a drain and fill. At the time it had around 34k miles. I decided to hold off until I hit around 40k miles.
Since my next oil change is due soon, I called the dealership to schedule the oil change and transmission service. Unfortunately the price for transmission service went up from $170 to nearly $250.
Yesterday I called Brakes Plus and they quoted me at between $100-$150 for the drain and fill.
As it turns out, I can get the oil change and transmission service completed for less than the cost of just the transmission drain/fill at the dealership.
Before I go through with going to Brakes Plus for the work, is there anything I should know about the transmission service? If both places do the same drain and fill, is there a reason to stick with the dealership? This will be the first time taking my Accord to anywhere other than the dealership.
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2023.05.28 19:19 Johnwestrick The House on Jackson Street
The House on Jackson Street
By John Westrick
I used to walk with her, now I walk alone. We used to marvel at the beautiful houses together, now I look down at my feet. Each home a grain of salt in the wound, each house a reminder of what I lost. Even though it hurts, I still find myself continuing our walks. Sometimes pain is good. I’d rather feel the pain of her passing, than not feel her at all.
She’s alive when I walk. She’s the shadow that strolls behind. Though I can’t see her, I can feel her. Her presence is like a windbreaker draped across my shoulders in an especially violent storm. The pain isn’t gone but it’s bearable when I’m moving. I can’t speak to her, but she’s there. When I trip over a root, a hand steadies me. When I veer off course, I feel a gentle nudge.
And every day I end up in front of the same house on Jackson Street.
A grand home, at least at one point it must’ve been. The windows are boarded closed. The door is locked. Beware trespasser signs are strewn haphazardly across the tangled mess of the once impressive lawn.
I feel her presence strongest here. It is almost tangible, as if she’s hiding behind a thin curtain. I call to her, yet she never answers. I reach for her, yet I can never lay hands on her. It is here on my journey where my emotions get the best of me. Every day I come, every day I cry.
The neighbors look at me with trepidation, but long gone are my days of caring what others think. I stand there an old man, face in my hands and weep for the woman I lost. Let them think what they want, but my Lenore was worth every tear.
I feel a tap on my shoulder, and look up to see the front door of the house swung wide. Light is pouring out of it, and there she is, my Lenore. I rush towards her and the gaping maw, towards the woman I’ve lost. The woman who heard my cries and has returned for me.
As I barrel forward through the brambles and overgrown weeds, I hardly am aware of the scrapes and cuts. Nor does it bother me that I trip over a hidden bottle and go tumbling face first in the dirt. I sling myself forward with the stamina of a much younger man.
And then, I am there standing in touching distance from her. It’s her. She’s got the same strawberry blonde hair that always tended to leave me breathless. It’s wrapped in a French braid with a daisy tucked behind her left ear. She looks younger by nearly twenty years. Her nose and cheeks are dusted with a fine layer of freckles.
I began to giggle like a schoolboy as I remember I once tried to count them. Twenty-three is the highest I got before I found my mouth on hers. And suddenly I have an inappropriate urge to pull her close and continue the kiss in front of God and all the neighbors.
Shortly before I do just that, she vanishes, leaving me standing in the front door alone once more. I look around the hallway and notice it’s fully furnished. There is no dust or decay. The parlor is in perfect condition. Even more shockingly I hear someone playing the piano. It’s Fur Elise and I could recognize that sound anywhere. Lenore was playing it the day she died.
The Turkish rug leading down the hall looks familiar, the pattern of the wolf howling at the moon, the picture of the ship sailing in rough seas. I know it. I walk forward, no longer in control over my own body. Instead, everything begins to flash in front of me like a movie. I see my own hand reach for the gilded door knob. I know on the other side of this door is a set of stairs that leads to the great room.
Still, I don’t remember, I can’t remember. They threaten to come back, but I don’t let them. I don’t want to remember. I’m back. Oh God have mercy on me, I’m back to the day my wife died.
I come to this conclusion even as my own traitorous hand throws wide the hallway door. I fight for control. I do everything in my power to not see. My eyes fling wide and I look to see the back of my sweet Lenore’s head, the damned daisy still perched behind her ear. She’s playing and she doesn’t know I’ve arrived.
I know what is coming but I don’t want to. Yet those damned feet, those mutinous mother fuckers keep pushing me forward. First up one step then two, before I even know it, I’ve scaled half of them. Now I can see her back, she’s in a flowery dress with what looks to be hummingbirds sucking at the honey. Fur Elise is ramping up, and the song is nearing its climax.
And then I see it. Him to be precise. He’s lounging in my chair, drinking my whiskey, with his shirt partially unbuttoned. Rage, white hot fills me once more. I look to the left and then the right, and that’s when I see my cavalry saber hung on the wall for decoration.
I remember the outcome, yet I can’t force myself to let go of its hilt. My hand turns white from grasping it so hard. There’s nothing I can do to lessen my grip. I see myself marching up behind her sword held high in one hand.
Fur Elise climaxes as my arm swings. I strike her left shoulder blade and with a discordant whine the music stops altogether. Inwardly I scream. I curse my God’s damned temper. I watch as she slumps out of her chair.
Without a second glance, I am charging the man just beginning to look up from his comfortable spot in my seat. My blade penetrates his right abdomen, he lets out one shriek before my second swing catches him directly in the throat.
I am appalled at the blood spurting from his nearly decapitated neck. My hands are scarlet, I feel wet stickiness oozing down my face. Yet I can’t control my own limbs as they swing and swing and swing, chopping the man into kindling. I try to close my eyes but they won’t, so I see his hand go flying. I watch as his innards come bubbling out of his abdomen. I split his head like a grape and watch his brain matter leak out of the side of it.
To my dismay, I hear a gurgling sound coming from behind me. I turn knowing what I’ll see but powerless to stop it. I look to see my Lenore’s face towards me trying to speak. Blood bubbles drizzling out of the side of her mouth. I don’t need to hear the words to know what she is trying to say. “Please, no more.”
Pity fills my heart and my own eyes refuse to cry. “Please don’t do this,” I scream at myself in vain. I watch as I slowly move towards my former wife letting the blade carve a wicked groove into the marble floor. With no mercy my arm swings the blade up once then twice then three times, and all goes black.
Finally, I regain control of my limbs and body. I look up to see a vandalized great hall with a nasty groove in the marble floor, and there my chopped wife lying on the floor looking up at me with dead yet still very much alive eyes.
I see the monstrosity of my late wife clamber to her feet. Her left eye slides out of its socket running like egg yolk down her face. Black pustule blood leaks from her wounds. Her right eye locks with mine and in a slobbering wet noise she said, “I will never let you forget what you did here. Jail wasn’t enough for you. You didn’t stay your hand, so even in your Alzheimer’s I won't let you forget. Same time tomorrow, honey?”
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