Creepypasta

The machine was off for three minutes and forty-seven seconds, which doesn’t seem like so very long, but something happened in the world during that time, and it was an irreversible action. The Engineer had spent four hours and thirty-seven minutes aimlessly surfing the Internet when he should have been mindful of his watch; then, foolishly he dozed. Two Girls, One Cup and the little girl from The Ring danced in his dream, which creeped him out a bit until he was awakened by the silence. He shivered, realizing there would be consequences, and he had to go to the bathroom. Tormented by need and responsibility, he wavered. As the machine whirred to life, thoughts of suicide crossed his guilty mind.

Ars wipe

We all knew what was coming next. One of us would disappear for a while and the rest would forget the missing member almost entirely. All he would receive would be announcements. His in box would overflow with invitations to participate in the success of others.
They might find him inside his sealed up Lexus in the garage, or maybe not.
They might wonder from time to time, or not.
It was regarded as declasé to inquire.
One single, soft slip and all his work would be disregarded. The pundits might recall Ars longa, vita brevis, but who had time to practice punditry?
Years later, all would appear in the database, but rarely on a search engine, and Mom would say, “Don’t cross your eyes. They may stay that way.”
We could always count on Mom’s perception, if not her affection.

Standard Op

At the end of the year, I felt like Edward Hopper’s White clown in Soir Bleu. Does that make me a cliché? I probably won’t make it to the Whitney to compare notes. I sat alone in my big house. Didn’t drink anything stronger than green tea, and tried to ignore all the noise outside on the streets.
I’ve got a new job, but as it's only a stop gap, I don’t even feel like writing about it. I will say this. I haven’t had to work during the greater part of 2010 and I set about grounding myself, but now out of boredom, I sought something to do.
The girl from the Seven-11 turned out to be a wash. She went away as high as she came. I thought there was something more there. She wrote an interesting little poem, but it must have come from before her mind went blank. It could have been addressed to anybody, and probably had been presented to several gobs before me.
My mother told me in a dream that she tried to call me, but couldn’t get past the long distance exchange. I don’t have a working land phone. Perhaps I only imagined that conversation.
My father concurred.
I wrote a few pieces myself last year. They didn’t amount to much. Expecting less time available for same these coming months, but feel an urgency to talk to someone, something, a screen.
I could take on a new persona, but if I become disconnected, I will just drift.
I need prompting.
Here is a resolution. I will bear witness to a stone’s worth of truth each and every day. Whatever shines may find its way to this page.