frog farts

sorry I took so long to post this gang ✌️🥹

 I read the letter over and over again, praying that it would make sense the next time. There was no signature. No explanation. Just a perfect description of my day, my routine, my exact movements, and my thoughts. Down to the smallest details. Brewing my coffee. My morning run. My trip to buy a bagel. Everything was right. Everything aligned. Even the things I didn’t say aloud. Things only I knew. 

        This had to be a prank. 

        But how could anyone ever guess these things so precisely? How did someone get inside my brain?It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t have been. No human could have put pen to paper and described something with such eerie accuracy. As if there was an unseen eye, looking at me, observing my every move, reading my thoughts.

At least, that was what it was for the most part. All that was different was the first line, written in a brown ink… a reddish brown. And instead of talking about me, it was talking directly to me.

What did this mean? I always do? Believe what? 

It made no sense. There were no other words to describe it. It made no sense.   

The rest of the letter was written in neat, controlled handwriting. It seemed familiar in a way that made my skin crawl. 

My thoughts were so scattered. It was 8:56, but I couldn’t put down the letter and drive to work. 

6:30 A.M.

You wake up before your alarm actually finishes ringing, and lie there for 12 seconds before turning it off. 

You consider skipping your morning run today, because your knee aches slightly. You decide the discomfort is irrelevant.

I never told anyone about my knee.

You pass Mrs. Holloway on the sidewalk. She smiles sweetly, and you return it. You wonder briefly how she’s been after her husband passed away last month. 

My stomach began to twist. 

You prefer the coffee shop on the corner because you can see both exits. Not because you’re paranoid, just because you like options. It doesn’t matter, because you always use the same exit anyway. 

The letter continued, word after word, line after line, in precise detail, everything up until… now.

You’re standing in your kitchen. The overhead light has been flickering, but you pretended not to notice. You’ve read this letter 4 times already. You’re about to read it a fifth. 

My head snapped upward. The light flickered once. Twice. Slow. Mockingly. 

My heart was pounding so loudly I could hear it in my ears. How did the letter predict what I was about to do? Ink can’t rearrange itself. Paper can’t guess. 

I got up to change the light bulb. I was already scared enough, and sitting in the dark wouldn’t help. Then something caught my eye.

There were new words appearing on the page. 

You get up to change the light.

Those words weren’t there before. 

Slowly, carefully, I picked up the paper, my fingers trembling. 

I fixed the thumb 🙃

I painted some stray kids inspired nails 🥹🥹

normal people when they’re bored: draws, crafts, watches YouTube

me when I’m bored:

She sits down, cracks her knuckles for dramatic effect, and opens her Tumblr account. This was the moment. She posted her best work for the world to see. Her most prized creation. Her first chapter.

She opens her account, heart racing, fingers trembling. As the page loads, she gets more and more nervous by the second.

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Hey guys :) trying to write a book, here's chapter one. Any Advice and ideas are appreciated! I'll post a new chapter whenever I want to because it's a free country and I don't need a schedule. (Don't worry I won't make you wait that long, especially if you guys like it). 🙃

Word Count: 330 words

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I live a life of patterns.

My alarm always goes off at 6:30 AM. My coffee brews while I go for a short run, and I leave my apartment at exactly 7:14 every day to get a bagel from the local coffee shop. 

So when I found the envelope in my mailbox, there wasn’t any reason to question it. The mail always arrives on Sundays at 8:34 AM, and to avoid unnecessary conversation, I always check it at 8:37, when I’m done with my shower.

It’s the ideal lifestyle for me. Although I’m viewed as crazy, the predictability keeps everything neat and organized. There’s comfort in routine. And in my eyes, a simple life is a safe one.

 The letter seemed normal at first. It was addressed to me. 

“M. Avery, Apartment 313”

The only difference was that I lived in apartment 301. 

That’s okay. It’s an easy fix. Just walk down to room 313, accept an apology from the person living there for the inconvenience, and then be a few minutes behind schedule for the rest of my day. 

The mere thought of it haunted me. 

I was supposed to be at work by 9:00. However, I can spare a few minutes to deliver the letter by hand. 

I walked out of my room to room 313. 

Or where it should have been. 

I blinked, confused. Room 312, Room 314, and in the middle, a stretch of beige wall. 

No plaque. No sign of a door. And no sign that there ever was a room at all. 

Although odd, maybe the sender wrote my name and just messed up the apartment number. But my gut kept telling me that something was off. 

I knew I shouldn’t have opened the letter, but something was seriously wrong, and I needed to know what. 

The first line hit me like a slap in the face.