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guyawks · 5 months

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Boys, Don't Play in Bunkers

“Boys, don’t play in the woods! If you get mauled, you could die out there.”

That was the warning parents in our town told kids like me and my friend Beckett.

Technically, we obeyed them.

About a mile into the woods near our street was an abandoned bomb shelter. In the middle of the clearing was a slanted door jutting out of the ground, with two outward swinging metal panels that could be deadlocked from inside.

The furnished bunker had been stocked by some insane doomsday prepper in the 90s before they deserted it. Beckett and I discovered it unattended ages ago, making it the perfect safe, secret weekend hangout for two 10 year olds.

In the fall of my 5th grade school year, my parents announced that we were moving.

For old time’s sake, Beckett and I decided to chill one last time in the bunker. Saddened, I said goodbye to the piles of canned food, bottled water, flush toilet and electric generator.

“Pity you won’t get to try all this stuff” Beckett sighed. “Someone could survive for like 3 months with all the things down here”.

“Maybe” I laughed doubtfully.

Afterwards, I bid goodbye to him, shut the bunker door and went home. My family moved across state the next day.

I didn’t think about Beckett much after then. I’d made new friends and assumed he did too, which I imagined was why he never wrote.

In the winter of my 5th grade school year, that bunker suddenly re-enters my mind.

While opening a stationery cupboard in my classroom, the door jams. I can’t open it until I notice a chair blocking it from the outside. That’s when an insidious thought invades my head.

Could the same thing have happened to Beckett on that night? Could he be missing and alive in the bunker? I remember those words: “Someone could survive for 3 months down here”. Which means…

Immediately, I race from the school in panic, whizzing past confused students and teachers. Paranoid, I board a bus straight back to my hometown.

Reaching that sloped door on the forest floor, my worst fears are confirmed. A heavy boulder is perched on top, obscuring it. It must’ve rolled down the hill and pinned the door shut after I left. Adrenaline screeching, I throw myself at the boulder and heave it off.

Nothing could have prepared me for the unfathomable sight I see when I pry open the bulkheads. The boy I’d said goodbye to in the bunker is no more. In his place is a yellowed, emaciated, incoherent, balding, bearded…man.

While I went to college and became an elementary teacher, Beckett was trapped in that hole, screaming every night, completely alone.

If my mind ever recovers enough for me to teach 5th grade again, I’ll have a lesson for my schoolchildren.

Boys, don’t play in bunkers. If you get trapped, you could survive down there…

…for 20 years.

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guyawks · 5 months

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"Knock knock." "Who's there?" "Six words."

#six word story #six word stories #six words #jeremy c. north #guyawks #writer #author #short story #fiction #writing #story #twist #reddit #knock knock #who's there #knock #door #answer #knocking

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guyawks · 5 months

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Everyone knows that actions speak louder than words.

Yet, for some reason, my English teacher gave me an F when I mimed my essay instead of writing it.

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guyawks · 5 months

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Even though it was against the rules, Dad would sneak me sodas as a kid if I was good.

Decades later, I now do the same for him by sneaking him a beer in his palliative care home

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guyawks · 5 months

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Due to disappointing results, I’ll be retaking my examinations again this month.

The mad scientist holding me captive is willing to cut me open as many times as necessary to get the data he wants.

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guyawks · 5 months

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Trunk-or-Treat

“Is this your first time trunk-or-treating, Janet? You and your son Eddy are gonna love it!”

My neighbour Yvette beams while adding the finishing touches to the cobwebs in her minivan’s display. All around the parking lot is a sea of similar Halloween decor in car boots, each as detailed as hers.

“Yes” I answer, adjusting the ghost display in my own car trunk. “My family just moved here from the city.”

“Oh it’s so much more convenient than trick-or-treating. Instead of taking your kids door-to-door collecting candy, here we just park our cars in a local church parking lot and collect treats from the open trunks. Since everyone lives so far apart in this rural town, this works way better. Life’s all about adapting.”

Eddy bobs in excitement in his monster costume. Eager, he sets off running towards the spookily decorated minivans and kids lining up for candy.

“This does seem fun for the kids, Yvette” I tell my neighbour skittishly while she passes out chocolates. “But how safe is this? With all these strangers’ cars…”

“Honey, trunk-or-treating is much safer than trick-or-treating!” she reassures me. “We’ve got plenty of parental supervision and kids aren’t wandering further than the parking lot. Relax and-”

Suddenly, I hear the sound of a car boot slamming shut and an engine roaring to life. The black SUV at the end of the parking lot immediately begins racing out of the bay. Eddy is nowhere to be seen.

“Hey!” I scream. “Who’s car is that!? Are they…abducting one of our children?!”

Everyone spins in the direction I’m pointing in to see the SUV with tinted windows erratically pulling out. With a screech, it goes tearing past us.

“Oh my god, someone, stop that car!”

At once, all the trunk-or-treating parents begin shouting and giving chase to the mysterious van as it flees, all while frantically checking that their children are safe.

“Did anyone get its license plate?!” calls out one of the parents. “Is anyone missing?!”

Amidst all the panicking chaos, I notice Eddy running up to me. I reach down in relief and give him a big hug.

“All done—no one noticed a thing” he whispers to me fiendishly. I smile a fiendish smile back.

…

That departing van, driven by my husband, was the perfect distraction.

It left my son just enough time to crawl under each of the cars parked in the lot and cut their brake lines. Tonight, when each of these hapless families drive home they’ll find themselves smashing into trees instead of digging into sweets.

Murdering clueless trick-or-treaters has been something of a tradition for my family. We saw no reason to stop just because we moved to the country. Life’s all about adapting.

The truth is trunk-or-treating is about as safe as trick-or-treating.

Which is very unsafe—when I’m your neighbour.

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guyawks · 5 months

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Waste Not, Warrant Not

Knock knock.

I slightly open the door to my family’s house, enough to see a kind-looking woman with bunned hair and a notepad.

“Hi” she greets me warmly. “My name is Joan. I’m here from Child Protective Services. Are you Tara Lambert?”

“Y-yeah” I awkwardly answer, slouching in my pajamas as she observes our rundown home’s exterior.

“Is your mother—Tammy—here? I need to speak to her.”

“Yeah, sh-she’s here but…she sorta c-can’t come to the door easily.”

“Can I come inside then?”

Shyly, I unlatch the security latch and pull the door wide open. The social worker’s professional expression slips momentarily as she registers the state inside our hovel.

Everywhere around me in the hallway, living room, kitchen, bathroom and bedrooms, is a mountain of junk items. Old boxes, food containers, crumpled magazines, broken appliances, dirty clothing—you name it, piled up on every surface.

“Who’s here, Tara?” Mama snaps, her morbidly obese frame stirring in her chair as we sift over to her.

“Hi Tammy. I’m from CPS. I have a warrant from the Department of Social Services to conduct an investigation of your family’s living conditions.”

“Get outta mah house now! Ain’t nothing to assess, mah daughter’s happy!”

“Ma’am, I can already see this environment is entirely unsuitable for raising a teenager,” states Joan. “It’s not hygienic.”

“You deaf? I said you needa get out now or-”

Before she can finish speaking, a gurgling screech reverberates through the waist-high trash around us.

Immediately, Joan is violently pulled into the heap.

“Oh God!” Joan shrieks. “Help! Something’s got my leg!”

She continues screaming, to no avail, as second and third tentacles emerge from the sea of clutter and latch onto her. With a sickening rip, Joan is torn limb from limb. Only once they’ve consumed her body do the brown tentacles retreat, like an octopus returning to a trench.

While my mama weeps for Joan, my face barely registers the carnage.

“You’re welcome” I tell Mama, tossing my phone across the garbage. “That anonymous tip I left with CPS brought a case worker to the house immediately. Talk about fast food.”

A look of horrified realisation spreads throughout Mama’s rounded face.

“You…you shouldn’t ave done that. She was a good person…you didn’t needa feed her to it.”

“The monster was born out of your hoarding, Mama” I hiss. “The sheer filth in here literally created it. If I don’t keep luring people here for it to eat, it’s gonna eat the fattest, most useless thing it can find—you.”

I shoot my mother a withering glare and she blanches, shameful.

“I just…don’t want you killin’ people, Tara.”

Leaving, I glance at the bloodied remains of the social worker on the trash mound, her notebook an addition to the junk.

“Well, Mama—someone has to clean up your mess.”

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guyawks · 5 months

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Life finds a way. Death too.

#six word story #six word stories #six words #jeremy c. north #guyawks #writer #author #short story #fiction #writing #story #twist #reddit #life #death #life finds a way #too #dying #living

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guyawks · 5 months

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Biting into my sandwich, I disgustedly spat out a gold ring and wondered where it came from.

My question was soon answered when I bit into the other sandwich half and spat out a severed finger.

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guyawks · 5 months

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Tonight, I’m leaving the country on a plane for the first time in my life.

As the deportation officer ushers me onboard, it occurs to me that it’s for the last time, too.

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guyawks · 5 months

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Until today, I’d always wondered how so many clowns could fit inside of tiny clown cars without being crushed.

The answer, as I stare through the door at the densely-compressed, mangled blobs of flesh jammed into the seats, is that they can’t.

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guyawks · 5 months

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Poor Comatose Souls

There are hospitals where people can hear the thoughts of coma patients.

When this technology was first invented, it came with caveats.

The first was that the machine only worked on a random handful of coma patients. This angered many heartbroken family members who’d excitedly waited for the technology.

The second was that the mind-scanning devices were not powered by electricity, but some proprietary secret.

Despite its exclusive, mysterious nature, this new technology yielded incredible results. Entire thoughts of a select few comatose were broadcast to their loved ones. Nostalgic memories, song lyrics and philosophical ruminations were streamed right from their brains into speakers, bringing closure to loved ones.

As an orderly at one of the few hospitals using this tech, I grew curious. Dr Wincott, the neuroscientist in charge of the comaprojection unit, was tightlipped and we were under strict orders never to pry for more info. If patients were a viable candidate for comaprojection, we’d project their thoughts.

But what about the rejected candidates? What would happen if the scanner was used on this majority? Surely it couldn’t worsen their situation if they’re already in a long-term coma?

One day my curiosity got the better of me. While doing my rounds, I snuck into the coma ward. I entered the room of one of the rejected coma patients, Mrs Flowers, a middle-aged woman in a coma for 3 years after being struck by a cyclist. Despite her long stay, she looked peaceful.

Nothing could’ve prepared me for what I heard from the speakers when I turned the mind-scanner on.

Howling, agonized, unrelenting screams. Minutes upon minutes of screaming. The sound was so guttural I nearly collapsed as Mrs Flowers’ comatose cries reverberated around the room.

By the time I switched it off, Dr Wincott had already been summoned by the cacophony.

“What the hell?!” I sputtered to him in the doorway. “Those were her screams! She’s conscious and suffering!”.

I pointed to her motionless in bed.

“That’s why it’s better not to use the device on most” Dr Wincott answered emotionlessly. “Some people are peaceful in comas. Their families pay top dollar to hear their thoughts. But most long-term patients are like Mrs Flowers.”

“Then why not pull the plug?! Raise the alarm about what they’re experiencing?!”

Dr Wincott just cackled, motioning to the scanner.

“What do you think is powering the tech in the first place? It’s those screams.”

I’d learned too much. As I tried to flee the building, I felt the sharp push of Dr Wincotts hands against my back. I tumbled down that flight of stairs…and straight into the coma I’m in now.

Within my comatose mind, I repeat this story to myself again and again on loop. Hoping someone uses the device on me and learns the truth. If you’re hearing this, please blow the whistle on Dr Wincott and comaprojection.

If you’re not, then it won’t be long until I’m screaming too.

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guyawks · 5 months

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“On your marks…get set…GO!”

#six word story #six word stories #six words #jeremy c. north #guyawks #writer #author #short story #fiction #writing #story #twist #reddit #ready set go #on your marks #get set #go #running #sprinting

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guyawks · 5 months

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“Wake up, sheeple!” the man screamed frantically at the crowded room.

Unfortunately, it was too late to rescue his friends from the mad scientist’s lair, as they’d been fully transformed into human-sheep hybrids.

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guyawks · 5 months

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“Will you still love me when I’m no longer young and beautiful?”

“No.”

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guyawks · 5 months

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After finally leaving my cheating husband and taking our kids with me, I found a shack in the snow to rest in.

As I fail to repair it and we freeze over for the hundredth time, it dawns on me that I’m trapped in a mobile game ad.

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guyawks · 5 months

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Name of the Shame

I was named after my parent’s best friend. I never used to have an issue with this.

I do now.

The name Xavior might’ve been an uncommon choice for a boy. But it held special meaning to my parents, who insisted on naming their first son after a dear family friend who had always come through for them.

After all, it was Xavior who’d first introduced the pair in college. It was him who spoke at their wedding. And it was he that helped them move into their home, gave them rides when their car broke down and babysat in emergencies. My parents said naming me after him was an honor.

Growing up, I only ever felt to be proud to be named after such a great guy. Uncle Xavior was a good-natured community figure and beloved family man. He imbued the name with a sense of warmth and generosity, and because of it, I happily told people my name.

That’s why it’s such a shame that he did what he went on to do.

One ordinary July morning, Xavior got out of bed, picked up a knife and proceeded to butcher his entire family. He then got into his car, drove into town and continued his killing spree. A total of 32 people were killed in his murderous rampage before he was finally shot dead by the police.

The tragedy instantly made national news as one of the most violent serial killings in our state’s history. The man who’d been a second father to me was now one of the most infamous killers in the US.

Ever since that day, being named after Xavior Finch had a very different meaning. Instead of a blessing, it was now my curse.

Jeers of “Exterminator Xavior” or “Xavior the Child Slayer” or “X marks the Murderer” were now constantly lobbed my way at school by other teens, just because of this goddamn name. Even when I tried to adopt nicknames or use initials, it didn’t make any difference to the hostility I received.

Whenever I gave my name to people, they’d clarify “Like the rampage killer?” or just reflexively cringe at the reminder. I hated it. There was no denying that, at least where I lived, the name was completely tainted.

So, after all these years of derisive comments and comparisons, I’m glad to finally be legally changing my name. I haven’t settled on what it’ll be yet. Anything that doesn’t conjure up images of a notorious convict. I refuse to live in the shadow of Xavior Finch’s crimes any longer.

No, I want the killings I’m going to commit to speak for themselves. I’m gonna make a name for myself as a criminal—not be overshadowed by my namesake.

Sharing a name with an infamous mass killer is unacceptable when you’re a future infamous mass killer.

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