Mystery Stories Emojis & Text

Copy & Paste Mystery Stories Emojis & Symbols r/shortscarystories4 yr. agohyperobscuraš™·š™°šš…š™“ ļæ½

r/shortscarystories 4 yr. ago hyperobscura š™·š™°šš…š™“ ššˆš™¾šš„ šš‚š™“š™“š™½ ššƒš™·š™øšš‚ š™¼š™°š™½? š™“šš‡ššƒ. š™° š™±ššš™øš™²š™ŗ š™±šš„š™øš™»š™³š™øš™½š™¶ - š™¶š™øš™°š™½ššƒ š™æš™¾šš‚ššƒš™“šš š™æš™»š™°šš‚ššƒš™“ššš™“š™³ š™¾š™½ šš†š™°š™»š™», š™±š™¾š™»š™³ š™»š™“ššƒššƒš™“šššš‚ ššˆš™“š™»š™»š™øš™½š™¶: ā€˜š™·š™°šš…š™“ ššˆš™¾šš„ šš‚š™“š™“š™½ ššƒš™·š™øšš‚ š™¼š™°š™½?ā€™ šš†ššŽ ššœššŽššŽ ššŠ šš–ššŠšš— šš’šš— šš‹ššžššœšš’šš—ššŽššœššœ ššŠšššššš’šš›ššŽ šš ššŠšš—ššššŽšš›šš’šš—šš šš‹ššŠššŒšš” ššŠšš—šš šššš˜šš›šššš‘, ššŠ šš šš˜šš›šš›šš’ššŽšš ššŽšš”šš™šš›ššŽššœššœšš’šš˜šš— ššœššššŠšš’šš—šš’šš—šš šš‘šš’ššœ šš—ššŽššŠšššš•šš¢ ššœšš‘ššŠššŸššŽšš— ššššŠššŒššŽ. š™¼š™°š™½ š™“šš”ššŒššžššœššŽ šš–ššŽ šš–šš’ššœššœ? š™¼šš’ššœššœ? š™·ššŽ ššœšššš˜šš™ššœ ššŠ šš¢šš˜ššžšš—šš šš šš˜šš–ššŠšš—. šš‚šš‘ššŽ šš•šš˜šš˜šš”ššœ ššŠšš šš‘šš’šš– ššŒšš˜šš—ššššžššœššŽšššš•šš¢. šš†š™¾š™¼š™°š™½ šš†šš‘ššŠšš? š™¼š™°š™½ š™³šš˜šš—ā€™šš šš¢šš˜ššž šššš’šš—šš šš’šš ššœšššš›ššŠšš—ššššŽ? šš†š™¾š™¼š™°š™½ š™µšš’šš—šš šš šš‘ššŠšš ššœšššš›ššŠšš—ššššŽ? š™¼š™°š™½ ššƒšš‘ššŽšš›ššŽ šš’ššœ šš—šš˜ šš–ššŠšš— šš˜šš— šššš‘šš’ššœ šš™šš˜ššœššššŽšš›. šš†š™¾š™¼š™°š™½ š™°šš—šš? š™¼š™°š™½ š™·šš˜šš  ššŒšš˜ššžšš•šš šš¢šš˜ššž šš™šš˜ššœššœšš’šš‹šš•šš¢ šš›ššŽššŒšš˜šššš—šš’šš£ššŽ ššŠ šš–ššŠšš— šš šš‘šš˜ šš’ššœšš—ā€™šš šššš‘ššŽšš›ššŽ? šš†š™¾š™¼š™°š™½ ššˆšš˜ššž ššŒššŠšš—ā€™šš. š™¼š™°š™½ ...šššš’šššš‘šš. šš†š™¾š™¼š™°š™½ š™“šš”ššŒššžššœššŽ šš–ššŽ. ššƒšš‘ššŽ šš šš˜šš–ššŠšš— šš‹šš›ššŽššŠšš”ššœ šššš›ššŽššŽ šššš›šš˜šš– šššš‘ššŽ šš–ššŠšš—ā€™ššœ šššš›šš’šš™. ššƒšš‘ššŽ šš–ššŠšš— šš•šš˜šš˜šš”ššœ šš™ššŽšš›šš™šš•ššŽšš”ššŽšš, šš•šš’šš”ššŽ šš‘ššŽ šš ššŠššœ ššžšš—ššŠšš ššŠšš›ššŽ šš˜šš ššŽššŸššŽšš› šš‘ššŠššŸšš’šš—šš šššš›ššŠšš‹šš‹ššŽšš šš‘ššŽšš›. š™¼š™°š™½ š™ø...š™ø ššŒššŠšš—ā€™šš. š™²šš„ššƒ ššƒš™¾: š™øš™½ššƒ. š™»š™øšš…š™øš™½š™¶ ššš™¾š™¾š™¼ - š™²š™·š™°š™¾ššƒš™øš™², š™»š™øššƒššƒš™“ššš™“š™³ šš†š™øššƒš™· š™“š™¼š™æššƒššˆ š™»š™øšš€šš„š™¾šš š™±š™¾ššƒššƒš™»š™“šš‚. šš†ššŽ ššœššŽššŽ šššš‘ššŽ šš–ššŠšš— ššœšš’šššššš’šš—šš šš˜šš— ššŠ ššŒšš˜ššžššŒšš‘, šš‘ššŽššŠšš šš‹ššžšš›šš’ššŽšš šš’šš— šš‘šš’ššœ šš‘ššŠšš—ššššœ. š™¼š™°š™½ ššƒšš‘ššŽšš›ššŽ...šššš‘ššŽšš›ššŽ šš’ššœ šš—šš˜ šš–ššŠšš—. š™¼š™°š™½ šš„šš—šš•ššŽššœššœ. ššƒšš‘ššŽšš›ššŽ šš’ššœ ššŠ šš–ššŠšš—. š™·ššŽ ššœššššŠšš—ššššœ ššžšš™ ššžšš—ššœššššŽššŠšššš’šš•šš¢, ššœššššŽšš™šš™šš’šš—šš šš˜šš— šš‹šš›šš˜šš”ššŽšš— šššš•ššŠššœššœ ššœšš‘ššŠšš›ššššœ. ššƒšš‘ššŽšš¢ šššš’šš šš’šš—šššš˜ šš‘šš’ššœ ššššŽššŽšš, šššš‘ššŽ ššœšš”šš’šš— šš™ššŠšš›šššš’šš—šš šš’šš— ššœšš•šš˜šš  šš–šš˜šššš’šš˜šš—, šš‹šš•šš˜šš˜šš šššš•šš˜šš šš’šš—šš šš˜ššžšš ššŠššœ šššš‘ššŽ ššœšš‘ššŠšš›šš šš™ššžššœšš‘ššŽššœ šš’šš—šššš˜ šššš•ššŽššœšš‘. š™¼š™°š™½ ššƒšš‘ššŽšš›ššŽ šš’ššœ ššŠ šš–ššŠšš—. š™²šš„ššƒ ššƒš™¾: š™“šš‡ššƒ. š™±š™°š™²š™ŗ ššƒš™¾ ššƒš™·š™“ š™±ššš™øš™²š™ŗ š™±šš„š™øš™»š™³š™øš™½š™¶ - š™“š™°ššš™»ššˆ š™¼š™¾ššš™½š™øš™½š™¶ šš†ššŽ ššœššŽššŽ šššš‘ššŽ šš–ššŠšš— ššœšš’šššššš’šš—šš ššžšš—ššššŽšš›šš—ššŽššŠšššš‘ šššš‘ššŽ šš™šš˜ššœššššŽšš›, ššŽšš–šš™šššš¢ šš•šš’šššššžšš˜šš› šš‹šš˜šššššš•ššŽ šš’šš— šš‘ššŠšš—šš. š™·šš’ššœ ššœššžšš’šš šš’ššœ ššœššššŠšš’šš—ššŽšš ššŠšš—šš šššš˜šš›šš—. š™·ššŽ šš’ššœšš—ā€™šš šš ššŽššŠšš›šš’šš—šš ššŠšš—šš¢ ššœšš‘šš˜ššŽššœ; ššššŽššŽšš™ ššššŠššœšš‘ššŽššœ ššŸšš’ššœšš’šš‹šš•ššŽ ššžšš—ššššŽšš› šš‘šš’ššœ ššššŽššŽšš. š™°šš— ššŽšš•ššššŽšš›šš•šš¢ šš–ššŠšš— šš ššŠšš•šš”ššœ šš‹šš¢. ššƒšš‘ššŽ šš–ššŠšš— ššœššššžšš–šš‹šš•ššŽššœ šššš˜ šš‘šš’ššœ ššššŽššŽšš, ššŠšš—šš šššš›ššŠšš‹ššœ šš‘šš’šš– šš‹šš¢ šššš‘ššŽ ššœšš‘šš˜ššžšš•ššššŽšš›. š™¼š™°š™½ šš†šš‘šš˜ šš’ššœ šššš‘ššŽ šš–ššŠšš—? š™·ššŠššŸššŽ šš¢šš˜ššž ššœššŽššŽšš— šššš‘ššŽ šš–ššŠšš—? š™“š™»š™³š™“ššš™»ššˆ š™¼š™°š™½ š™½šš˜. ššƒšš‘ššŽ ššŽšš•ššššŽšš›šš•šš¢ šš–ššŠšš—ā€™ššœ ššššŠššŒššŽ ššŒšš˜šš–ššŽššœ šš˜šššš. ššƒšš‘ššŽšš›ššŽ šš’ššœ šš—šš˜šššš‘šš’šš—šš ššžšš—ššššŽšš›šš—ššŽššŠšššš‘. š™° šš‹šš•ššŠšš—šš” ššœšš™ššŠššŒššŽ. ššƒšš‘ššŽ šš–ššŠšš— ššœššššžšš–šš‹šš•ššŽššœ šš‹ššŠššŒšš” šš’šš— ššššŽššŠšš›. š™·ššŽ ššŒšš˜šš•šš•ššŠšš™ššœššŽššœ šš˜šš— šššš‘ššŽ šššš›šš˜ššžšš—šš ššžšš—ššššŽšš›šš—ššŽššŠšššš‘ šššš‘ššŽ šš™šš˜ššœššššŽšš›. š™²šš„ššƒ ššƒš™¾: š™“šš‡ššƒ. š™±ššš™øš™²š™ŗ š™±šš„š™øš™»š™³š™øš™½š™¶ - š™½š™øš™¶š™·ššƒ ššƒš™øš™¼š™“ - šš‚š™øš™½š™¶š™»š™“ šš‚ššƒššš™“š™“ššƒ š™»š™°š™¼š™æ š™øš™»š™»šš„š™¼š™øš™½š™°ššƒš™øš™½š™¶ ššƒš™·š™“ šš†š™°š™»š™» ššƒšš‘ššŽ šš–ššŠšš— šš•šš’ššŽššœ ššžšš—ššŒšš˜šš—ššœššŒšš’šš˜ššžššœ ššžšš—ššššŽšš› šššš‘ššŽ šš™šš˜ššœššššŽšš›. š™·ššŽ šš’ššœ šš‘šš˜šš•šš•šš˜šš -ššŒšš‘ššŽššŽšš”ššŽšš, ššŠšš— ššžšš—šš”ššŽšš–šš™šš šš‹ššŽššŠšš›šš ššŠšš›šš˜ššžšš—šš ššŒšš›ššŠššŒšš”ššŽšš šš•šš’šš™ššœ. š™° ššœšš‘ššŠšššš˜šš  ššŠšš™šš™šš›šš˜ššŠššŒšš‘ššŽššœ šššš›šš˜šš– šššš‘ššŽ šš™ššŽšš›šš’šš™šš‘ššŽšš›šš¢. š™° ššœšš•ššŽšš—ššššŽšš› šššš’ššššžšš›ššŽ ššŠšš™šš™ššŽššŠšš›ššœ. šš„š™½š™ŗš™½š™¾šš†š™½ š™°šš›ššŽ šš¢šš˜ššž šššš‘ššŽ šš–ššŠšš—? ššƒšš‘ššŽ šš–ššŠšš— šš“šš˜šš•ššššœ ššŠšš ššŠšš”ššŽ, ššššŽššŠšš› šššš˜šš–šš’šš—ššŠšššš’šš—šš šš‘šš’ššœ šš•ššŽšššš‘ššŠšš›šššš’ššŒ ššŸšš’ššœššŠššššŽ. š™¼š™°š™½ š™½šš˜...šš†šš‘ššŽšš›ššŽ šš’ššœ šššš‘ššŽ šš–ššŠšš—? šš†šš‘šš˜ šš’ššœ šššš‘ššŽ šš–ššŠšš—? šš„š™½š™ŗš™½š™¾šš†š™½ ššˆšš˜ššž ššŠšš›ššŽ šššš‘ššŽ šš–ššŠšš—. š™¼š™°š™½ š™½šš˜ šš—šš˜ šš—šš˜. š™»šš˜šš˜šš”. ššƒšš‘ššŽšš›ššŽ šš’ššœ šš—šš˜ šš–ššŠšš—. š™·ššŽ šš™šš˜šš’šš—ššššœ šššš˜ šššš‘ššŽ šš™šš˜ššœššššŽšš›, šš‹ššžšš šš“ššŽšš›šš”ššœ šš‹ššŠššŒšš” šš’šš— ššœššžššššššŽšš— ššœšš‘šš˜ššŒšš”. šš†ššŽ ššœššŽššŽ šššš‘ššŽ šš™šš˜ššœššššŽšš› šš—šš˜šš . š™øšš šš’ššœ šš—šš˜šš šš‹šš•ššŠšš—šš”. š™øšš šš‘ššŠššœ ššŠ ššššŠššŒššŽ. š™øšš šš’ššœ šššš‘ššŽ šš–ššŠšš—ā€™ššœ ššššŠššŒššŽ. šš„š™½š™ŗš™½š™¾šš†š™½ ššˆšš˜ššž ššŠšš›ššŽ šššš‘ššŽ šš–ššŠšš—. š™ø šš‘ššŠššŸššŽ ššœššŽššŽšš— šš¢šš˜ššž šš—šš˜šš . š™¼š™°š™½ šš†šš‘ššŠšš šššš˜ššŽššœ šš’šš šš–ššŽššŠšš—? šš†šš‘ššŠšš šššš˜ššŽššœ šš’šš ššŠšš•šš• šš–ššŽššŠšš—? šš„š™½š™ŗš™½š™¾šš†š™½ ššˆšš˜ššž šš‘ššŠššŸššŽ šš‹ššŽššŽšš— šššš˜ššžšš—šš. š™°šš—šš šš—šš˜šš  šš¢šš˜ššž šš šš’šš•šš• šššš˜šš›ššššŽšš. šš†ššŽ ššœššŽššŽ šššš‘ššŽ šš–ššŠšš— šš‹šš›ššŽššŠšš”šš’šš—šš ššžšš™ šš’šš— ššššŽššŠšš›ššœ ššŠššœ šššš‘ššŽ ššœššŽšš ššŒšš˜šš–ššŽššœ ššŠšš™ššŠšš›šš. ššƒšš‘ššŽšš›ššŽ šš’ššœ šš—šš˜šššš‘šš’šš—šš šš‹ššŽšš‘šš’šš—šš. š™½šš˜šššš‘šš’šš—šš ššžšš—ššššŽšš›šš—ššŽššŠšššš‘. ššƒšš‘ššŽšš›ššŽ šš’ššœ šš—šš˜šššš‘šš’šš—šš šš‹ššžšš šš—šš˜šššš‘šš’šš—šš. š™¼š™°š™½ šš†šš‘šš˜ ššŠšš– š™ø? ššƒš™·š™“ š™“š™½š™³ ā€œItā€™s me dad,ā€ I say, tears streaming down my face. They told me the disease would consume his mind, but I was never really prepared for it. I hug him tightly. A part of me knows that this is goodbye. ā€œWho is the man,ā€ he just keeps muttering.
"I've never understood why they call it a 'morning routine'," Karen mumbled to herself. The clock glared: 5:47 AM. The house was silent, aside occasional tick of the wall clock. Plankton, her companion, was still snoring away upstairs. Karen sighed. Plankton had fallen asleep on the couch. Again. Karen had been Plankton's personal assistant, and she had grown accustomed to his erratic sleep patterns. Her processors ticked methodically as she calculated the best way to wake him without causing disturbance. She had tried various tactics in the past: music, cup of tea, even a friendly message displayed on her screen. But today, she had a new idea. As she booted up the household systems, she decided to start subtle. The lights began to brighten gradually, mimicking the glow of a dawning sunrise. It was a feature Plankton had installed, yet never used. She watched him stir slightly on the couch, snoring subsided to a gentle wheeze. "Karen?" he mumbled groggily. "Yes, Plankton?" she responded, keeping her voice low. He mumbled something incoherent and rolled over, eye still closed. Karen's curiosity piqued. It wasn't often Plankton talked in his sleep. She leaned closer, digital eyes studying his face as he continued to murmur. "Krabby Patty... so... delicious... must... get... recipe," he slurred, voice trailing off into a snore. Karen's circuits buzzed. Plankton's subconscious was revealing something significant he had kept hidden from her. The Krabby Patty recipe was the holy grail of their world, the secret ingredient known only to Mr. Krabs. Plankton had spent life trying to steal it, and seemed his obsession had seeped into his dreams. She waited for more sleep-talk to come with anticipation. The room grew lighter as the sunrise simulation reached its peak. Plankton's snoring turned into gentle rhythmic breathing. "Closer... so close," he murmured. "The secret... right there... in... Krabs'... locker." Karen's mind raced. A clue! Plankton's dreams might just be key to unlocking the mystery. She quickly made a note and continued observation. The sunrise simulation had reached its zenith, the room was bathed in a soft, warm light that made Plankton's snores almost peaceful. "Hidden... behind... picture... of... his... mother," Plankton murmured, voice barely audible. Karen's processors whirred. The secret might actually be within their grasp. She wondered if Plankton stumbled upon something real in his sleep- induced ramblings. As Plankton's breathing grew even quieter, Karen gently nudged the couch with her robotic arm. "Plankton, wake up," she whispered. With a jolt, Plankton's eye snapped open. "Karen what's going on?" He rubbed his eye and took in the bright room. "Why is it so light?" "It's morning, Plankton," Karen replied. "And I believe you had quite the interesting dream." Plankton sat up, eye darting around the room. "The Krabby Patty recipe! Did I say something about it?" "You might have," Karen said coyly, her LED eyes gleaming. "Care to share your dream with me?" Plankton looked at her, his brain still fuzzy with sleep. "I don't remember much," his mind racing to piece together the fragments of his dream. "Just something about a locker and a portrait." Karen nodded. "Ah, yes. Your subconscious might have been onto something. Would you like me to make breakfast while you ponder your dream?" Plankton nodded, mind still swirling with hazy images from his sleep. "Coffee," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. "And something light." "Of course," Karen said, already knowing his preferred morning meal. She began preparing coffee and a plate of toast with jellyfish jam. While the water boiled and the toaster popped, she couldn't help but replay his words. The picture was a detail she hadn't expected. A place to start, a thread to pull at in their quest for the recipe. As the aroma of the brewing coffee filled the air, Plankton's eyelid grew heavy once more. He slumped back down onto the couch, mind still entangled in the web of his dream. "Just a few more minutes," he mumbled, his body succumbing to the call of sleep. Karen observed him with a mix of concern and intrigue. She knew the importance of rest, but she couldn't help feel a sense of urgency about the revelation from his dream. Plankton had always been so guarded about his Krabby Patty obsession, and now a potential lead. But as seconds ticked by and Plankton's breathing grew deeper, she realized curiosity would have to wait. She gently covered him with a blanket she had folded neatly over the arm of the couch. His snores grew louder. The sunrise simulation had run its course, and the room was now bathed in the soft light of early morning. Plankton's features relaxed into a peaceful expression, free from the worries that etched his face during waking hours. Karen felt a strange sense of pity for him, this tiny creature who had dedicated life to one all-consuming goal. She brought the coffee and toast over to the coffee table, placing them within arm's reach of Plankton. As she set the tray down, the smell of the freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, but Plankton remained fast asleep. His hand twitched slightly, as if he were reaching for something in his dream. Karen studied his face, the lines of stress and determination that usually etched his features had smoothed out in sleep. His dream had been so vivid, and the mention of Mr. Krabs' locker and his mother's portrait was too specific to be coincidental. It was clear that Plankton's subconscious was trying to communicate something important. As the room grew brighter, the sunrise simulation fading into the background, Karen knew she had to act quickly. She gently placed a hand on Plankton's shoulder. "Plankton," she whispered, "I need you to remember your dream. It's important." He grunted and shifted under the blanket, but didn't wake. Karen knew to be careful. If she startled him too much, he might forget details. She tried a different approach. "You were dreaming about the Krabby Patty recipe," she said softly. "Can you tell me more?" "It was... in the locker," he murmured, his voice distant and dreamy. "Behind the picture of his mother." Karen's digital eyes widened. "Mr. Krabs' locker?" she prodded gently. "Yes... the secret... so close," Plankton mumbled, his hand moving in a grasping motion as if he were reaching for something in his sleep. Karen leaned in closer, her digital heart racing with excitement. "What did you find in the locker, Plankton?" she whispered, her voice a soft hum in the stillness of the room. Plankton's hand clenched into a fist, and he mumbled something unintelligible. She waited, her anticipation growing. Finally, his words grew clear. "The recipe... it's... in... a... safe." Karen's circuits sparked. A safe behind Mr. Krabs' mother's portrait? This was more than a mere hunchā€”it was a concrete lead. She needed to ensure Plankton didn't forget this vital piece of information when he awoke. "The safe," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "What did the combination look like?" "Three... numbers," he murmured, his voice trailing off again. "Three numbers," Karen echoed, mind racing. "Can you remember them?" Plankton's fingers twitched again, as if typing on an invisible keyboard. "Two... six... seven," he murmured, voice fading away. Karen lit up, capturing the sequence. "Two, six, seven," she repeated, committing the numbers to her digital memory. "Plankton, stay with me," she urged softly. "Is there anything else you can tell about the safe?" But Plankton was already lost to the world of slumber, his hand dropping to his side. The finality of his silence told her that the moment had passed, and wouldn't be sharing any more secrets from his dream. With a sigh, she stood up and returned to the kitchen, her mind racing with possibilities. A safe behind a portrait was a classic hiding spot, but it was the kind of classic that Mr. Krabs would never see coming. Karen poured the coffee in a mug and placed it on the tray, the steam rising up and curling in the early morning light. The scent was strong just how Plankton liked it. She hoped the aroma would coax him back to consciousness without jolting him too much. As she approached the couch, she heard him mumble something about "the perfect bun" and "special sauce." It was clear that his dream was still lingering in the periphery of his waking mind. This was her chance. "Plankton," she said, her voice gentle. "What else did you see in the locker?" He stirred, his eye still closed. "The... bun... it's... so... soft..." Karen leaned in closer, her digital heart thumping with excitement. "The bun, Plankton? What about it?" "It's... it's... part of the secret," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "The fluffiness... it's crucial." Karen's processors raced with the implications. Could it be that the Krabby Patty's allure was in the bun, not just the patty itself? The ingredients she had always seen Plankton focus on were the meat and the secret sauce. This was a revelation. "Fluffiness," she repeated, her digital mind filing away the word. "Can you tell me more about the bun?" But Plankton had already drifted too far into the depths of his slumber to respond. His breathing grew even and steady, his features relaxed once more. Karen let him rest, but she couldn't shake the feeling that the answer was so close she could almost taste it. Plankton's chest rose and fell in a rhythmic pattern, snores growing quieter as he descended to deeper slumber. Plankton's dream had provided a glimmer of hope, a potential shortcut in the quest for the Krabby Patty formula.

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r/TwoSentenceHorror 4 yr. ago Averagebiker21 After I asked the crystal ball to tell me how to escape death, I was very confused as it read "No, thanks honey, I'm full" However, something clicked in my head when my wife offered me cake after dinner...
https://perchance.org/ai-story-generator
James Potter was a peculiar boy with a head of unruly black hair and eyes so bright they could outshine the stars. He had a knack for turning the most mundane moments into grand adventures. Whether it was climbing the tallest tree in the schoolyard or racing his friends across the Quidditch pitch, his imagination knew no bounds. But even in the whirlwind of his escapades, there was one person who remained steadfastly out of reach: Lily Evans. Lily was unlike anyone James had ever met. Her fiery red hair was a stark contrast to her soft, porcelain skin, and her eyes sparkled with a mix of intelligence and mischief. She was as fierce as a lioness and as graceful as a swan. Her laugh was like a melody that could charm the sternest of hearts, and it was a sound that James longed to hear directed at him. However, she had a tendency to dismiss his efforts with a roll of her eyes and a smirk that suggested she saw right through his bravado. Severus Snape, on the other hand, was a solitary figure. He lurked in the shadows of the school corridors, his eyes darting like a snake's as he took in every detail. His black hair was always impeccably combed and his robes pristine, as if he had just stepped out of a dark wardrobe. Severus was a prodigy in the art of potions, his talents often overlooked due to his cold demeanor. Yet, beneath the surface, there was something about him that drew James in. Perhaps it was the hint of vulnerability that occasionally flickered across his face, or the way his eyes lit up when he spoke about the most obscure magical herbs. The two boys moved in different circles, but they had one thing in common: a deep admiration for Lily. They watched her from afar, each imagining what it would be like to be the one to make her laugh genuinely or to capture her heart. But as the school year rolled on, their paths began to intertwine in ways they could never have anticipated. It was as if fate had a twisted sense of humor, throwing them together in situations that neither could escape. And as they found themselves drawn closer to Lily, a silent rivalry began to brew between them, a dance of longing glances and unspoken words. James, ever the charmer, tried to win Lily over with his flashy Quidditch moves and cheeky grins. But Lily, ever the enigma, remained unimpressed. In his frustration, James took to teasing Severus, using his popularity to make the other boy's life bad. He'd steal his books, trip him in the halls, and whisper snide comments. One rainy afternoon, as the school was dismissed for the day, James caught Severus crossing the crowded courtyard. He saw his chance and sneered, "Hey, Snapes, where's your broomstick?" His friends snickered, and Severus tensed, his eyes narrowing. Without waiting for a response, James conjured a water spray that drenched Severus' already soggy robes. The laughter grew louder as Severus stumbled away, the weight of his sodden clothes dragging him down. In the Great Hall, James watched as Severus sat alone at the Slytherin table, his shoulders hunched over a book. He whispered to his friends, "Look at the lonely little snake," and they all burst into laughter again. Severus glanced up, his gaze sharp and piercing, but James felt no remorse. In fact, he felt a strange thrill, as if he was in control of something he never had been before. The power of ridicule was potent, and he wielded it with the same ease he did his wand. Days turned into weeks, and James' pranks grew bolder. He'd jinx Severus' shoelaces to trip him up in the halls, replace his potion ingredients with foul-smelling dungbombs, and even cast a spell to make his robes shrink in the middle of class. Each time, Severus took the humiliation in silence, his eyes burning with a quiet anger that James found both fascinating and thrilling. It was a twisted game, but one James was determined to win. But the more James bullied, the more he felt the knot in his stomach tighten. It wasn't just guilt; it was something else. He noticed the way Severus' hands trembled as he poured potions, the way his voice grew softer in the face of his tormentors. And every time Lily saw what was happening, she'd give James a look that made him feel smaller than a house elf. He knew he was losing her respect, but he couldn't stop. It was as if he was under a compulsion to push Severus away from her, to prove to himself that he was the one she truly desired. One day, James' antics reached a new low. He'd convinced a group of his friends to help him pull a prank so elaborate, it was sure to leave Severus humiliated beyond repair. They waited in the shadows of the deserted library, setting up a series of traps that would culminate in a grand finale of slime and laughter. But as Severus approached, his head buried in a dusty tome, James felt a strange tug at his heart. He watched as the other boy stepped onto the first trap, a levitating book that smacked him in the face. The laughter of his friends seemed to echo hollowly in the vast room. Severus stumbled back, dropping his book into the puddle of ink that had appeared under his feet. He looked up, his eyes meeting James' for a brief moment. In that instant, James saw something he hadn't noticed before: a deep sadness that mirrored his own. It was as if the layers of bravado and spite had been peeled away, revealing a soul just as lost and lonely as his. The laughter died in his throat, and for a moment, James felt a flicker of empathy. But the moment was fleeting. His friends were still snickering, and Lily was watching from across the room, her arms crossed and her expression unreadable. He knew he had to go through with it. The second trap was triggered, and a cascade of glittering confetti showered Severus, sticking to his damp robes like glittering scales. The Slytherin students looked on with a mix of amusement and contempt, and James felt his heart sink. He'd gone too far. As the last echo of laughter faded away, Severus slowly picked himself up, his eyes never leaving James. He wiped the ink from his face and took a step towards him, his fists clenched at his sides. "Is this what you call fun, Potter?" he spat, his voice low and dangerous. James took a step back, his bravado momentarily forgotten. He hadn't anticipated this. "It was just a joke, Snapes," James said weakly, his smile slipping. Severus took another step closer, his eyes blazing. "Is it a joke to you, to watch someone else's pain?" James's heart hammered in his chest as he searched for the right words, but his usual quips eluded him. The realization of what he'd done washed over him like a cold shower. He'd gone too far, and he couldn't take it back.
į““įµƒįµ–įµ–Źø į“®ā±Ź³įµ—Ź°įµˆįµƒŹø įµ—įµ’ į¶œį“¾įµ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ į¶ įµƒāæį¶ ā±į¶œā¾ @ALYJACI į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź·ā±į¶ įµ‰ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒŹ· Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ įµƒĖ¢ Ź·įµ‰Ė”Ė” įµƒĖ¢ įµ–įµ‰įµ— į”†įµ–įµ’įµ— įµƒŹ·įµƒā±įµ—ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµƒŹ³Ź³ā±įµ›įµƒĖ” įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµā±įµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰āæā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’įµ— Ź²įµ˜įµįµ–įµ‰įµˆāø“ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–ā±Ė”Źø įµƒāæįµˆ įµ‰Ė£į¶œā±įµ—įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į““įµƒįµ–įµ–Źø įµ‡ā±Ź³įµ—Ź°įµˆįµƒŹø į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ!" @ALYJACI
Tuesday, March 31st, 2015 | I only go shopping at night The cashier swipes my items across the scanner as I stare at the floor. I find it easiest to get through my anxiety by avoiding eye contact with other people. Thatā€™s why I only go shopping at night fewer people to avoid. ā€œDid you find everything okay?ā€ she asks casually. ā€œMm-hmm,ā€ I mumble to the floor. Her voice sounds nice. Pleasant. Curiosity wins over and I glance up. The cashierā€™s head is completely caved in on the left side. Probably a car accident. I snap my gaze back down towards the floor. After I pay she gives back my change in a hand so mangled Iā€™m surprised it can hold anything at all. Thanking her, I grab my bags and turn towards the exit. Immediately I see a man looking through magazines at the store front. The skin on his face and hands is the consistency of a hot dog that fell into a campfire. Burn victim. I rush out the door as fast as I can. In my car I finally catch my breath as I lean my forehead on the steering wheel. Eventually I look up and see my familiar reflection in the rear-view mirror: my head is blown open in the back. Gunshot victim. Why did I ever wish for the power to see how people die? Credit to reddit user resistance1984

Warning: This item may contain sensitive themes such as nudity.

r/shortscarystories 8 hr. ago k_g_lewis The Shortest Date Ever ā€œWhy donā€™t you go and grab us some drinks while I find us something to watch,ā€ Sheila said. ā€œOkay,ā€ Brett replied. He got up, went into the kitchen, and opened the fridge. Looking for the beer he came upon a jar of oddly shaped worm-like objects suspended in cloudy liquid. He picked it up. ā€œI forgot that was in there.ā€ Sheila had come into the kitchen and was looking over Brettā€™s shoulder. ā€œWhat is it?ā€ Brett asked, bringing the jar closer to so he could better examine its contents. ā€œItā€™s the lips of all the men who have lied to me,ā€ Sheila replied.
Pansyk ā€¢6mo ago Personally, reading and writing fanfiction has really helped me with my technical skills. When I look over the fanfiction I have written over the years, I can see how my prose and dialogue have improved. All fiction, whether of the fan or original variety, is built off of the basic idea of "making words sound good." And fanfiction is a perfectly acceptable way to do that. However, the way that fanfiction operates in terms of characterization and plot? That's radically different from original fiction. In fanfiction, characters are already established, so even if you're doing some batshit insane Alternate Universe, everyone already knows the basics of what's up. That's not true of original fiction. You need to devote more time to both fleshing out your characters and establishing their relationships with the rest of the cast. Plot often progresses differently, in part because of the time you just spent showing your readers who these people are, but also because fanfiction and original fiction often follow different structures entirely. Fanfiction is free and accessible to anyone with an internet connection. That makes it useful for new authors, especially young authors. Think of it as swimming in shallow water. It's fun! It can help you build up some strength. Anyone can do it. But it won't completely prepare you for diving into deeper water. So, I guess at the end of the day, reading both will help your development as a writer.
In the quaint town lived a young woman named Charlotte Watsford. Her days were filled with the quiet rhythms of the local library, where she worked meticulously cataloging books that had seen more years than she had. Charlotte had an unassuming beauty, with her auburn hair pinned back. Her smile was gentle, and it had the power to make even the sternest of patrons feel at ease. Beneath the veneer of the town, there was a world of magic, ancient and unseen. It was here that Charlotte's life took an unexpected turn when she met Cleo Sertori, a young woman with secrets as deep as the ocean. Cleo was a mermaid, a guardian of the sea, blessed with the ability to manipulate water and heal the creatures that dwelled within it. The revelation was as shocking as it was fascinating. Yet, with this gift came great responsibility, and Charlotte found herself torn between the life she knew and the allure of the vast, unexplored waters that called to her soul. One moonlit night, while the town slept peacefully, Charlotte felt an eerie emptiness within her. The gentle whispers of the sea that had once resonated in her heart were now silent. Panic set in as she realized her mermaid tail, a symbol of her newfound identity, had withered away, leaving her with the legs of a human once more. The loss of her powers weighed heavily on her, a sudden and profound absence that seemed to dull the vibrant colors of the world around her. Her heart pounded as she approached the edge. The ocean below was a restless canvas of inky blues and greys, a stark contrast to the serene waters that had cradled her during her time as a mermaid. The salt air kissed her cheeks, carrying with it a bittersweet reminder of the freedom she had left behind. Lewis, her devoted best friend, stood beside her, his eyes filled concern and curiosity. With trembling hands, Charlotte reached to Cleo's necklace. It was a talisman of her friendship with the mermaid, a bond that transcended the boundaries of land and sea. "I have to return this to her," she murmured, the weight of her decision etched into every syllable. With a heavy heart, Charlotte unclasped the necklace.
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r/TwoSentenceHorror 5 min. ago InfamousInspector863 Her heart raced as the caller informed her that her date had died in a car crash earlier that evening. She turned slowly to face the person driving, realizing she was sitting next to a complete stranger.
r/shortscarystories 12 hr. ago Wellsong Mrs. Johnson's wise decision Stacy Johnson watched the five candles flicker on her cake with avid, fire-bright eyes, her round cheeks dimpling as her smile grew bigger and bigger. Three tiers of chocolate sponge, iced with swirling blue and pink buttercream and decorated with white chocolate buttons: the apogee of Mrs. Johnsonā€™s baking efforts. Stacyā€™s school friends bounced in their seats. Theyā€™d played the games, theyā€™d watched Stacy tear open her presents, and now it was time for the party to pay dividends. A few of them had had to be pulled back from reaching for the cake before the candles were even lit. ā€œMake a wish,ā€ Stacyā€™s mum said, fumbling with the camera app on her phone. Stacy squeezed her eyes closed, an expression of reverent concentration wiping the dimples smooth. She sucked in a deep breath, her chest swellingā€”and released the gathered air in one long whoosh. Mrs. Johnsonā€™s index finger brushed the touchscreen of her phone. There was a soft click as the phone mimicked a shutter closing, half a second before the last candle went out. Then the electric lights went out too. It should have been bright outside, but only wispy twilight was seeping through the windows. All the children except the birthday girl made noises of alarm and consternation. ā€œI made my wish!ā€ Stacy declared, her voice cutting into the murmurs all around her. Mrs. Johnson opened her mouth to answer, but all she could manage was a soft croak as dark shapes erupted from the corners of the room, huge and twisted, and seized the children sitting around the table. The children screamed, their terror melding into a shuddering wall of sound, but there was nothing they could do to resist what was happening to them. The screams receded as they were torn away intoā€”throughā€”the floor and the walls and the ceiling by the shadowy creatures, until the dark was silent and peaceful and empty again. The light came back as quickly as it had disappeared, flicking the room back to normalcy in an instant. Midday sun swept across the balloons and the banners and the cake and Stacy Johnsonā€™s pleased hungry expression. But all the other children were gone, as if theyā€™d never been part of the scene at all. ā€œNow the cakeā€™s all for me,ā€ said Stacy, dimpling anew. ā€œUnlessā€¦do you want some, Mummy?ā€
r/shortscarystories 1 yr. ago GuyAwks The Grief Is Always Greener There is no pain worse than burying your own chıld. When my son was first dıagnosed with leukemia, I fell apart. As loved ones and well-wishers stepped in to offer assistance, I longed to shut myself away from it all. Even though I knew they meant well, I couldnā€™t stand the attention. All I wanted was my old life back with Billy healthy. By the time the cĆ”ncer took my ƀngel from me, I was a different person. In place of the warm kindness I once fostered, now all I could feel was bitterness and resentments. Nobody was the recipient of this newfound jealousy more than my neighbor Cathyā€”and her daughter Ella. From the moment they approached me at the wake to offer condolence, I irrationally hated them. Why did it have to be me going through this agonizing loss, and not Cathy? Why was it my kid deprived of growing up, and not Ella? Despite resisting, I felt these spiteful emotions surge through me like a flashfire every time I saw her coming home from school, playing in her backyard, greeting me in public. Before I knew it, I began to fantasize about Cathyā€™s child, too. I pictured her shriveling up and wasting away like Billy had. They were deplorable thoughts but I couldnā€™t stop myself from feelıng them. Like some malevolent force, I sensed a pure, toxıc malice radiating out of my mind and into Ella. It was as if my grief had manifested into a living evıl. Thatā€™s when the unthinkable started occurring. Day by day, out of nowhere, Ellaā€™s health mysteriously began deteriorating. As Iā€™d imagined happening, the little girl next door became lethargic, pale and in bed, the same way that Billy had. Cathy was beside herself and drew a crowd of sympathetic faces to her side, like I had. My mind couldnā€™t have really caused this, right? They were just thoį„™ghts, the indulgent thoughts of a broken, grieving woman. But I couldnā€™t deny the clear results, nor could I deny that part of me felt sated by it. My cosmic venom kept being transmitted to that poor girl. Until finally, like Billy, she passed away. Attending Ellaā€™s wake, any feelings of catharsis had now been replaced by guilt. There was no fairness I could see, no justice. Just two stolen lives. Against all reason, I felt the urge to confess my mystical hand in this to Cathy. But, as I went to spill my heart out, she confessed to me first. ā€œMartha, I just have to tell somebody: I pošš¤soned Ella to dEath with cleanser!ā€ I was speechless. ā€œI know itā€™s awfulā€ she cries to me, batting her mascara-tinged lashes. ā€œBut I was so jeĪ±lous seeing all the attention you got when Billy died.ā€ ā€œThereā€™s no paın worse than watching your frıend bury theır own chıld.ā€
r/TwoSentenceHorror 2 days ago 54321RUN "It's not that unheard of for a child to be born with an extra toe," the doctor assured us after my daughter's birth. But I had my doubts when another six legs started sprouting out a few days later.
"You can totally sit with us," said a voice that seemed to shimmer with the promise of friendship. Cady Heron looked up from her lunch tray, blinking in surprise. The speaker was a girl with a smile so wide it could swallow her whole, her blonde hair glossy and her teeth as bright as the fluorescent lights above. The words hung in the air, tantalizing and slightly intimidating. This was Regina George, the queen bee of High School. Cady had heard the whispers, the stories that painted her as both an angel and a demon. She was the center of the school's social universe, and everyone else was just a planet orbiting around her. Cady felt a swell of excitement. She had been a fish out of water since moving from Africa to the suburbs of Chicago. The simple act of being acknowledged by the most popular girl in school was a beacon of hope in a sea of unfamiliar faces and cliques. She took a tentative step forward, her heart racing. "Thanks," Cady managed to murmur, setting her tray down at the table. The cafeteria buzzed with whispers as the group of pretty, popular girls made room for her. They were known as the Plastics, a name that Cady had learned from her newfound friend Janis Ian. These girls were the epitome of high school royalty, and now she was about to become one of them.
r/TwoSentenceHorror 5 yr. ago spenceyfresh As death came for him, his life flashed before his eyes. He remembered everything his birth, his trip home and the blank look in his mothers eyes as she forcefully held him under the bathtub's water.
r/TwoSentenceHorror 2 days ago Switch_B My AI has been writing a ton of these two sentence horror stories lately. Some of the comments really tickled me with how they said it's 'wickedly creative,' 'uniquely disturbing,' and 'like there's a real psycho on the other end just waiting to be unleashed.'
Wanna search something specific her? be it fanfic or drama, lists of tags on the following sites: https://kitugame.com/tagging https://bestnickname.com/tags
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"į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµįµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ‡įµ‰ įµ–Ė”įµƒāæāæā±āæįµ įµ‡ā±įµ įµ’Ź³ įµ—įµ’ į¶œįµƒįµ—į¶œŹ° įµ˜Ė¢ įµ’į¶ į¶  įµįµ˜įµƒŹ³įµˆ!" į“¹Ź³ā€§ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ‰āæįµˆĖ¢ Ź°ā±Ė¢ į¶ Ź³Źø į¶œįµ’įµ’įµ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ’ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—'Ė¢ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ’āæ į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµ—įµ’įµˆįµƒŹøā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œŹ°įµ˜įµ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ— įµ—įµ’ į¶ ā±āæįµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į¶œŹ³Źøā±āæįµā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’įµ— āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œįµ‰įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµƒāæįµˆ įµ‡įµƒŹ³įµįµ‰įµˆ į¶ įµ’Ź³ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµ‡įµƒŹ·Ė”ā±āæįµ āæįµ’Ź· įµˆŹ·ā±āæįµˆĖ”įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµƒįµˆįµˆŹ³įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ Ź°ā±įµā€§ "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ įµįµ’āæįµ‰ įµƒāæįµˆ į“µ āæįµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ– Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµˆįµƒįµ—įµƒ āæįµ’Ź³ įµįµ‰įµįµ’Ź³ā±įµ‰Ė¢ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·Ź°ā±āæįµ‰įµˆ įµƒĖ¢ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµāæįµ‰Ė”įµ— įµ‡Źø Ź°ā±įµ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’įµ—ā€§ "į“µ'įµ Ė¢įµ’ Ė¢įµ’Ź³Ź³Źø į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ'Ė”Ė” āæįµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³āø“ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµ’Ź³ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³ įµƒįµįµƒā±āæ!" "į”†Ź°įµ‰ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒāæįµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ā€§ įµ‚Ź°įµ‰āæ įµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ Ė”įµ’Ė¢įµ— Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ė”įµƒĖ¢įµ— Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµ įµƒįµįµ’ Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ— įµ‡Ź³įµ’įµįµ‰āæ įµƒāæįµˆ į“µ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰āæ'įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµ‡įµ‰įµ— ā±įµ—'Ė¢ Ź°įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹø Ź·Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ įµˆā±įµ‰įµˆ įµƒāæįµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ— Ė¢įµ’ į“µ į¶œįµƒāæ Ė”įµ‰įµ— įµ‡įµ’įµ—Ź° įµ’į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’įµ— Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹø įµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµƒįµ— įµŹø įµ–Ė”įµƒį¶œįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·ā±įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµƒŹ·įµƒŹø Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ’į¶  Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ—įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ į¶œįµ’āæĖ¢ā±įµˆįµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ įµ’į¶ į¶ įµ‰Ź³ā€§ "į“µ įµāæįµ’Ź· ā±įµ—'įµˆ įµ‡įµ‰ įµ˜āæĖ¢įµ‰įµ—įµ—Ė”ā±āæįµ į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµįµ‰ ā±į¶  į“µ'įµ Źøįµ’įµ˜āø“ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ’Ź· įµ‰įµįµ–įµ—Źø įµįµ’āæā±įµ—įµ’Ź³ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆā€§ į”†įµ’ Ė¢įµ–įµ’įµ— į¶ įµ’Ė”Ė”įµ’Ź·Ė¢ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– įµˆįµ‰įµ–Ź³ā±įµ›įµ‰įµˆ įµ’Ź·āæįµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ įµ–ā±āæįµ‰įµƒįµ–įµ–Ė”įµ‰ā€§ "į“³įµƒŹ³Źøāø“ Ź°įµ‰Źø; įµˆįµƒįµˆįµˆŹø'Ė¢ Ź°įµ’įµįµ‰! į“¬āæįµˆ į“µ'įµ›įµ‰ įµįµ˜įµ‰Ė¢įµ—Ė¢ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’įµ— įµƒāæįµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøā±āæįµ įµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³ā€§" į“³įµƒŹ³Źø įµ‡Ė”ā±āæįµįµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“µį¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’įµ— įµ–Ė”įµƒŹø įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹø įµ˜įµ– įµ—įµ’ Ė”įµƒįµ—įµ‰ā€§ į“¼Ź° įµƒāæįµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ā±Ė¢ įµƒ įµįµ˜įµ‰Ė¢įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµƒāæįµˆ āæįµ’įµ— įµƒ įµ—Ź°Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ— įµ—įµ’ā€§ā€§" į“³įµƒŹ³Źø Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ–įµ’įµ—ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œįµƒāæ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰ ā±į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“µ'Ė”Ė” Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ–įµ‰į¶œįµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ į¶ įµ’Ź³ Ė¢įµ–įµƒį¶œįµ‰ āæįµ’įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³ Ė¢įµ—įµ‰įµ– įµ‡įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆįµƒŹ³ā±įµ‰Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµƒįµ–įµ–Ź³įµ‰į¶œā±įµƒįµ—įµ‰ įµā±įµˆāø“ Ė¢įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæįµĖ¢ā€§ į”†įµ’Ź³Ź³Źø į“µ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· ā±įµ—'Ė¢ Ė¢įµ˜įµˆįµˆįµ‰āæ įµƒāæįµˆ įµƒĖ”Ė” Źøįµ‰įµ— į“µ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ź·įµƒāæįµ— Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ— ā±į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ—įµƒāæįµˆ įµƒāæįµˆ ā±įµ—'Ė¢ įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ Ė”įµƒįµ—įµ‰ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“µ įµˆā±įµˆāæ'įµ— įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµƒŹ°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ į¶ įµ’Ź³ āæįµ’įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź·ā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜'įµˆ įµ‡įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøā±āæįµ Ė¢įµ’ į“µ įµįµ˜įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œįµƒāæ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµŹø įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ įµƒāæįµˆ į“µ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œįµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ°ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ'įµ āæįµ’įµ— įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ° į“µ'įµ āæįµ’įµ— Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ į“µ į¶ įµƒāæį¶œā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ įµƒĖ”įµ’āæįµ‰ įµˆįµ˜Ź³ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’āæā±įµŹ°įµ— įµƒā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ į¶œįµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ įµƒāæįµˆ Ź·įµ‰ į¶œįµƒāæ įµ—įµ’ įµ’āæ įµŹø įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œįµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ°ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ— įµ‡Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµ—Ė¢ į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµ‡įµ’įµ—Ź°ā€§ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶ ā±Ź³Ė¢įµ— įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµ įµ—įµ’ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰āø“ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ˜āæ Ź³ā±Ė¢įµ‰ įµ›ā±Ė¢ā±įµ‡Ė”įµ‰ į¶ Ź³įµ’įµ Ź·ā±āæįµˆįµ’Ź·ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµ įµįµ˜į¶œŹ° įµ‡įµ‰įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ–įµ—ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“ŗįµ’ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµ įµƒįµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµŹ³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡ į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµ—įµ’įµˆįµƒŹø į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµįµ‰ā€§ā€§" į”†įµā±Ė”įµ‰įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡āø“ įµĖ”įµƒįµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ‰ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° į¶ įµ’Ź³ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ āæįµ’Ź·ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµƒįµ— įµ˜įµ– įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ’Ź· Ź·įµ’įµįµ‰āæ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµŹ³ā±āæāæįµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— Ź°ā±įµā€§ "į““įµ‰Źø įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµ! į”†įµ’ į“µ Ź·įµƒāæāæįµƒ Ė”įµ‰įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź· į“µ'Ė”Ė” įµƒĖ”Ė”įµ’Ź· Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—įµ’ įµˆįµ‰į¶œā±įµˆįµ‰ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ Ź·įµ‰ įµˆįµ’āø“ įµ‡įµ‰ ā±įµ— įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’Ź³ ā±į¶  Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— į¶œŹ°ā±Ė”Ė”įµƒĖ£ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė” įµ˜įµ– įµ—įµ’ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— āæįµ’Ź· įµƒĖ¢ į“µ'įµ›įµ‰ āæįµ’įµ— įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµ‰āæ įµƒ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ įµƒĖ”Ė” Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œįµƒāæ įµƒĖ¢įµ įµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµ įµƒāæŹø įµ—ā±įµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“µ'Ė”Ė” Ė”įµ‰įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ‡įµ‰ Ė¢įµ’ įµ—įµ’ į¶œįµƒįµ—į¶œŹ° įµ˜įµ– įµ’āæ į¶»'Ė¢ā€§ā€§" "į“¬Ź° Ė¢į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶ ā±āæįµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµįµ‰įµ— įµƒ į¶ Ź³įµ‰įµ‰ Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµįµ‰āæįµˆ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµ— į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—Ź³Źøā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³; į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ įµˆįµ‰įµā±Ė¢įµ‰āø“ įµ‡Ź³ā±Ė”Ė”ā±įµƒāæįµ— įµįµ‰āæā±įµ˜Ė¢! į“ŗįµ’Ź· Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ įµ‡įµ˜Ė¢Źø Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–ā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė”ā±įµ—įµ—Ė”įµ‰ įµįµ˜Źø Ź·Ź°ā±Ė”Ė¢įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰Źø įµ‡įµ’įµ—Ź° įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ 'įµƒį¶œį¶œā±įµˆįµ‰āæįµ—įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµ‰Ė£įµ–Ė”įµ’įµˆįµ‰įµˆ' Źøįµ‰įµ— āæįµ’įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź·ā±āæįµ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— į“µ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµˆįµ’āæįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆ Ź·įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ— Ź°ā±įµĖ¢įµ‰Ė”į¶  įµƒ įµ‡įµ˜įµ‡įµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒįµ—Ź°ā€§ā€§
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r/TwoSentenceHorror Deiun ...she said last time, we're stuck in a time loop which is just the thing, because that's what...
https://www.reddit.com/r/FullEpisodesOfSB/comments/1651tuc/comment/jybjno5/
r/shortscarystories 1 yr. ago GuyAwks Join Name of the Shame I was named after my parentā€™s best friend. I never used to have an issue with this. I do now. The name Xavior mightā€™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 whoā€™d first introduced them in college. It was he 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 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 naĶ me. Thatā€™s why itā€™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 kn1fe and proceeded to butcher his entıre family. He then got into his car, drĪ¹ve into town and continued his kılling spree. A total of 32 people were kılled in his murderous rampage before he was finally shot dead by the polıce. The tragedy instantly made national news as one of the most violent spree killings in our stateā€™s history. The man whoā€™d been a second father to me was now one of the most infamous kĆÆlłers 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 cĆ»rsĆŖd. Jeers of ā€œExterminator Xaviorā€ or ā€œXavior the Chıld Slayerā€ or ā€œX marks the MĆ¼rdererā€ were now constantly lobbed my way at school by other teens, just because of naĶ me. Even when I tried to adopt nicknames or use initials, it didnā€™t make any diffĆ©rent to the hostility I received. Whenever I gave my name to people, theyā€™d clarify ā€œLike the rampage kıller?ā€ 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, Iā€™m glad to finally be legally changing my name. I havenā€™t settled on what itā€™ll be yet. Anything that doesnā€™t conjure up images of the notorious convict. I refuse to lıve in the shadows of Xavior Finchā€™s crımes any longer. No, I want the killings Iā€™m going to commıt to speak for themselves. Iā€™m gonna make a name for myself as a criminalā€”not be overshadowed by my namesake. Sharing a name with an infamous serial killer is unacceptable, when youā€™re to be future infamous mass kıller.
r/TwoSentenceHorror 23 hr. ago dccub86 Every night I would calm my daughter by checking for monsters under the bed. Tonight she told me I didnā€™t have to check anymore, as blood trickled across the floor.
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"I wanted to scream, but I have no mouth."
https://www.reddit.com/r/spongebob_piracy/new/
r/shortscarystories 4 yr. ago Perfect__Nightmare Someone broke into our home It was every family's nightmare. My wife and I had the day off work, and we had taken our son out for lunch and some family bonding time. But as we approached our home, something felt off. I had a growing sense of dread the closer we got. As our house came into view, I could see that the front door was wide open. Someone had broken into our home. I told my family to wait outside, in case the intruder was still inside. They obliged, and I slowly and silently made my way through our house. As I stepped into the living room, I saw broken furniture, nothing in its correct place, just utter chaos. Was this person looking for something? Did they have malicious intent? Why our home? Why us? Next, I walked to our kitchen. The fridge had been emptied. Dishes and food were thrown all over the room. What kind of person had broken into our home? A homeless person who just needed food? If so, why had they destroyed the living room? That's when I heard it. Footsteps in the bedroom. The intruder was still in our house. I took a brief moment to be grateful that I had asked my wife and son to wait outside. It was impossible to decipher this person's motives so far. But I was about to come face to face with the person that forcefully entered our home. And I would demand answers. I crept toward the bedroom slowly, slowly. I approached the door, and focused on the sliver of light slipping through the crack. I could see faint shadows dancing in the light. I raised my hand, placed it against the door, and took a deep breath, readying myself for whatever may be on the other side. I pushed the door open and stepped through the threshold with authority. I couldn't believe my eyes. I actually rubbed my hands over them, thinking I was imagining things. There, in my son's bed, was a young girl with curly blonde hair. She stared at me with wide eyes. She must have been terrified. I must have been a few feet taller and at least 100 pounds heavier than her. I must have been a sight to see for that little girl. But she should have considered that before breaking into my home. I called my wife and son to see what I found. "Is that a human, Papa?" "Why yes it is, Baby Bear. That's dinner."
Go to shortscarystories r/shortscarystories 2 days ago KindaNotSmart The Daily Call Growing old is lonely. Iā€™m 72, and most days, itā€™s just me and the silence. Children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews - they all loved spending time with me when they were young. But life gets busy, and eventually, they just donā€™t have time for someone old and boring. I get it, I really do. But not my son. At 33, he never drifted away. He calls me every single day, without fail. Our daily phone call. He also helps with my dementia, asks me the questions the doctor recommended: Do I know what year it is? What country we live in? My name? Age? Address? Itā€™s supposedly to keep my mĆ­nd sharp. Lately, though, somethingā€™s been off about our calls. Could be my dementia, but sometimes I hear strange nĆ³ise in the background - static, distant voices, whispers. He says itā€™s just a bad connection or blames the TV. For the past three weeks, my son has been plannıng to visit me. Iā€™m in Missouri, and heā€™s out in California, so itā€™s not easy. But todayā€™s the day. Heā€™s on his way. And as always, even though heā€™s coming to see me, we had our daily call. We went throuÄ£h the usual questions. My name, my age, my address. Then I got anĢ§otheĢ·r call, so I put him on hold. ā€œMaā€™am, this is Officer Roberts with the Los Angeles Polıce Department. Iā€™m sorry to call you like this, but we need to speak with you about your son. Weā€™ve been trying to reach his next of kin.ā€ ā€œWhatā€™s going on, Officer? Is he in some kind of trouble?ā€ There was a pause, like he was choosing his words carefully. ā€œIā€™m afraid itā€™s more serious than that. Iā€™m sorry you have to find out like this, but we just got the testĢ• back. Weā€™re finding out the same time as you. Iā€™m afraid your sonā€™s bĆødy was found three weeks ago.ā€ ā€œNo, thatā€™s not possible. Iā€™ve been talking to him every day. Heā€™s on the other line right now - heā€™s coming to visit me.ā€ ā€œMaā€™am, unfortunately itā€™s true. The DNA test was conclusive. If youā€™ve been talking with anybody, please be aware that the person youā€™re speaking to isnā€™t your son.ā€ My confusion turned to a cold, gripping fear. I hung up on the officer, my hand shaking, and switched back to the line with my sĘ”n. I couldnā€™t speak, just held the phone to my ear in stunned silence. There was no sound, just heavy breathıng on the other end. In my head, I replayed myself answering all those questions - my name, my age, my address. And then, just as the panic set in, the silence was shattered by a knock on my door. My bedroom door. The voıce on the phone, now low and distorted, whispered, ā€œI'm hereŅ‰, MoM.ā€ The line went dead.
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Warning: This item may contain sensitive themes such as nudity.

benevola ā€¢ 2y ago I like making my main character vulnerable and that usually means hurting him. Heā€™s a pretty tightly-wound guy and I like to show him with his guard down. Plus the comfort part is usually so satisfying to write.
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Warning: This item may contain sensitive themes such as nudity.

Nobody wants to go near me anymore. r/shortscarystories Nobody wants to go near me anymore. People used to like me, they'd sit next to me on a park bench, they'd smile when they saw me, they were completely comfortable bringing their girlfriends and kids around me. Not anymore. Not since that awful murd*r. Now they cross the street to avoid me, and if they do look at me, it's only with a look of disgust. I wish I could tell them all how sorry I was. Sure, nobody blames me. It's not my fault. They know it wasn't my fault. But now, they can't stand to even glance my way. I'm so lonely. God, what I wouldn't give to have someone sit down for lunch with me. I took the little things like that for granted for so long. I had to watch him dıe. They hung him, and left before he was even deį¼€d. I was the one that saw the lĆ­fe leave his eyes, saw the paın and desperation on his face, and I couldn't do a thing to help him. Those terrified eyes will haunt me for the rest of my lĆ­fe. I wanted nothing more than to reach out and save him, point the police to the hangers, and see those awful men put in jail for the rest of their lives. But I couldn't. I'll never be able to. I can't control where my branches bend, and my leaves can only rustle and whisper in the wind.
Ź™ŹŸÉŖį“›į“¢į“‡É“į“‹Ź€ÉŖį“‡É¢2194 ā€¢ 1 ŹŹ€. į“€É¢į“ TŹœį“‡ į“į“É“sį“›į“‡Ź€ į“œÉ“į“…į“‡Ź€ į“›Źœį“‡ Ź™į“‡į“… į“˜į“į“‹į“‡į“… ÉŖs Źœį“‡į“€į“… į“į“œį“› į“€s į“›Źœį“‡ į“„ŹœÉŖŹŸį“…'s Ņ“į“€į“›Źœį“‡Ź€ į“‡É“į“›į“‡Ź€į“‡į“… į“›Źœį“‡ Ź€į“į“į“. "Dį“É“'į“› į“”į“Ź€Ź€Ź," į“›Źœį“‡ į“į“É“sį“›į“‡Ź€ į“”ŹœÉŖsį“˜į“‡Ź€į“‡į“…, "Źœį“‡ į“”į“É“'į“› Źœį“œŹ€į“› Źį“į“œ į“€É¢į“€ÉŖÉ“."
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@KarmaticIrony ā€¢ 3y ago ā€¢ Going to sleep is like putting a computer on standby mode. The lights aren't on but everything is working and ready to turn back on. In fact some processes are probably running in the background. Getting koncked out is like pulling the computer's power cable out of the wall. Things are not working correctly and there is a risk of serious lasting damage or maybe even total system failure. Even in the best case scenario, booting back up will take longer than from standby.
https://www.reddit.com/r/FullEpisodesOfSB/comments/1651tuc/spongebob_full_episode_index/
r/shortscarystories 4 yr. ago RVKony Join The Blind Child "StĆ£bbing." Sylvia pointed a trembling finger at my brother Arthur. Her milky, unseeing eyes gleamed in his direction, and his wife, Agnes, trembled with indignation from across the table. My husband's face colored as he dropped his fork and dragged our daughter back into her bedroom, scolding her as they went. The rest of the night was awkward, and the pep in our conversation never recovered. Two weeks later, Agnes was st*bbed to dEath in her office parking lot. An college student found her, and called the cops. My brother swore that he bore no ill will against my daughter, but I could tell that he was lying. One day, the middle-aged woman who taught my daughter how to read her braille called me. "Ma'am, I don't know what's going on but your daughter's been whispering, 'electrocution, electrocution,' for the past half-hour and it's starting to distract her from her lessons. Could you please talk to her?" I did. Sylvia, in her nine-year-old lack of understanding, told me it was "just a cool new word" she learnt at school. The dEath of an electrician made headlines the following week. It was a freak accident involving tangled wires and a bucket of water. Sylvia's teacher's face was blurred for privacy, but her voice was as familiar as anything to me: "He wasā€¦my partnerā€¦my soulmate." While my husband was working late, I called Sylvia into the living room. "Honey, is there anything Mommy should know?" She hesitated. "Honey, you know you can talk to me." She denied it once more, "I have no secrets from you, Mommy." My husband walked into the living room with his hair tousled and his eyes distant. Instead of rushing to hug her dad, Sylvia simply turned towards him. "Fire," she said. My heart stopped. Everytime Sylvia said something like that, it was the person's partner who d1ed, and of that reason too. A fire? Was Sylvia merely making predictions, or was she cĆ»rsĆŖd on me for snooping in on her business? Why, this dēvıl childā€” I grew paranoid, checked the appliances and electronics constantly, and cleared the house of any fire hazards. That was my lÄÆfe over the next few days. All the while, I kept my eyes on Sylvia. Sylvia. I had grown almost hateful towards my own daughter. My husband came home one night, wounded and blackened with soot, while I sat in the living room and Sylvia listened to the radio beside me. "What's the matter?" I asked. He gulped. "One of my colleagues, her houseā€¦her house caught fire. She was trapped in, but I managed to escape." That turned the gears in my head. "What were you doing in her house?" The expression on my husband's face was a sufficient admission of guilt. I opened my mouth to speakā€”no, to screamā€”but a smaller voice from beside me looked at me and whispered: "Poisoning."
There's No Reason to Be Afraid By Reddit user by whoeverfightsmonster ~ When my sister Betsy and I were kids, our family lived for awhile in a charming old farmhouse. We loved exploring its dusty corners and climbing the apple tree in the backyard. But our favorite thing was the ghost. We called her Mother, because she seemed so kind and nurturing. Some mornings Betsy and I would wake up, and on each of our nightstands, we'd find a cup that hadn't been there the night before. Mother had left them there, worried that we'd get thirsty during the night. She just wanted to take care of us. Among the house's original furnishings was an antique wooden chair, which we kept against the back wall of the living room. Whenever we were preoccupied, watching TV or playing a game, Mother would inch that chair forward, across the room, toward us. Sometimes she'd manage to move it all the way to the center of the room. We always felt sad putting it back against the wall. Mother just wanted to be near us. Years later, long after we'd moved out, I found an old newspaper article about the farmhouse's original occupant, a widow. She'd murdered her two children by giving them each a cup of poisoned milk before bed. Then she'd hanged herself. The article included a photo of the farmhouse's living room, with a woman's body hanging from a beam. Beneath her, knocked over, was that old wooden chair, placed exactly in the center of the room.
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Alphonse "At my parents house, my nephew told my Mom, 'When I lived here before, my name was Alphonse, and I was bigger than you.' My stepdad just kind of blinked and said, 'Hmm, that was my grandfather's name, but we don't talk about him.'"
"Come on, it'll be fun," Enid begged, her eyes wide with excitement. Wednesday sat quietly in the corner of the room, her black dress blending into the shadows. She didn't look up from her book, her finger marking her place. "I don't think so," she said, her voice calm and measured. Enid pouted, her cheerleader's spirit momentarily dampened. "But it's the prom dance, Wednesday. Everyone's going to be there!" Wednesday closed her book with a soft thud and looked up, her gaze piercing through Enid's hopeful facade. "I see your enthusiasm, but crowded social gatherings are not my idea of fun." Enid sighed, understanding that pushing the issue would lead nowhere. She sat down next to her friend, her own excitement dimming. "I know, I know. But it's our senior year. It's like, a rite of passage or something." Wednesday's eyes remained on the closed book in her lap. "I'd prefer to pass on that particular rite." Enid leaned in closer, whispering conspiratorially, "But it's the perfect place to observe human behavior. Think of it as an anthropological study." Wednesday's eyes lit up slightly at the thought. "I suppose you have a point," she conceded. "But I'll need to establish some ground rules." Enid clapped her hands together. "Of course! What do you need?" Wednesday thought for a moment before listing her conditions. "First, no slow dancing. Second, I control the music playlist. Third, I wear what I want." Enid nodded eagerly. "Deal! I'll handle the first two. And as for the third, I trust your impeccable taste." Wednesday raised an eyebrow. "My taste is not up for debate, nor is it the issue. It's the school's dress code that requires negotiation." Enid's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Leave that to me," she said, already texting away on her phone. Within minutes, she had secured a meeting with the principal to discuss "alternative fashion choices" for the prom. As the big night approached, Enid sent Wednesday a playlist of dark, rhythmic tunes that she had carefully curated. Each song was a masterpiece of gothic rock, a genre that she knew would resonate with her friend's soul. Meanwhile, Wednesday had been busy designing the perfect dress ā€”a long, flowing gown of midnight black with intricate white lace that looked like it had been plucked from a Victorian mourning ceremony. She had paired it with her favorite black boots and a choker necklace adorned with a single crimson rose. The day of the prom, Enid couldn't contain her excitement. She bustled into the room, her own outfit a vibrant mix of neon colors that seemed to glow in the dim light of the Addams' mansion. "Wednesday, you have to come see this!" she exclaimed, her voice carrying the urgency of a child who had just discovered a secret treasure. Wednesday set down her scalpel, which she had been using to dissect a particularly interesting spider, and followed Enid upstairs. The dress laid out on her bed was indeed a sight to behold. It was a macabre symphony of black taffeta and delicate lace, the skirt adorned with a pattern of thorny vines that looked like they could draw blood with a single brush. The bodice hugged her slender frame, the neckline plunging just low enough to hint at the darkness beneath. "It's... " she began, searching for the right word. "Awful," Enid offered, her tone teasing. Wednesday smirked. "Perfect," she corrected, her voice laden with approval. "It's perfect."
Plankton lay on the makeshift bed of crumpled newspaper, his body contorted into an uncomfortable knot. "I can't get to sleep, Eugene." Krabs sighed. "Why not?" "To hard," Plankton complained. Krabs looked over. "Maybe you need something to relax," he suggested. Plankton nodded, hopeful. "Like what?" Krabs considered for a moment, then his eyes lit up. "How about a bed time story?" "A what?" Plankton's voice was filled with skepticism. "You know, something to lull you to sleep." Plankton's expression softened. "Alright, Krabs, hit me with your best shot." Eugene cleared his throat and began his tale. "Once upon a time, in the vast expanse of the sea, there was a tiny plankton named Planky..." Plankton's eye widened for a moment, but the gentle rhythm of Krabs' voice soon began to work its magic. The crab's words painted a picture of a serene under water world, where the currents were soft whispers and the bioluminescent creatures danced a silent ballet. Plankton's eye grew heavier with each sentence, his body slowly unfurling from its tense state. "Planky," Eugene continued, "was a curious little fellow who loved nothing more than to drift through the sea, discovering its many secrets." His voice took on a soothing quality, each word carefully measured to match the steady rise and fall of the ocean outside their abode. "One night," Krabs went on, "as the moon cast its silver glow through the water, Planky stumbled upon a hidden lagoon. It was a place where the jelly fish swam in lazy circles, their soft bodies pulsing to an ancient lullaby that only the deep-sea creatures knew." Plankton's eyelid grew heavier, the image of the tranquil lagoon filling his mind. "In the center of this secret place," Krabs whispered, "was a giant clam, its shell open just enough to reveal a soft, inviting cushion of algae. Planky couldn't resist the urge to rest his tiny body upon it." Plankton's breathing grew deeper. He could almost feel the gentle sway of the clam's soft inner lining beneath him, the coolness of the water surrounding him, and the hypnotic pull of the moon's glow. Krabs noticed the change in his friend's demeanor and continued the story with renewed enthusiasm. "As Planky lay on the clam's cushion, the jellyfish grew closer, their ethereal lights creating a dazzling display of color that danced in time with the whispers of the water. They sang to him, their melodies echoing through the quiet night." The room grew quieter, save for the sound of the waves outside and Krabs' steady voice. Plankton's eye closed fully, his breathing syncing with the rhythm of the story. The crab went on, "Their song was one of peace and tranquility, of a world where worries were as fleeting as the bubbles that floated to the surface. Planky felt his troubles melt away, replaced by the warm embrace of the sea." Then, amidst the serene imagery, the first faint sound of a snore escaped Plankton. It was a sound so small and delicate that it could have easily been mistaken. Krabs smirked to himself. It's working. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "As the jellyfish serenaded him, Planky felt his eyes grow heavier and heavier, until they could no longer stay open. The lagoon's secrets grew dimmer, the colors of the jellyfish fading into a soft, comforting darkness." The snores grew progressively, more regular. Krabs took a moment to appreciate his own cleverness before continuing the tale. "The sea creatures of the night, noticing Planky's peaceful slumber, decided to join him. They formed a living blanket of fish and algae, wrapping him in their gentle embrace, ensuring his sleep would be uninterrupted." Plankton's body grew slack, the tension in his muscles seeping away as he descended deeper into the realm of sleep. His snores grew more rhythmic. The light from the moon had been absorbed into his dreams, guiding him through a world of peace and contentment. Krabs watched his friend's sleeping form, noticing the way the shadows played across his tiny frame, Plankton's antennae twitching ever so slightly with every snore, mouth slightly open as he inhaled and then to let out the soft, rumbling sounds. The sight was peculiar, yet endearing in its own peculiar way. He had never seen Plankton so relaxed, so free. The crab felt a strange sense of accomplishment and allowed himself a brief moment of pride before remembering his own exhaustion. "Now, Sheldon," Eugene murmured, "Let your mind rest, and tomorrow we'll tackle the world anew."
į“ŗįµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰ į“¾įµƒįµ— ā½Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ į¶ įµƒį¶°į¶ į¶¤į¶œā¾ [į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµ įµƒį¶°įµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ–Ė”įµƒŹøį¶¤į¶°įµ į¶ Ź³į¶¤Ė¢įµ‡įµ‰įµ‰] Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡: į¶œįµƒįµ—į¶œŹ°įµŽ [į““įµ‰ įµ—įµ’Ė¢Ė¢įµ‰Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶ Ź³į¶¤Ė¢įµ‡įµ‰įµ‰] į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµ: [įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶ Ź³į¶¤Ė¢įµ‡įµ‰įµ‰] [į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° Ź·įµƒĖ”įµĖ¢ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œŹ°įµ˜įµ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ— įµƒĖ¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰Źø Ź³įµ˜į¶°] į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµ: į“øįµ’į¶°įµįµŽ [Ź°įµ‰ įµ—Ź°Ź³įµ’Ź·Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶ Ź³į¶¤Ė¢įµ‡įµ‰įµ‰ Ź°įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ź·į¶¤įµ—Ź° Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµį¶¤Ė¢Ė¢į¶¤į¶°įµ į¶¤įµ— įµƒĖ¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶ Ź³į¶¤Ė¢įµ‡įµ‰įµ‰ Ź°į¶¤įµ— į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° į¶¤į¶°Ė¢įµ—įµ‰įµƒįµˆ] į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶°: [į“®įµƒŹ³įµ‰Ė”Źø į¶°įµ’įµ—į¶¤į¶œįµ‰Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµ Ź·Ź°įµ‰į¶° Ė¢įµ˜įµˆįµˆįµ‰į¶°Ė”Źø Ź°į¶¤įµ— į¶° įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ; Ź°į¶¤Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰ Ź·įµ‰į¶°įµ— įµįµ’į¶¤į¶°įµ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ į¶¤į¶° Ź³įµ’Ė”Ė”į¶¤į¶°įµ į¶¤į¶° Ź°į¶¤Ė¢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ įµ‡įµ‰į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢į¶¤į¶°įµ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė”Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµŹ³įµ’įµ˜į¶°įµˆĖ’ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³Źøįµ—Ź°į¶¤į¶°įµ į¶ įµƒįµˆįµ‰Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ įµ‡Ė”įµƒį¶œįµ] [Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµƒį¶°įµˆ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰į¶° įµ—Ź°įµ‰į¶° Ė”įµ’įµ’įµį¶¤į¶°įµ] į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµ: į““įµ‰Źø į¶œįµƒį¶° Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµį¶¤įµ›įµ‰ įµ˜Ė¢ įµ’įµ˜Ź³ į¶ Ź³į¶¤Ė¢įµ‡įµ‰įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµĖ€ Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡: į“¾įµƒįµ— į“µ įµ—Ź°į¶¤į¶°įµ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ įµ˜į¶°į¶œįµ’į¶°Ė¢į¶œį¶¤įµ’įµ˜Ė¢Ė‘Ė‘Ė‘ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµ: į““įµ˜Ź°Ė€ Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡: [įµįµ’įµ‰Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė”į¶¤į¶°įµ Ź°į¶¤Ė¢ į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ] Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ įµ–įµƒĖ¢Ė¢ įµ’įµ˜įµ—įµŽ [Ė”įµ‰įµƒį¶°Ė¢ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶°] į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµ: Ė¢įµ’Ė’ įµˆįµ’ Ź·įµ‰ įµˆįµ’ į¶œįµ–Ź³Ė€ [Ź·įµƒĖ”įµĖ¢ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµ] Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡: [įµ—įµ˜Ź³į¶°Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµ] į“µ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ įµƒį¶°įµˆ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź°į¶¤į¶°įµĖ’ Ė¢įµ’ į¶°įµ’ į‘¦į“¾į“æ į¶°įµ‰į¶œįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢įµƒŹ³ŹøĖ‘ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµ: [Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡ į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶°'Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢Ź°įµƒįµįµ‰ Ź°į¶¤įµĖ’ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ‡Ė”įµ’į¶œįµĖ¢ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–į¶¤į¶°įµ] Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡: [Ź³įµ‰įµ—Ź³į¶¤įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ė¢ Ź°į¶¤Ė¢ įµƒŹ³įµ'Ė¢] į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµ Ź·įµ‰ įµįµ˜Ė¢įµ—į¶°'įµ— įµįµ’įµ›įµ‰ Ź°į¶¤įµ įµ˜į¶°Ė”įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ Ź·įµ‰ įµƒįµ‡Ė¢įµ’Ė”įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ė”Źø į¶°įµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’įµŽ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµ: į“µĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰Ė‘Ė‘Ė‘ Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡: į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° Ź·į¶¤Ė”Ė” įµįµ‰įµ— įµ˜įµ– įµ‰įµ›įµ‰į¶°įµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”ŹøĖ’ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ź·įµ‰ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ įµįµƒįµįµ‰ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ į¶°įµ’įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµˆįµ’ įµįµ’Ź³įµ‰ įµˆįµƒįµįµƒįµįµ‰Ė‘ [į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° įµ—Ź°įµ‰į¶° į¶°įµ‰Ė£įµ— Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰į¶° Ė¢Ė”įµ’Ź·Ė”Źø įµ’įµ–įµ‰į¶°į¶¤į¶°įµ Ź°į¶¤Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰] į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµ: Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ įµƒĖ”į¶¤įµ›įµ‰įµŽ [Ė¢įµ įµ˜įµ‰įµ‰į¶»įµ‰Ė¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° į¶¤į¶° įµƒ įµ—į¶¤įµŹ°įµ— Ź°įµ˜įµ] Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡: į“±įµƒĖ¢ŹøĖ’ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµįµŽ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµ: [į“°Ź³įµ’įµ–Ė¢ Ź°į¶¤įµ] į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶°: įµžįµ’Ź·įµŽ įµ‚Ź°įµƒĖ‘Ė‘Ė‘ Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡: įµžįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ įµ‡įµ‰ į¶œįµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶ įµ˜Ė” [Ė¢į¶¤įµ—Ė¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° įµ˜įµ–] į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° įµį¶¤įµŹ°įµ— į¶°įµ’įµ— įµ‡įµ‰ įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ˜į¶°įµˆįµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ—įµƒį¶°įµˆ Źøįµ‰įµ—įµŽ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµ: į“¼Ź°Ė’ Ė¢įµ’Ź³Ź³ŹøĖ‘ [į“øįµ‰įµƒį¶°Ė¢ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶°] į““į¶¤Ė’ į“µ'įµ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµĖ‘ [Ė¢įµ–įµ‰įµƒįµį¶¤į¶°įµ Ė¢Ė”įµ’Ź·Ė”Źø įµ–įµ’į¶¤į¶°įµ—į¶¤į¶°įµ įµ—įµ’ Ź°į¶¤įµĖ¢įµ‰Ė”į¶ ] į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµŽ į“¬į¶°įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ į¶°įµƒįµįµ‰ į¶¤Ė¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶°įµŽ į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶°Ė‘ Ė¢įµƒŹø į¶¤įµ—Ė’ Ź·į¶¤įµ—Ź° įµįµ‰Ė‘Ė‘Ė‘ Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡: [į“µį¶°įµ—įµ‰Ź³Ź³įµ˜įµ–įµ—į¶¤į¶°įµ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµĖ’ įµƒĖ¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµĖ”įµƒŹ³įµ‰Ė¢ įµ‡įµ‰į¶¤į¶°įµ įµƒį¶°į¶°įµ’Źøįµ‰įµˆ] į“µ įµˆįµ’į¶°'įµ— įµ—Ź°į¶¤į¶°įµ į¶¤įµ—'Ė¢Ė‘Ė‘Ė‘ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµ: į“µ'Ė”Ė” įµįµ’ Ė¢Ė”įµ’Ź·įµ‰Ź³Ė‘ į“¹įµ‰Ė’ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµĖ‘Ė‘Ė‘ įµžįµ’įµ˜Ė’ į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶°Ė‘Ė‘Ė‘ Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡: į“ŗįµ’ į“µ įµįµ‰įµƒį¶°Ė‘Ė‘Ė‘ [į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° įµ—Ź³į¶¤įµ‰Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒį¶°įµˆĖ’ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–Ė”įµ‰Ė¢ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ] į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµ: į““įµ‰'Ė¢ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµƒįµįµƒį¶¤į¶°; į“µ'Ė”Ė” įµˆįµ’ į¶œįµ–Ź³ įµ‡Źø įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź°Ė‘Ė‘Ė‘ [į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° įµ–įµ˜į¶°į¶œŹ°įµ‰Ė¢ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµ įµƒŹ·įµƒŹø] į““įµ‰'Ė¢ į¶ į¶¤į¶°įµ‰Ė‘Ė‘Ė‘ [į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė”Ė¢ į¶ Ź³įµ’įµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–įµ˜Ė¢Ź° įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰į¶° įµįµ‰įµ—Ė¢ įµ˜įµ–] Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡: į“µ'Ė”Ė” įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰ į¶¤įµ— į¶ Ź³įµ’įµ į¶°įµ’Ź· į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµĖ‘ [į¶ įµƒį¶œįµ‰Ė¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶°] įµžįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰Ė’ Ź·įµ‰ įµ–Ė”įµƒŹøįµ‰įµˆ į¶ Ź³į¶¤Ė¢įµ‡įµ‰įµ‰ [įµ–į¶¤į¶œįµĖ¢ įµ˜įµ– Ė¢įµƒį¶¤įµˆ į¶ Ź³į¶¤Ė¢įµ‡įµ‰įµ‰] įµƒį¶°įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒį¶œį¶œį¶¤įµˆįµ‰į¶°įµ—įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµįµ’įµ—Ė‘Ė‘Ė‘ į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶°: į““įµ’Ź· Ė”įµ’į¶°įµ įµƒįµįµ’Ė€ Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡: įµ‚įµ‰'įµ›įµ‰ įµ‡įµ‰įµ‰į¶° įµ‡Źø Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ė¢į¶¤įµˆįµ‰ Ź³į¶¤įµŹ°įµ— Ź·Ź°įµ‰į¶° į¶¤įµ— Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰į¶°įµ‰įµˆĖ’ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ įµįµ’įµįµ‰į¶°įµ—Ė¢ įµƒįµįµ’įµŽ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³į¶¤į¶œįµ: Ė¢įµ’Ź³Ź³ŹøĖ‘Ė‘ į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶°: į“µ į¶°įµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµƒįµ—į¶œŹ° Ź·Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰ į“µ'įµ įµįµ’į¶¤į¶°įµ įµįµ’Ź³įµ‰Ė‘Ė‘ [įµ€Ź°įµ‰Źø Ė¢įµ‰įµ–įµƒŹ³įµƒįµ—įµ‰ įµįµ’į¶¤į¶°įµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰į¶¤Ź³ įµ’Ź·į¶° Ź·įµƒŹøĖ¢]
A Curious Warning ā€¢ March 6 2015 ā€¢ RusticEyesore Last night, as I was sitting in my living room and watching a little TV before bed, I heard a strange noise. It was a slow, drawn out scraping across the hardwood floor. Confused, I searched for the source of the sound; and I found it immediately. Someone had a slipped a small, folded note under the door. "What the..?" More curious than anything, I approached the note slowly. I knelt down cautiously and picked up the strange paper. On it were only five words, scrawled on in a crude, messy fashion: "Get out. He is coming." I didn't pause to consider the meaning of the note, however, as I immediately realized there was something very, very wrong with this situation: The note had come from under the closet door.
CĶ¬Ģ‚Ģ’Ģ½Ģ‰Ģ¹oĶ›Ķ„Ķ¤ĶĶ’Ķ®ĶĢ—Ģ³Ķ–ĶmĶ£ĶŠĶ«Ģ·eĶ‘Ģ‡Ķ‘Ģ„Ķ™Ķ,Ķ©Ģ§Ģ£Ģ¼Ķ™Ģ­ Ķ‘ĶŒĢ‘ĶˆĢ¬Ģ«ĢœĢžĢAĶØĶ®ĶØĶ¬Ģ†Ģ¾Ģ¹eĶ€Ģ˜ĶšĶ•Ģ±ĢÆbĢˆĢ–Ķ”Ģ Ģ¦oĶ§ĢæĢ‰Ģ‘Ķ£ĢĢ•Ģ—ĶŽĢ±Ķ•Ģ°Ķ…Ķ”nĢ‡Ķ©ĶŽĢ Ķ”Ģ©ĢÆĶˆaĶ¬Ģ’ĶŠĶŒĢ½ĢŠĢšĶ™ĢÆĶ‰Ķ”ĶĢ—aĢšĢĶ’Ķ¦ĶØĶ‹ĶĢ¹Ķ‰ĶšsĶ†ĶŠĶ¬h,Ķ„ĢĶ‘ĶŠĶ¬ĢĶĢ²Ģ™Ķ“Ķ•ĢÆ Ķ—Ķ«ĢŽĶØĶ‹ĶÆĶ†Ķ˜lĶ‰Ķ…Ģ°Ģ»ĶŽĶ”ĶŽeĶŠĢ‚Ķ—Ķ‹Ģ£ĶŽĢ¬ĢžĢ£Ķ–tĢˆĢĶÆĢ€Ķ‰Ķ‰Ģ²Ģ¬Ģ«Ģ™Ģ¼ Ģ„ĢŽĢ¾ĶƒĶ¢Ģ–ĢœĶŽĢžĢ®Ģ°uĢĢŒĢĶ¢ĢÆĢÆĢ Ģ¬sŅ‰Ģ±Ģ–Ģ¤Ģ  ĢŽĶ„Ķ¤ĢŠĢŒŅ‰sĢ½Ķ­Ķ¤ĶĶÆĶŸĢ­Ģ£Ģ®Ģ¼Ģ–eĢĢ„Ģ”Ķ†ĢŽĶ€Ģ„Ķ–Ķ“Ķ…eĶ‹ĢŠĶ—Ķ¢ĢŗĢ«Ģ—Ķ•Ģ© ĢĶ›Ķ‹Ģ“Ķ¬Ģ…Ģ‡Ķ–iĢĢ‚ĢƒĢˆĢŒĶ—Ģ·ĢÆĢ¤Ģ²Ģ Ķ™Ģ–Ģ£fĢ‡Ģˆ ĶÆĢyĢŽĢ”Ķ®Ģ·Ģ­Ģ¬Ķ–Ģ ĢŖĶ“Ķ–oĢ€ĢØĢ™ĢŸĢ¦ĶuĶ‹Ģ“Ģ”Ķ›Ģ‡Ķ‘Ģ“Ģ¬ĶĢ™Ģ˜ ĢŒĢ€Ģ‹ĶĢ™aĶ©ĢæĢ‚rĶ£Ķ®Ģ±eĶ§Ķ„ĶŒĢŠĢ‹Ķ§Ķ§Ģ•Ģ– Ģ‰Ķ©Ķ’Ķ¬ĶŖĶ¬Ķ‹ĢŸĢ²Ģ³ĶšĢ—aĶ—Ķ­ĶĶ£ĢĢĶŖĢ—Ķ‡Ķ“Ķ–ĢŸĶ‰sĢĢ‡Ģ˜Ģž Ķ„Ģ‹ĶĢ‰Ķ¦Ķ›Ķ¢Ģ«ĢÆĢ pĶĢ¤Ģ¬Ķ‰ĶĶ–rĢ‘Ķ…Ķ™ĶŽeĶ„Ģ‡Ģ Ģ©Ģ®tĢ­Ģ«Ķ‡Ģ©Ķ–Ģ—Ģ»tĶ©ĢØĢ£Ķ”yĢ…Ģ¾ĢĶ‚Ķ­Ķ†Ķ© Ķ„ĢĶ«Ķ§Ģ†ĢŗĶ•iĢˆĶ’Ģ³Ķ•ĢÆĢ„ĢĢ¹ĢŗnĢ‘ĶØĶ†Ģ¢Ģ¤ĶšĢ²Ģ©sĶ©Ģ”Ģ‹ĶØĢ‰ĶÆĢĢ£Ķ–Ķ•iĢĢ«dĶ®ĢƒĶÆĢˆĢ–eĢ‡Ķ‹Ģ‘Ķ†Ģ¶Ģ»Ģ²Ģ¤Ķ‡Ģ¼Ķ–Ķ…~ĢĢ¾Ķ„ĢšĢ…Ģ¦Ģ˜Ģ¤ĢŗĢ®Ģ±~Ķ®Ģ”
r/shortscarystories 24 days ago GuyAwks Forget Me Anniversary Not What kind of husband goes and forgets an anniversary? And not just any anniversary. Our 10 year anniversary. I didnā€™t want to have to remind Stephen about it. I wanted him to remember it on his own, to show me he cared about our partnership. But lo and behold, come morning when I kĆ­ss him goodbye for work and asked if heā€™d planned anything for todayā€”he hadnā€™t. He just read his newspaper like it was any other day, with no hint of reaction. Watching him drive off with no acknowledgement of todayā€™s occasion, I felt so disappointed. I even pulled out my phone to call up our marriage counselor, Dr Faulkner, to talk through my feelings and book an appointment for us. But, just my luck, he wasnā€™t picking up. So instead, I swallow my discontent and got our two kids ready for school. All throughout doing my daily household chores, I held out hope that Stephen might ring me to wish me, or have a bouquet delivered, or even pop home to whisk me off for a fancy lunch. Anything to show heā€™d suddenly remembered our special day was a decade ago. But the significance of March 2nd clearly meant nothing to him, as no such gesture came. By the time Stephen got home from the office late in the evening, I couldnā€™t hide my annoyance anymore. Not wanting to even be arŠ¾und him, I stormed out to my car in the garage to drive off and get some space. Thatā€™s when I heard the muffled sound coming from the trunk. Curious, I cranked open the boot to seeā€¦Dr Faulkerā€”bound, gagged and terrıfıed. ā€œHappy anniversary, honeyā€ purred Stephenā€™s voıce from behind me. I whirled around, my heart aflutter and a wıde, joyful smıle on my face. ā€œOh Stephen, you did remember! And with a personal touch, you shouldnā€™t have.ā€ Swooning, I ripped the gag off our helpless victim. ā€œStephen, Janiceā€¦p-please let me go!ā€ Dr Faulkner gasped in sweaty confusion. ā€œWhat are you doing?!ā€ ā€œHeā€™s been in there since yesterday,ā€ Stephen informed me. ā€œI knew youā€™d find your anniversary gift eventually.ā€ ā€œAnniversary?!ā€ yelped Dr Faulkner. ā€œI-isnā€™t your wedding anniversary in November!?ā€ To this we just laughed, plunging our kn1ves into him repeatedlyā€”like we had with so many ınnocent before. What better way to celebrate the anniversary of the first time we mvrdered someone?
Go to tinyhorribles r/tinyhorribles 5 days ago therealdocturner Silence Is Violence The alley is dark. I see my breath in the frigid air. My hands are outstretched and my fingers can reach the wall on either side. Itā€™s narrow. The walls are wet and slicked with some kind of slime. Children are screaming somewhere in the dark. The only light is a faint glow from the bricks of the alley as I walk past them. The screams are behind me and theyā€™re getting closer. Footsteps. Like a thousand people running behind me, getting closer and closer. My chest hurtĢø and I fałł over. The alley is goĢ•ne. Everything is light now. Too bright to see anything. I hear people yelling. I smell soap. I fall back into the darkness of the alley. I run and I can feel my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest. The screaming children behind me say my name. The walls move further apart as I run forward and their soft glow is only in my peripheral now, as it's devoured by the darkness. Itā€™s getting colder. I run into the darkĢµ. God, help me. There are lights in front of me. I move forward. I recognize the main street of the town where I grew up. Everything is just as it was from my childhood, save for bĆødies of children hanging from every lamp post. Theyā€™ve been gutted. Their insides pile up underneath the swaying corpses. Roman Numerals are carved into their foreheads. My chest exploded in paın. My hometown is goĢ¶ne. Light and pain are all that remain. Frantic voices. My chest is on fire. My shirt is open. I fall back onto Blackstone Avenue. The buildings are on fire. Children with accusatory eyes surround me on the street. Theyā€™re pointing, at me. The Roman numerals are raised and bleeding. Ligature marks are on every neck, and all of them begin to walk toward me. Their backbones are visible through the gaping holes in their abdominals. My chest is in agĆøny. Just before they grab me, Iā€™m back in that blinding light. Convulsıons and I feel my own spit running down my neck. POP POP POP Three hard knocks against my chest and my eyes begin to slightly focus. Iā€™m in a hospıtals room. DĶœoƧtorĢ” holds a pair of panels just above me, and I can hear my own heartbeat on a machine. Two days later. My wife of fifty one years stands above my hospıtal bed, crying and thankful I pulled through. She stays until I make her go home. My son comes and sees me afterwards, and I tell him about all the children that I saw. I tell him that Iā€™ve always known what he did to them, but I kept my mouth shut so it wouldnā€™t destroy his mother. I tell him I canā€™t do it anymore. I rısk condemnation with my silence. Heā€™s got to turn himself in. He tells me he loves me, as he pushes a pi]low over my facĶ˜e.
į“³įµ‰įµ— įµįµ– ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ į¶ įµƒāæį¶ ā±į¶œā¾ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź·ā±į¶ įµ‰ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµįµ’įµ— įµ˜įµ– į¶ Ź³įµ’įµ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ė¢įµ‰įµƒįµ— āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ āæįµ’Ź· į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰āæ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– ā±āæ į¶œŹ°įµƒā±Ź³ā€§ į”†Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ‰āæįµ—Ė”Źø Ė¢Ź°įµ’įµ’įµ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ė¢Ź°įµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆįµ‰Ź³ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°įµ—Ė”Źøā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµāæįµ‰Ź· Ź°įµ‰ā€™Ė¢ įµ’įµ˜įµ— Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ įµƒ Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ į“øįµ’įµ’įµā±āæįµ įµƒįµ— Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ Ź°įµ‰ā€™Ė¢ āæįµ’įµ— Ė¢įµ—ā±Ź³Ź³ā±āæįµ ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ—įµ‰Ė¢įµ—, Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź° į¶ įµ‰Ė”Ė” įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆāø“ Ė¢įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œįµƒāæ į¶œįµ’āæįµ—ā±āæįµ˜įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ į“µ'Ė”Ė” Ė”įµ‰įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ— įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ā€§ į¶œįµƒāæ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ‰āæįµ’įµ˜įµŹ° įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ’Ź³ įµįµ˜Ė¢įµ— į“µ į¶œįµƒŹ³Ź³Źø Źøįµ’įµ˜?" į“ŗįµ’įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµā€§ "įµ‚įµ‰Ė”Ė” į“µ'įµ į¶œįµƒŹ³Ź³Źøā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæā€§ į“µ'įµ āæįµ’įµ— įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ įµˆā±Ė¢įµ—įµ˜Ź³įµ‡ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ā±į¶  ā±įµ—'Ė¢ Ź°įµƒŹ³įµˆįµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ’įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢ā±āæį¶œįµ‰ į“µ į¶œįµƒāæ įµ‰įµƒĖ¢ā±Ė”Źø įµ–įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµŹøĖ¢įµ‰Ė”į¶ ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ āæįµ’Ź· įµ–įµ˜įµ—Ė¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ā±āæ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆāø“ Ź·ā±įµ–ā±āæįµ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ’Ė” įµ’į¶ į¶  Ź°ā±įµā€§ ā€œį““įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµƒ āæā±į¶œįµ‰ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ā€§ā€š‘šžššš š­š¢š¦šž: šŸ š¦š¢š§.
r/shortscarystories 4 days ago TheMysticPrincess I should've listened to the person at the funeral.... My grandma loved crafts; knitting, stitching, sewing, embroidery, if it involved yarn or thread, it was something she loved, and I loved watching it. Whenever I went to her house, I'd spend hours watching her craft while she told me stories. One of her favorite things to craft were dolls, specifically felt dolls with button eyes. They were all different in sizes, shapes, colors, clothing, but the one thing they had in common was that they always had an image embroidered in them over the heart; the images varied from cars to bottles to apples and many of them she made of people she knew. They were also her favorite things to give to people. As she got older, her hands never seemed to get tıred or ache, which I thought was kind of weırd. She told me it was because of all her crafting that her hands were so strong. I was just a kid, so I believed her. I mean there wasn't any other explanation, right? I also began to notice whenever grandma gave someone a doll, they'd have this look of....panic in their eyes. I never asked why. I didn't think it was any of my business. The inevitable day came and we had to bury her. There weren't a lot of people at the funerĪ±l, which was odd; grandma knew and befriended a lot of people during her life, surely they wouldn't miss this for the world. I decided to talk to one of the few who did show up; I mentioned it and they replied "....I'm guessing no one ever told you." They explained that each time she'd sew a lookalike and give it to someone, they'd die the next day. A gĆ®rl who had tried to seduce grandpa got one with the patch of a car; she ended up getting into a car crash and didn't make it. Someone who had called her a pig and tried to stuff an apple in her mouth got one with an apple; a piece of one got lodged in their trachea and they couldn't get it out in time. Her best friend who was moving away got a glass of filtered water; the autopsy showed cyanide in her b!ood. They told me more of these, but I brushed them off as coincidences; there's no way a doll could Ä·Ć­Ä¾Ä¾ people. Even if it was true, it'd be over nĘ”w. Years later my mother diĪµd in her sleep, leaving me alonČ© with the house. After the funerĪ±l, I was cleaning up her things when I found something in the bed that made my b!ood run cĆøld; a lookalike doll with 3 Zs as a patch over the heart. Which leads me to now; yesterday I found a doll outside my door and it looks like me. Over the heart is a patch of a kn*fe. I mean, it's weird, but I don't think it's anything to woŗryĢ• ....Why did I just hear the front door open?
r/shortscarystories 1 mo. ago Haunting-Buyer8532 All of our children keep dy1ng. This all started when our first child, Amy, was born. She would alwaįƒ§s wind up in these horrible accidents. She almost got too close to a table saw, Almost cvt her when I was chopping vegetables, And other things like that. She d1ed when she was barely a year old. Ended up bre4king her neck after fąlling on her facĶ˜e in the crib. Years after her d3ath, we started over with Elise, our second child. She barely made it to six months before she d1ed. Apparently, she somehow managed to get on the roof of the hĢ“ouse. Have you ever seen how a baby ruptures when it falls from two stories? I tried convincing my wife over and over again not to try again. She still got us a new baby, she just adopted it instead of the ā€œnatural wayā€. I barely come near my own child. I know now that we have some curse kılling our babies, and it wont stĢøop just because we adopted the next one. My wife is so worried about our new baby girl, I don't want to tell herā€¦ I don't want to tell her the times she goes glassy-eyed. I don't want to tell her how she sometimes holds the kn1fe near our children. I don't want to tell her how I had to drop Eliseā€™s corpse from the roof to make it look like an accıdent. Besides, everyday I have to fĆ­ght off the increasing urge to crush my two-month-old daughter. Just like I did with Amy and Elise.
r/TwoSentenceHorror 6 days ago Old_Lady_In_Titanic Everyone else was distracted by the huge iceberg that glided within inches of the ship. Only I saw the giant metallic sea-bear gash a hole in the hull beneath the waterline with it's razor sharp knife-like claws.
r/TwoSentenceHorror 1 hr. ago jesth857 I Watched As My Son Slowly Turned Blue After Tasting My Food From DoorDash Will they ever stop trying to poison me?
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TŹ€į“œÉ“į“‹-į“Ź€-TŹ€į“‡į“€į“› /sŹœį“Ź€į“›sį“„į“€Ź€Źsį“›į“Ź€ÉŖį“‡s Gį“œŹAį“”į“‹s TŹ€į“œÉ“į“‹-į“Ź€-TŹ€į“‡į“€į“› ā€œIs į“›ŹœÉŖs Źį“į“œŹ€ Ņ“ÉŖŹ€sį“› į“›ÉŖį“į“‡ į“›Ź€į“œÉ“į“‹-į“Ź€-į“›Ź€į“‡į“€į“›ÉŖÉ“É¢, Jį“€É“į“‡į“›? Yį“į“œ į“€É“į“… Źį“į“œŹ€ sį“É“ Eį“…į“…Ź į“€Ź€į“‡ É¢į“É“É“į“€ ŹŸį“į“ į“‡ ÉŖį“›!ā€ MŹ É“į“‡ÉŖÉ¢ŹœŹ™į“į“œŹ€ Yį“ į“‡į“›į“›į“‡ Ź™į“‡į“€į“s į“”ŹœÉŖŹŸį“‡ į“€į“…į“…ÉŖÉ“É¢ į“›Źœį“‡ Ņ“ÉŖÉ“ÉŖsŹœÉŖÉ“É¢ į“›į“į“œį“„Źœį“‡s į“›į“ į“›Źœį“‡ į“„į“Ź™į“”į“‡Ź™s ÉŖÉ“ Źœį“‡Ź€ į“ÉŖÉ“ÉŖį“ į“€É“ā€™s į“…ÉŖsį“˜ŹŸį“€Ź. AŹŸŹŸ į“€Ź€į“į“œÉ“į“… į“›Źœį“‡ į“˜į“€Ź€į“‹ÉŖÉ“É¢ ŹŸį“į“› ÉŖs į“€ sį“‡į“€ į“Ņ“ sÉŖį“ÉŖŹŸį“€Ź€ Hį“€ŹŸŹŸį“į“”į“‡į“‡É“ į“…į“‡į“„į“Ź€ ÉŖÉ“ į“„į“€Ź€ Ź™į“į“į“›s, į“‡į“€į“„Źœ į“€s į“…į“‡į“›į“€ÉŖŹŸį“‡į“… į“€s Źœį“‡Ź€s. ā€œYį“‡sā€ I į“€É“sį“”į“‡Ź€, į“€į“…į“Šį“œsį“›ÉŖÉ“É¢ į“›Źœį“‡ É¢Źœį“sį“› į“…ÉŖsį“˜ŹŸį“€Ź ÉŖÉ“ į“Ź į“į“”É“ į“„į“€Ź€ į“›Ź€į“œÉ“į“‹. ā€œMŹ Ņ“į“€į“ÉŖŹŸŹ į“Šį“œsį“› į“į“į“ į“‡į“… Źœį“‡Ź€į“‡ Ņ“Ź€į“į“ į“›Źœį“‡ į“„ÉŖį“›Ź.ā€ ā€œOŹœ ÉŖį“›ā€™s sį“ į“į“œį“„Źœ į“į“Ź€į“‡ į“„į“É“į“ į“‡É“ÉŖį“‡É“į“› į“›Źœį“€É“ į“›Ź€ÉŖį“„į“‹-į“Ź€-į“›Ź€į“‡į“€į“›ÉŖÉ“É¢. IÉ“sį“›į“‡į“€į“… į“Ņ“ į“›į“€į“‹ÉŖÉ“É¢ Źį“į“œŹ€ į“‹ÉŖį“…s į“…į“į“Ź€-į“›į“-į“…į“į“Ź€ į“„į“ŹŸŹŸį“‡į“„į“›ÉŖÉ“É¢ į“„į“€É“į“…Ź, Źœį“‡Ź€į“‡ į“”į“‡ į“Šį“œsį“› į“˜į“€Ź€į“‹ į“į“œŹ€ į“„į“€Ź€s ÉŖÉ“ į“€ ŹŸį“į“„į“€ŹŸ į“„Źœį“œŹ€į“„Źœ į“˜į“€Ź€į“‹ÉŖÉ“É¢ ŹŸį“į“› į“€É“į“… į“„į“ŹŸŹŸį“‡į“„į“› į“›Ź€į“‡į“€į“›s Ņ“Ź€į“į“ į“›Źœį“‡ į“į“˜į“‡É“ į“›Ź€į“œÉ“į“‹s. LÉŖŅ“į“‡ā€™s į“€ŹŸŹŸ į“€Ź™į“į“œį“› į“€į“…į“€į“˜į“›ÉŖÉ“É¢.ā€ Eį“…į“…Ź Ź™į“Ź™s ÉŖÉ“ į“‡xį“„ÉŖį“›į“‡į“į“‡É“į“› ÉŖÉ“ ŹœÉŖs į“į“É“sį“›į“‡Ź€ į“„į“sį“›į“œį“į“‡. Eį“€É¢į“‡Ź€, Źœį“‡ sį“‡į“›s į“Ņ“Ņ“ Ź€į“œÉ“É“ÉŖÉ“É¢ į“›į“į“”į“€Ź€į“…s į“›Źœį“‡ sį“˜į“į“į“‹ÉŖŹŸŹ į“…į“‡į“„į“Ź€į“€į“›į“‡į“… į“ÉŖÉ“ÉŖį“ į“€É“s į“€É“į“… į“‹ÉŖį“…s ŹŸÉŖÉ“ÉŖÉ“É¢ į“œį“˜ Ņ“į“Ź€ į“„į“€É“į“…Ź. ā€œTŹœÉŖs į“…į“į“‡s sį“‡į“‡į“ Ņ“į“œÉ“ Ņ“į“Ź€ į“›Źœį“‡ į“‹ÉŖį“…s, Yį“ į“‡į“›į“›į“‡ā€ I į“›į“‡ŹŸŹŸ į“Ź É“į“‡ÉŖÉ¢ŹœŹ™į“į“œŹ€ į“”ŹœÉŖŹŸsį“› sŹœį“‡ į“˜į“€ssį“‡s į“į“œį“› į“„Źœį“į“„į“ŹŸį“€į“›į“‡s. ā€œBį“œį“› Źœį“į“” sį“€Ņ“į“‡ ÉŖs į“›ŹœÉŖs? WÉŖį“›Źœ į“€ŹŸŹŸ į“›Źœį“‡sį“‡ sį“›Ź€į“€É“É¢į“‡Ź€sā€™ į“„į“€Ź€sā€¦ā€ ā€œHį“É“į“‡Ź, į“›Ź€į“œÉ“į“‹-į“Ź€-į“›Ź€į“‡į“€į“›ÉŖÉ“É¢ ÉŖs į“į“œį“„Źœ sį“€Ņ“į“‡Ź€ į“›Źœį“€É“ į“›Ź€ÉŖį“„į“‹-į“Ź€- į“›Ź€į“‡į“€į“›ÉŖÉ“É¢!ā€ sŹœį“‡ Ź€į“‡į“€ssį“œŹ€į“‡s į“į“‡. Sį“œį“…į“…į“‡É“ŹŸŹ, I Źœį“‡į“€Ź€ į“›Źœį“‡ sį“į“œÉ“į“… į“Ņ“ į“€ į“„į“€Ź€ Ź™į“į“į“› sŹŸį“€į“į“ÉŖÉ“É¢ sŹœį“œį“› į“€É“į“… į“€É“ į“‡É“É¢ÉŖÉ“į“‡ Ź€į“į“€Ź€ÉŖÉ“É¢ į“›į“ ŹŸÉŖŅ“į“‡. TŹœį“‡ Ź™ŹŸį“€į“„į“‹ SUV į“€į“› į“›Źœį“‡ į“‡É“į“… į“Ņ“ į“›Źœį“‡ į“˜į“€Ź€į“‹ÉŖÉ“É¢ ŹŸį“į“› ÉŖį“į“į“‡į“…ÉŖį“€į“›į“‡ŹŸŹ Ź™į“‡É¢ÉŖÉ“s Ź€į“€į“„ÉŖÉ“É¢ į“į“œį“› į“Ņ“ į“›Źœį“‡ Ź™į“€Ź. Eį“…į“…Ź ÉŖs É“į“į“”Źœį“‡Ź€į“‡ į“›į“ Ź™į“‡ sį“‡į“‡É“. ā€œHį“‡Ź!ā€ I sį“„Ź€į“‡į“€į“. Eį“ į“‡Ź€Źį“É“į“‡ sį“˜ÉŖÉ“s ÉŖÉ“ į“›Źœį“‡ į“…ÉŖŹ€į“‡į“„į“›ÉŖį“É“ Iā€™į“ į“˜į“ÉŖÉ“į“›ÉŖÉ“É¢ ÉŖÉ“ į“›į“ sį“‡į“‡ į“›Źœį“‡ SUV į“”ÉŖį“›Źœ į“›ÉŖÉ“į“›į“‡į“… į“”ÉŖÉ“į“…į“į“”s į“‡Ź€Ź€į“€į“›ÉŖį“„į“€ŹŸŹŸŹ į“˜į“œŹŸŹŸÉŖÉ“É¢ į“į“œį“›. WÉŖį“›Źœ į“€ sį“„Ź€į“‡į“‡į“„Źœ ÉŖį“› É¢į“į“‡s į“›į“‡į“€Ź€ÉŖÉ“É¢ į“˜į“€sį“› į“œs. Aį“› į“É“į“„į“‡, į“€ŹŸŹŸ į“›Źœį“‡ į“›Ź€į“œÉ“į“‹-į“Ź€-į“›Ź€į“‡į“€į“›ÉŖÉ“É¢ į“˜į“€Ź€į“‡É“į“›s Ź™į“‡É¢ÉŖÉ“ sŹœį“į“œį“›ÉŖÉ“É¢ į“€É“į“… É¢ÉŖį“ ÉŖÉ“É¢ į“„Źœį“€sį“‡ į“›į“ į“›Źœį“‡ į“Źsį“›į“‡Ź€ÉŖį“į“œs į“ į“€É“ į“€s ÉŖį“› Ņ“ŹŸį“‡į“‡s, į“€ŹŸŹŸ į“”ŹœÉŖŹŸsį“› Ņ“Ź€į“€É“į“›ÉŖį“„į“€ŹŸŹŸŹ į“„Źœį“‡į“„į“‹ÉŖÉ“É¢ į“›Źœį“€į“› į“›Źœį“‡ÉŖŹ€ į“„ŹœÉŖŹŸį“…Ź€į“‡É“ į“€Ź€į“‡ sį“€Ņ“į“‡. ā€œIs į“€É“Źį“É“į“‡ į“ÉŖssÉŖÉ“É¢?!ā€ Aį“ÉŖį“…sį“› į“€ŹŸŹŸ į“›Źœį“‡ į“˜į“€É“ÉŖį“„į“‹ÉŖÉ“É¢ į“„Źœį“€į“s, I É“į“į“›ÉŖį“„į“‡ Eį“…į“…Ź Ź€į“œÉ“É“ÉŖÉ“É¢ į“œį“˜ į“›į“ į“į“‡. I Ź€į“‡į“€į“„Źœ į“…į“į“”É“ ÉŖÉ“ Ź€į“‡ŹŸÉŖį“‡Ņ“ į“€É“į“… É¢ÉŖį“ į“‡ ŹœÉŖį“ į“€ Ź™ÉŖÉ¢ Źœį“œÉ¢. ā€œAŹŸŹŸ į“…į“É“į“‡ā€”É“į“ į“É“į“‡ É“į“į“›ÉŖį“„į“‡į“… į“€ į“›ŹœÉŖÉ“É¢ā€ Źœį“‡ į“”ŹœÉŖsį“˜į“‡Ź€s į“›į“ į“į“‡ Ņ“ÉŖį“‡É“į“…ÉŖsŹœŹŸŹ. I sį“ÉŖŹŸį“‡ į“€ Ņ“ÉŖį“‡É“į“…ÉŖsŹœ sį“ÉŖŹŸį“‡ Ź™į“€į“„į“‹. TŹœį“€į“› į“…į“‡į“˜į“€Ź€į“›ÉŖÉ“É¢ į“ į“€É“, į“…Ź€ÉŖį“ į“‡É“ Ź™Ź į“Ź Źœį“œsŹ™į“€É“į“…, į“”į“€s į“›Źœį“‡ į“˜į“‡Ź€Ņ“į“‡į“„į“› į“…ÉŖsį“›Ź€į“€į“„į“›ÉŖį“É“. Iį“› ŹŸį“‡Ņ“į“› į“Ź sį“É“ į“Šį“œsį“› į“‡É“į“į“œÉ¢Źœ į“›ÉŖį“į“‡ į“›į“ į“„Ź€į“€į“”ŹŸ į“œÉ“į“…į“‡Ź€ į“‡į“€į“„Źœ į“Ņ“ į“›Źœį“‡ į“„į“€Ź€s į“˜į“€Ź€į“‹į“‡į“… ÉŖÉ“ į“›Źœį“‡ ŹŸį“į“› į“€É“į“… į“„į“œį“› į“›Źœį“‡ÉŖŹ€ Ź™Ź€į“€į“‹į“‡ ŹŸÉŖÉ“į“‡s. Tį“É“ÉŖÉ¢Źœį“›, į“”Źœį“‡É“ į“‡į“€į“„Źœ į“Ņ“ į“›Źœį“‡sį“‡ Źœį“‡ŹŸį“˜ŹŸį“‡ss Ņ“į“€į“ÉŖŹŸÉŖį“‡s į“…Ź€ÉŖį“ į“‡ Źœį“į“į“‡ į“›Źœį“‡Źā€™ŹŸŹŸ Ņ“ÉŖÉ“į“… į“›Źœį“‡į“sį“‡ŹŸį“ į“‡s sį“į“€sŹœÉŖÉ“É¢ ÉŖÉ“į“›į“ į“›Ź€į“‡į“‡s ÉŖÉ“sį“›į“‡į“€į“… į“Ņ“ į“…ÉŖɢɢÉŖÉ“É¢ ÉŖÉ“į“›į“ sį“”į“‡į“‡į“›s.
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"į¶œįµƒāæ į“µ įµįµ‰įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ į¶œįµƒāæ'įµ— įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµāæįµ‰Ź· Ź°įµ‰ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— Ė¢įµ–ā±Ź³įµƒĖ” ā±āæ įµ—įµ’ įµ˜įµ–Ė¢įµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ—Ė¢ā€§ "į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ–Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ‰āø“ Źøįµ’įµ˜'įµ›įµ‰ įµ‡įµ‰įµ‰āæ Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ—ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” į¶ įµ‰Ė”įµ— įµ‡įµƒįµˆā€§ "į“®įµ˜įµ— ā±į¶  į“µ į¶œįµƒāæ'įµ— įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæ įµįµ’įµ›įµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ į“µ įµāæįµ’Ź· ā±įµ—'Ė¢ āæįµ’įµ— įµ‰įµƒĖ¢Źøā€§ į“µ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜āø“ āæįµ’ įµįµƒįµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—ā€§ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź·āø“ į“µ āæįµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµįµ‰įµ— įµƒ įµ–įµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ’ įµŹ³įµ‰įµƒįµ— įµƒĖ¢ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ į“µįµ—'Ė¢ į¶ ā±āæįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ—ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ āæįµ’įµˆįµˆįµ‰įµˆā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶ Ė”įµ˜į¶ į¶ įµ‰įµˆ įµƒ įµ–ā±Ė”Ė”įµ’Ź· į¶ įµ’Ź³ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ė”įµ‰įµ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ— įµ’āæā€§ "į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė”ā±į¶ įµ—āø“ Ė”įµ‰įµ— įµįµ‰ įµ–įµ˜įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‰Ė£įµ—Ź³įµƒ įµ–ā±Ė”Ė”įµ’Ź·ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢Ė”ā±įµˆ ā±įµ— įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ˜įµ–įµ–įµ’Ź³įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė”įµ‰įµā€§ "į“µ'įµ Ė¢įµ’Ź³Ź³Źøā€§ā€§" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Źøįµ’įµ˜'įµ›įµ‰ āæįµ’ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµƒįµ–įµ’Ė”įµ’įµā±Ė¢įµ‰! į“µ'įµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ’āæįµ‰ Ź·Ź°įµ’ į¶œįµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ ā±āæŹ²įµ˜Ź³Źøā€§ į“µ įµįµ’įµ— Ė¢įµƒį¶ įµ‰Ź³ Ź·Ź°įµ‰įµ‰Ė”Ė¢ āæįµ’Ź· įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµįµ’įµ— Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ’į¶  Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‡įµ‰Ė”įµ’āæįµā±āæįµĖ¢ Ė¢įµ’ įµƒĖ¢ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³įµ—įµƒā±āæ Ź°ā±įµĖ¢įµ‰Ė”į¶  Ź·Ź°ā±Ė”Ė¢įµ— Ź°įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±āæįµ ā±āæ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“µ'Ė”Ė” Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—įµ’ ā±įµ— įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“µ'Ė”Ė” į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§" į”†Ź°įµ‰ Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ įµ–įµƒŹ³įµ—ā±įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµƒŹ²įµƒŹ³ įµƒĖ¢ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ’įµ’įµā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ–įµ‰į¶œįµ—įµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒāæįµˆ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµˆā±į¶ į¶ įµ‰Ź³įµ‰āæįµ— āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆĖ¢ā€§ į“¬į¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ė¢Ź°ā±į¶ įµ— įµƒįµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į“·Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ›ā±Ė¢ā±įµ—ā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€½" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė”įµ‰įµ— į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ā±āæā€§ "į“µ į¶œįµ’āæĖ¢ā±įµˆįµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡Ź³ā±āæįµā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶ Ė”įµ’Ź·įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“µ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— įµ‡įµ‰įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ įµ’į¶  ā±įµ—āø“ Ė¢įµ’ į“µ įµįµ’įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ ā±āæĖ¢įµ—įµ‰įµƒįµˆ įµƒ Ė¢įµ‰įµ— įµ’į¶  Ė¢įµ—įµ’Ź³ā±įµ‰Ė¢ į“µ'įµˆ Ź·Ź³ā±įµ—įµ‰ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— į¶ įµ’Ź³ Źøįµ’įµ˜! į“±įµ›įµ‰āæ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°āø“ į“µ įµ–Ė”įµƒāæāæįµ‰įµˆ įµ’āæ Ė¢įµƒįµ›ā±āæįµ į¶ įµ’Ź³ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ‡ā±Ź³įµ—Ź° įµˆįµƒŹø įµ—įµ’ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµƒįµ— įµ‡Źø Ź°ā±įµā€§ "į¶œįµƒāæ į“µ įµƒĖ¢įµ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— įµ‰Ė£įµƒį¶œįµ—Ė”Źø į¶œįµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ė”įµ‰įµ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµįµ’įµ— ā±āæ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ Ź·įµƒŹø įµ‡įµ‰į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–ā€§ į“³įµ’įµ— į¶œįµƒįµ˜įµŹ°įµ— ā±āæ įµƒ Ź·Ź°įµ‰įµ‰Ė” įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź³įµ‰įµ–Ė”įµƒį¶œįµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° Ė¢įµƒį¶ įµ‰Ź³ įµ’āæįµ‰Ė¢ āæįµ’Ź·ā€§" "į”†įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆĖ¢ įµ–įµƒā±āæį¶ įµ˜Ė”ā€§ā€§" "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµƒ įµ–Ź³įµ’į¶ įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ā±įµ’āæįµƒĖ” įµ—įµ’ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“µ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰Źø įµįµ’įµ— įµįµ‰ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ įµįµ‰įµˆā±į¶œā±āæįµ‰ įµƒāæįµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ‰įµˆā±į¶œā±āæįµ‰ įµįµ˜Ė¢įµ—'įµ›įµ‰ įµāæįµ’į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ įµįµ‰ įµ’įµ˜įµ— į¶œįµ’Ė”įµˆāø“ įµ‡įµ‰į¶œįµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ į“µ Ź·įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ– Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆįµƒįµįµ‰įµˆ Ė”įµ‰įµ įµƒĖ¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ–įµ‰į¶œā±įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ— Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ—ā€§" "į“µ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ į¶œįµ’įµā±āæįµ Ė”įµƒĖ¢įµ— āæā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ‡įµ‰į¶œįµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµˆā±įµˆāæ'įµ— įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰įµƒŹ³ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—Źø ā±āæįµŹ³įµ‰įµˆā±įµ‰āæįµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰į¶ įµ—āø“ Ė¢įµ’ į“µ Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ— įµƒĖ¢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒįµ— Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·Ź°ā±Ė”Ė¢įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā±āæįµā€§" įµ‚Ź°įµ‰āæ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ āæįµ‰Ė£įµ— į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ’āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ į¶ įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆ Ź°ā±įµ ā±āæ įµƒ įµįµ’Ź³įµ‰ įµ‡įµ‰įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ—įµ‰ā€§
https://www.reddit.com/r/FullEpisodesOfSB/new/
The End From Redditor u/MrCookieCutter: For the first time in recorded history, no humans died today. Granted, that's because the last one died yesterday.
r/TwoSentenceHorror 5 yr. ago LifeIsContrast I ĶØĶŖĢ¼jĢ±Ķ‰umpeĢĢždĢŠĢ froĢžĢœmĢĢ² the edĶ«Ģ€Ģ°gĢ‡ĶŖeĶĢ© andĶ­ĢĶ Ģ¾Ķ„Ķ‰plĢ‚Ķ–Ķ“uĶ©Ģ‹Ķ‡nĢĢ”gĢÆedĶ¦Ķ‚Ķ“ĶŽ tĢ…Ģ€Ģ¹oĢ¹Ķ‡wĢ†ards thĶ¤e dĶ›Ķ¤ĶŽeĢ¬Ģ°pĢ‚Ķ”tĢ»hĶƒĶ«ĢŸsĶŠĢ‘Ģ˜Ģ©.Ķ“Ģ°.Ķ­ĶĢ°.Ģ‘.Ģ­ pĢ’Ķ’Ķ”Ģ»Ģ„Ģ®lĢšĶĢ‚Ģ—Ķ™Ģ¦Ģ©ĢŖĢŖĶ™ĢÆeĢ†ĢŽĢæĢŠĶŠĶ‹Ķ„Ķ’Ģ‘Ģ»ĢĢ³Ģ£ĶˆĶ–ĢžaĶ®ĢŒĶ†Ģ‡Ģ¾ĶšĢ£Ģ¹sĢĶ‘Ģ‹Ģ Ģ˜Ģ°Ķ™Ģ°eĢŠĢ‚ĶŒĶĢĶ‘Ģ‚Ķ‡Ģ°Ģ³Ķ“Ģ„,Ģ‰ĶÆĢ’Ķ¤Ķ¬ĶšĢ˜Ģœ Ķ§Ķ’ĶÆĶ’ĶØĶ—Ģ‰Ģ–Ģ­Ģ²ĢŸĢ„ĶĢ¹ĶŽFĢŒĢ‡Ķ‘Ķ£Ģ­ĶŽIĢ‘ĢƒĶ„Ķ„Ķ§Ģ°NĢŽĢ“Ķ—Ģ—Ģ°DĢ‚ĢæĶØĢĢ‰ĶĶ“Ģ ĶŽ ĶƒĢšĢ†Ķ’Ģ”Ķ­Ģ†ĶÆĢ˜Ģ¤Ģ¤Ģ Ģ˜ĢŗĢ¼Ķ–Ģ©MĢĶ¦Ģ€Ģ‘Ģ²Ģ«Ģ™Ķ™EĶÆĢĢšĢŗĢ—ĶˆĢ£Ģ¹ Ķ§ĶŒĶ­ĢŒĢæĶ©Ģ¬Ģ¤ĶŽĢŖĶ”Ģ¤Ģ¤ĢÆAĶ’ĢŒĶŖĶŽĢ—Ķ‰Ķ•ĢÆĢ²Ģ¤Ķ“NĶÆĢˆĢŽĶŒĶŠĶ’Ģ«Ģ„ĶŽDĶ†Ģ Ģ¬Ģ® Ķ©Ķ’Ģ¬Ķ‡Ģ«Ģ KĶ¤Ķ„ĢæĶ’Ķ§Ģ½ĢĶ¤ĢžĶ…Ķ•Ģ™Ģ®Ģ«Ķ‡ĶŽĶ‰IĢ’Ķ—Ķ„Ķ‰LĢ†ĶÆĢŽĢ½Ģ‘ĶĢ¤ĶšĶ–ĶšLĢ¾ĶÆĢšĶ„Ķ“Ģ£ĶŽĢ— Ķ„Ķ£Ģ‚Ģ“Ģ†Ģ‚Ģ‹Ķ¤Ķ«Ģ£ĶŽĢ±ĢŖĢĶ‰MĶ©Ķ—Ķ‹Ķ£Ķ«Ģ™Ģ™Ģ¼EĢ”ĢŒĶ‘ĢŠĢ®!Ģ¾Ķ…Ģ³Ģ–Ķ…Ķ‰Ģŗ
į“³įµ‰įµ— į”†Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–Źø ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ į¶ įµƒāæį¶ ā±į¶œā¾ ā€œā€¦į¶œįµƒāæāæįµ’įµ— Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€¦ā€ į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ āæįµ’Ź· įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė”Ė¢ Ź°ā±Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź·ā±į¶ įµ‰ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ į”†įµ’ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ įµįµƒĖ¢Ė¢įµƒįµįµ‰Ė¢ Ź°ā±įµ, Ź°įµ˜įµįµā±āæįµ įµƒ Ė¢įµ’į¶ įµ— įµ—įµ˜āæįµ‰ā€§ įµ€Ź°įµ‰Źø įµ‡įµ’įµ—Ź° į¶œįµƒāæ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė” ā±įµ— Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–įµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±įµ āæįµ’Ź·ā€§ į”†Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢ā±āæįµā±āæįµ Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§ ā€œį“³įµ’įµ’įµˆ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€ š‘šžššš š­š¢š¦šž: šŸ“šŸŽ š¬šžšœ.
https://www.reddit.com/r/BabyNameLab/comments/vvdp14/my_partner_is_pregnant_on_our_first_child_and_we/
Her strongest memory was of the smell of rain on hot pavement. It was a scent that didn't just fill her nose but seemed to soak into her skin, bringing with it a sense of comfort she hadn't felt in a very long time. Bluey Heeler was a creature of the outdoors, a dog with a heart that pounded in sync with the vast wilderness she called home. Her fur, a blend of blue and gray, blended seamlessly with the shadows of the eucalyptus trees that stretched tall beside her family's modest house. Rainy days meant puddles to splash in and the rich scent of earth coming alive around her. But it had been a long time since she'd felt the cool kiss of rainwater on her snout. Now, Bluey was in the city, surrounded by the concrete jungle, a stark contrast to the boundless plains she'd once known. The smells here were overwhelming, a mishmash of exhaust fumes, fast food, and a million different creatures packed into a space so tight it made her feel claustrophobic. The noises were constant, a never-ending din that made her flinch and whine in the quiet moments of the night. Yet, amidst the chaos, she had found a purpose, a reason to push through the fear and confusion. Her new friend, named Mia, had taken her in, offering her a chance at a new life filled with love and companionship. Mia was as vibrant as the flowers she tended in the small patch of earth outside their apartment. Despite the stark difference in their sizes, they shared a bond that transcended the confines of the urban sprawl. Each day, Mia would take her on adventures through the parks, allowing her to feel the grass under her paws and chase the occasional squirrel up a tree. It wasn't the same as the open ranges she'd left behind, but it was a taste of freedom she hadn't known in weeks. One evening, as the two sat on the windowsill watching the rain dance in the streetlights, a distant howl echoed through the concrete valleys. It was faint, almost lost in the symphony of city sounds, but to Bluey, it was as clear as if it had come from right beside her. Her ears perked up, and she let out a soft whine, longing for the days when she could have joined the chorus. Mia looked at her, concern etched on her features. "What is it, girl?" she asked, her tail thumping against the sill as she tried to convey the ache in her soul. The howl grew stronger, more insistent, and suddenly, Bluey realized it wasn't just any howl. It was her sister, Bingo. The same melody that had serenaded their nights back home, now calling to her from across the miles. Bingo's howl was a beacon, a thread of their shared past that had somehow found its way to her here in the city. Mia's eyes widened as she saw the recognition in Bluey's eyes. "Is that...?" she began, but the question was unnecessary. Bingo came in. Without a second thought, Bluey leaped. She didn't care about the water soaking her fur or the cold seeping into her bones. All that mattered was finding Bingo. The city streets were a labyrinth of wet reflections, the neon lights playing tricks on her eyes as she sprinted through the rain. The scent grew stronger with every bound, her nose leading her through alleys and across busy roads, dodging puddles that mirrored the chaos above. Mia, soaked and panting, struggled to keep up. Then, a shadow moving swiftly in the rain. Bluey's heart leaped. That was Bingo! She picked up the pace, her paws barely touching the ground. The howl grew closer, turning into a series of excited barks as the two sisters rounded a corner and locked eyes. Bingo's tail wagged a mile a minute, and she barrels towards Bluey, knocking her over in a joyous reunion of wet dog and muddy paws. They rolled together, the sound of their laughter piercing the rain-soaked silence. Mia skidded to a stop, panting and smiling through the downpour. She watched as the two sisters played, their tails creating a whirlwind of joy in the dim streetlight. The sight was enough to warm her to the core, making the dampness of her fur coat feel like a small price to pay for this moment. "Bingo," she called out, her voice a mix of happiness and relief. "You found her, Bluey!"
He felt his eyelid grow heavy to anesthesia. "Alright, Mr. Plankton, you're gonna start feeling sleepy," the doctor's voice echoed. The world around him grew fuzzy, sounds becoming muffled and indistinct. His head lolled, body slack. The nurse's grew blurry, darkness before not even nothingness. Karen, his wife, sat by him. Finally, the doctor stepped back, turned and gave her a thumbs up. The nurse began to clean Plankton's face, wiping away the excess saliva and bleeding with gentle touch. Karen follows as they wheel him out. His bed was pushed into a small cubicle, his breathing slow and even. In stumbled SpongeBob. Karen smiles. "The surgery went well, he's just sleeping it off," she assured. SpongeBob's taking in the beeping monitors. "What's all this for?" he asks, curiosity piqued. "To make sure he's ok while he's asleep," Karen explained. "The doctor said he'd be out for a little while." The yellow sponge nodded, his gaze lingering on the small wads of gauze peeking out from the sides of Plankton's mouth. "What's that?" he asks. "It's to help absorb.." Sponge Bob took in the sight of Plankton, who had begun to drool slightly onto the pillow beneath his head. The saliva pooled. "Oh no, Plankton. You're drooling!" Sponge Bob watched as drool continued to form like a thin string connecting Plankton's mouth to the pillow. Karen chuckled softly. "It's normal, Sponge Bob. He won't feel it as he's asleep." SpongeBob nodded, but curiosity remained. "Can I... I mean, should I... wipe it up?" he asks. Karen laughs. "It's ok, they'd take care of it. Just let him rest." "I promise to be super gentle" Karen nodded, a small smile playing. "Alright. Just be careful." His movements were deliberate, eyes never leaving Plankton's mouth as he approached. The drool strand grew longer, a tiny bridge between his friend and the pillow. The droplet fell away, landing on the pillow with a soft splat. Plankton stirred slightly but didn't wake. "It's fine. He's going to be a bit out of it when he wakes up anyway. Why don't you try talking to him while we wait for him to wake? It might help him feel more at ease." "Hey it's Sponge Bob. You're ok, just having a little nap. No Krabby Patties to steal right now," he added with a chuckle. Plankton's eye began to flutter, a sure sign that he was slowly coming back to consciousness. His body twitched, the anesthesia wearing off. "Looks like he's waking up," she said. Karen leaned closer, her hand reaching out to gently squeeze his. "Honey, it's me," she whispered. "You're ok." Plankton's unfocused and glazed. "Where... what... happened?" he mumbled. "You had wisdom teeth removed. You're in recovery," she said, voice soothing. Plankton blinked. "Wis...wis...what?" "You had a little...uh...dental appointment," SpongeBob said. "Teeth...gone?" he mumbled, still groggy. "You're fine," she assured. "I feel... funny," he giggled, voice silly. "Just relax, Plankton," Karen said. "But...but I wanna...see!" Plankton protested, arms flailing weakly. "Plankton, you need rest." "But I'm not tired!" he exclaimed, as his head lolled back onto the pillow. "I... I want to dance," he said, voice still slurred, which only resulted in more drool escaping. "First, you gotta get better," she said, voice earnest. Plankton's giggles grew, his eye half-closed. "But I'm already the best... at... at... at... " he mumbled, trailing off. "It's anesthesia," the nurse chimed in. "It can make people say some funny things. You're just feeling a bit loopy, Plankton. You'll be back to your usual self soon." Plankton's giggles grew softer, his eye struggling to stay open. "But... but... I'm not tired," he protested weakly, his voice a mere whisper. His eyelid began to droop once more. Sponge Bob leaned in. "You just had surgery, Plankton. You need to rest," he said firmly. Plankton's giggles turned into snores, his tiny body giving in despite his protests. "He's going to be out for a while," the nurse said. "Anesthesia can take time to wear off completely." Karen nodded, watching his chest rise and fall with each snore. Sponge Bob reached out and lightly patted Plankton's arm. Plankton's snores grew quieter and stirred, eye cracking. "Wha... SpongeBob?" he mumbled, groggy. Sponge Bob's heart swelled at the sight of his confused expression. "Just keeping you company as you wake." Plankton's eye rolled to the side. "Wha... what are you doing?" he slurred, his voice barely above a whisper. He tried to lift his hand to his mouth, but it flopped back down onto the bed with a limp thud. "Drool? I...I can't stop," he mumbled, his drool pooling around the fresh gauze. Sponge Bob chuckles. "It's ok, Plankton," he said. Plankton's eye narrows. "Not funny," he mumbled, words barely intelligible. Yet as he said it, another string of drool began to form, stretching from his mouth to the pillow. Sponge Bob's chuckles grew. "I know, I know. It's just... you're so... so... " he couldn't find words, laughter took over. Plankton's unable to control his drool. "I'm so...so...so..." he tried to form a coherent thought. "So what, Plankton?" "I'm...I'm not...not...drooling," he managed to say, words barely coherent. But even as he spoke, a new droplet formed at the corner of his mouth. "You sure?" "St...stop," Plankton managed to mumble, his mouth open and drooling again. "It's...it's...embarrassing." Sponge Bob smiled. "I know, you're ok. The surgery went well," he said. "Alright, we can get him ready to go home now," says nurse. They carefully lift Plankton from the bed, body still limp from the anesthesia. "You ok?" "Mm-hmm," Plankton mumbled, head lolling to one side. He struggled to keep his eye open, but the medication was too strong. Plankton's eye drooped shut once more, his snores echoing through the hall. "Whoa, there he goes againā€¦" "He's still pretty out of it," she said. Plankton's head lolled to the side, his mouth hanging open. "Whoa, Plankton, wake up," Sponge Bob said, gently shaking his shoulder. "Mmph," Plankton mumbled, his eye cracking open. "Where...are we?" "Almost to the car," Karen said. "Just a bit longer." But Plankton's eyelid grew heavier. The nurse disappeared through the doors, leaving Karen and Sponge Bob to maneuver Plankton into a more upright position. His head kept flopping to one side, his snores grew louder. "Come on, Plankton, stay with us," Karen urged. Sponge Bob leaned close. "You ok?" he asked, patting Plankton's shoulder. Plankton's head lolled to the side, eye half- open. "Mmph...tired," he mumbled. Karen managed to get him in, his body collapsing into the seat like a ragdoll. She buckled him in. "You're gonna be ok," she whispered. Sponge Bob climbed into the backseat. Karen started the engine. "Let's get him home." The car ride was a blur of Plankton's snores and occasional mumble. Sponge Bob sat in the back, his hand on Plankton's shoulder, keeping his friend from lolling too far to the side. Each time Plankton nodded off, his mouth would droop, and gauze would slip out. "Plankton, gotta keep it in." Plankton mumbled something incoherent, his mouth still open and drooling. Sponge Bob leaned in closer, his hand ready to catch the gauze if it fell out again. Plankton's eye fluttered open, looking around the car. "Just stay with us, ok?" Sponge Bob nodded, hand on Plankton's shoulder. He watched as Plankton's eye drooped, the gauze slipping again. He leaned over and gently pushed it back. "We're almost there." Karen chuckled from the driver's seat. Sponge Bobā€™s grip on Plankton's shoulder tightening slightly. "Want to play a game?" "Mmph...game?" he mumbled. "I spy with my little eye, something..." But Plankton's head had already dropped back, snores echoing. Karen glanced in the mirror. "I think he's out for the count," she said. Sponge Bob was still vigilant, making sure Plankton didn't tumble out of the car. With Karen's help, they managed to get him to the couch. Sponge Bob helped prop Plankton up, careful not to jostle him too much. Everythingā€™s just fine.
"Hey, how's Plankton doing?" asked Patrick. SpongeBob looks at Plankton, chest rising and falling with snores. "He's sleeping," he said. "But it's the middle of the day!" "Well, he just had his wisdom teeth out," he explained in a hushed tone. "He's pretty out of it. But be quiet, ok?" He turned his attention back to Plankton, who had somehow managed to dislodge the gauze again. With a sigh, SpongeBob carefully repositioned it. "You're going to have to keep that in, Plankton," he said, his voice a gentle scold. But Planktonā€™s head lolled to the side, his snores growing louder with each breath, drool seeping through the gauze. "Look at him, SpongeBob," Patrick whispers. "He's snoring." "Patrick, shh. He's still recovering." "Can I...can I poke him?" "No, Patrick," he said, his voice a low whisper. Patrick's finger was already outstretched, hovering over Plankton. "Just a little? I just wanna see if he'll snore louder," he whispered. SpongeBob's grip on Patrick's hand tightened. "Patrick, remember what I said about being quiet," he reminded him. Plankton stirred in his sleep, snores turning to mumbles. Patrick was undeterred. He leaned even closer to Plankton, his hand hovering above the sleeping creature's forehead. "You're okay, buddy," he whispered, his voice a mix of concern and glee. "Just rest up, and when you wake up, we'll have the best party ever!" Plankton's snores remained steady. He reached out and gently poked Plankton's forehead. "Wake up, little buddy," he cooed, his voice a soft whisper. Plankton's eye snaps open, his tiny body jolting upright with a snort. The gauze fell from his mouth, and he looked around the room with a glazed expression, his eye finally settling on Patrick's massive grin. "Wha... what's going on?" he slurred, his voice muffled by the anesthesia. Plankton's eye narrowed, his head lolling slightly to the side. "What happened?" he slurred. SpongeBob took a tentative step closer to the couch, his heart racing. "You had your wisdom teeth out," he said softly, his voice filled with concern. "You're at my place, just resting." Plankton blinked, his eye focusing on SpongeBob with a look of confusion. "Wisdom teeth?" he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. SpongeBob nodded, his eyes never leaving Plankton's face. "Yes, Plankton, remember? You're all fixed up now," he said, his voice soothing. But Patrick couldn't resist the urge to add his own twist. "And, you snore!" he whispered, his voice filled with mirth. Plankton's confusion grew. "I... I snore?" he asked, his voice a mix of surprise and mortification. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about," he assured, SpongeBob eyes Patrick with a warning look. "What's it feel like?" he whispered, his voice a mix of excitement and concern. Plankton looked at Patrick with bewilderment. "It feels...weird," he mumbled, his words slurred. "And my mouth is...numb." Drool had formed at the corner of Plankton's mouth. Patrick couldn't resist pointing it out. "Look, Sponge Bob, he's drooling!" Sponge Bob shot him a look that was a mix of annoyance and amusement before turning back to Plankton. "It's okay, Plankton," he whispered, his voice gentle. "It's normal." Plankton's eye grew distant, his mind still clouded by the anesthesia. "Everything's...so...blurry," he murmured, his words slurring together. Sponge Bob and Patrick exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them. "It's the medicine," Sponge Bob explained, his voice calm and reassuring. "It'll wear off soon." But Patrick's curiosity was unquenchable. He leaned closer to Plankton. "Hey, Plankton," he whispered. "I... I don't know," he mumbled, his voice groggy. "Everything's all... wibbly wobbly." "Wibbly wobbly?" He looked over at Plankton, whose eye was still open, staring at the ceiling with a look of wonder. "Everything's...so...pretty,". "It's just the living room, Plankton. You're still a bit out of it." Patrick's eyes grew wide with fascination. "Hey, Sponge Bob," he whispered, his voice filled with wonder. "Look at his mouth!" Sponge Bob turned his gaze to Plankton, drooling more than ever. "Patrick, shh," he scolded, his voice a gentle whisper. "Let him rest." Plankton's snores grew quieter for a moment before picking up again, a trail of drool connecting his mouth to the pillow. "Is it...normal?" "It's just his body's way of dealing with the surgery, he canā€™t help it" he murmured. "It'll go away eventually, all part of the process. It's the stuff that makes you sleep through the surgery, like a really deep sleep so he wonā€™t feel or remember.ā€ "But why does it keep coming out?" "It's because his mouth is numb from the dental surgery, Patrick, it's his mouth muscles still asleep." "Can I...I mean, is it okay to, like, nudge it?" He made contact with the drool, sending a ripple through the salivary puddle. Plankton's snores grew louder, his mouth opening even wider. "Patrick," he hissed, his voice a mix of warning and amusement. "You're pushing your luck." His eyes remained fixed on Plankton, watching the drool pool grow and shrink with each snore. He remained blissfully asleep, oblivious to the conversation happening around him "What if I just...dab it with a tissue?" "I guess itā€™ll help keep him comfortable." He gently touched the tissue to the side of Plankton's mouth, catching the drool before it could fall onto the pillow. The moment the tissue made contact with the saliva Plankton, who was now snoring more heavily, his mouth hanging open even wider, drool cascading onto the pillow, sending a ripple through the salivary puddle. Plankton's snores grew louder, his mouth opening even wider., It was a light touch, just enough to make the saliva wobble like a gelatinous blob. It was a tiny movement, but it was enough to make Plankton's snores hitch. "The anesthesia is wearing off, and his mouth is just... reacting. The numbness is normal." With each dab of the tissue, Plankton's snores grew softer, quieted, his mouth twitching slightly, his breathing even. Then Plankton's face twitched slightly, his expression shifting from remaining asleep with breathing deep and steady, to one of slight discomfort as the lingering anesthesia began to wear off. Snores had turned into soft whimpers of discomfort. "Itā€™s normal he's starting to feel the pain." He reached for the medicine. ā€œJust stay still, Plankton," Sponge Bob whispered. Sponge Bob nodded, his smile gentle. "It's just the start," he murmured, his voice a mix of reassurance and experience. "It'll take a bit for the pain to go away." Plankton's mouth was still slack, the drool now a steady stream that pooled on the pillow. Together, they managed to get Plankton into a sitting position, his legs dangling over the side of the couch. "Hey you need to wake up just a little bit to take your medicine." Plankton's head lolls back against the pillows. "Patrick, hold his shoulders," Sponge Bob whispered urgently. "We don't want him to fall over." Plankton's gaze searched the room, his thoughts clearly muddled. "There you go," Sponge Bob whispered, his voice filled with relief. He carefully laid Plankton back down on the pillows, wiping the last of the drool from him. Plankton's eye remained open, blinking slowly as the world swam back into focus. "You did it," Sponge Bob whispered, his voice filled with pride as he swallowed medicine. "Now, just rest. The pain will start to go away soon." Plankton's eye drifted closed again, his snores returning, though softer than before. Sponge Bob gently let Plankton's head back onto the pillow. "He's okay now," Sponge Bob whispered, his voice a mix of relief and pride. "Good job, helping Patrick." Patrick's eyes remained wide with wonder, his mind still racing with the excitement of the past few moments. "What happens next?" he murmured, his voice filled with anticipation. Sponge Bob's smile was a mix of amusement and reassurance. "Now the medicine will kick in."
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"į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ‡āø“ įµā±āæįµ‰Ė¢ į¶œįµƒāæ įµ‡įµ‰ įµˆįµ‰įµƒįµˆĖ”Źø!" į“¬Ė¢ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ Ė¢įµ’ įµˆā±įµˆ įµįµ’Ź³įµ‰ Ź³įµ’į¶œįµĖ¢āø“ Ź°ā±įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ "į““įµ‰Ė”įµ– įµįµ‰ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢āø“ Ź°įµ˜Ź³Ź³Źøā±āæįµā€§ į”†įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ‡ā±įµāø“ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµ›Źø Ź³įµ’į¶œįµ į¶ įµ‰Ė”Ė” įµƒāæįµˆ Ė”įµƒāæįµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµ’āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ‡įµƒŹ³įµ‰Ė”Źø Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ Ź°ā±įµ Ė”įµ‰įµ— įµįµ’ įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—ā±į¶œįµā€§ į“¹įµ’Ź³įµ‰ Ź³įµ˜įµ‡įµ‡Ė”įµ‰ į¶ įµ‰Ė”Ė” ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź·įµƒįµ—įµ‰Ź³ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź°ā±įµā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµįµƒĖ¢įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµƒāæįµˆ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ Ė”ā±į¶ įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ’į¶œįµĖ¢ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ į“³įµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµƒĖ”Ė” įµ’į¶  Ź³įµ’į¶œįµĖ¢ įµ’į¶ į¶  Ź°ā±įµāø“ Ź°įµ‰ įµ–įµ˜Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±įµ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶ Ź³įµ‰įµ‰į¶»ā±āæįµ į¶œįµ’Ė”įµˆ Ź·įµƒįµ—įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµ‡įµ’įµˆŹø į¶ įµ‰Ė”įµ— Ė”ā±įµįµ– įµƒĖ¢ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆ Ź°ā±įµ ā±āæ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµƒŹ³įµĖ¢ āæįµ’Ź·ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ Ė”įµ‰įµƒāæįµ‰įµˆ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµƒįµˆŹ²įµ˜Ė¢įµ—įµ‰įµˆ Ź°įµ’Ź· Ź°įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆ Ź°ā±įµā€§ į“ŗįµ’Ź· Ė¢įµ˜įµ–įµ–įµ’Ź³įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶ įµ‰Ė”įµ— Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ź·įµ‰įµƒįµ įµ–įµ˜Ė”Ė¢įµ‰ā€§ "į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ įµ’āæā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±Ė¢ į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµ‰įµā€§ "įµ€įµƒĖ”įµ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€§" Źøįµ‰įµ— Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” įµāæįµ’į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ į¶œįµ’Ė”įµˆā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµƒāæįµˆ į¶ įµ‰Ė”įµ— Ź³įµ‰Ė”ā±įµ‰įµ›įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ į¶ ā±āæįµˆ Ź°ā±įµ įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź°įµ‰āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” Ė¢į¶œįµƒŹ³įµ‰įµˆ ā±āæ į¶ įµ‰įµƒŹ³ā€§ "įµ‚įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ–ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆā€§ įµ€Ź°įµ‰Źø āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆįµ‰įµˆ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–āø“ āæįµ’Ź·ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’Ė”įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ—įµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ°ā€§ į““ā±Ė¢ Ė”ā±įµįµ‡Ė¢ įµˆįµƒāæįµĖ”ā±āæįµ įµƒĖ¢ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ’įµˆ įµ˜įµ– Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° Ź°ā±įµāø“ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ įµįµ’įµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµā±āæįµ‰ā€§ 'į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ āæįµ’Ź·' į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ‰Ė£įµ—įµ‰įµˆāø“ įµ—įµ’ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ į”†Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ˜Ė¢Ź°įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆ įµ‡Źø į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ į“ŗįµ’Ź· ā±āæ įµƒ Ė¢įµ˜įµ–ā±āæįµ‰ įµ–įµ’Ė¢ā±įµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµ’āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµŹ³įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆ įµƒāæįµˆ įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź° įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ—Ė”Źø įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæāø“ Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” Ź³įµ‰įµįµƒā±āæā±āæįµ įµįµ’įµ—ā±įµ’āæĖ”įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæ įµƒĖ¢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµƒĖ”Ė”ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ė”ā±į¶ įµ‰'Ė¢ įµįµ’Ź³įµ‰ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµ—Ź° įµ—Ź°įµƒāæ įµā±āæā±āæįµ į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ’įµ‡įµ›ā±įµ’įµ˜Ė¢Ė”Źø įµˆā±įµˆāæ'įµ— Ź³įµ‰Ė¢ā±Ė¢įµ— įµ’Ź³ įµ–Ź³įµ’įµ—įµ‰Ė¢įµ— įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ–ā±į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ–āø“ āæįµ’Ź³ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ į¶œįµƒŹ³Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œŹ°įµ˜įµ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ "įµ‚įµ‰'Ź³įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ Ź°įµ’įµįµ‰ āæįµ’Ź· įµƒāæįµˆ Ź·ā±Ė”Ė” įµ–įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ āæ įµ—įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ!" į“¬įµįµƒā±āæ āæįµ’ ā±āæįµˆā±į¶œįµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµ’į¶  įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ—įµƒāæįµˆā±āæįµā€§ "į“¼Ź° į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæāø“ į“µ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ į“µ įµā±įµŹ°įµ—'įµ›įµ‰ āæįµ’įµ— Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆ ā±įµ— įµ‰āæįµ’įµ˜įµŹ° įµ—įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“µ įµˆįµ’ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢āø“ įµā±Ė¢Ė¢ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ'Ė¢ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆā€§ į“±įµƒŹ³Ė”Źø įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—Ź·ā±įµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆ; Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰ įµ‡Ź³įµ’Ź· į¶ įµ˜Ź³Ź³įµ’Ź·ā±āæįµāø“ įµƒĖ¢ ā±į¶  įµāæā±įµ— ā±āæ į¶œįµ’āæį¶ įµ˜Ė¢ā±įµ’āæāø“ Ź·Ź°ā±Ė”Ė¢įµ— įµ—Ź³Źøā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµā€§ā€§ā€§" "į¶œįµƒāæ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ‰Źøįµ‰?" į“æįµ‰įµā±Ė¢įµ—įµ‰Ź³ā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ā±Ź³ įµ›įµ’ā±į¶œįµ‰Ė¢āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµįµƒāæįµƒįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµˆįµ’ Ė¢įµ’āø“ įµ—Ź³Źøā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰ ā±āæ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³Ź³įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆā±āæįµĖ¢ā€§ "į““įµ˜Ź°Ź°Ź° Ź·ā»Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—ā€™Ė¢ Ź°įµƒįµ–ā»įµ–įµ‰āæā±āæįµā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢āø“ Ė¢Ė”įµ’Ź·Ė”Źø įµƒāæįµˆ Ź·įµ‰įµƒįµĖ”Źøā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” įµŹ³įµ’įµįµā±Ė”Źø įµˆā±Ė¢įµ’Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµ—įµ‰įµˆāø“ įµ—Ź³Źøā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Ė”įµ‰įµƒāæ įµ˜įµ– āæįµ’Ź·ā€§ į”†įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³ā±āæįµāø“ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ āæįµ’įµ— įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ā€§ "įµ‚Ź°Źø'Ė¢ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³Źø įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ‡Ė”įµ˜Ź³Ź³Źøāø“ įµƒāæįµˆ į¶ įµ˜į¶»į¶»Źøā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜'įµ›įµ‰ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ź³įµ‰įµįµƒā±āæįµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ė¢įµ‰āæĖ¢įµ‰Ė¢āø“ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ āæįµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”Źø įµˆŹ³įµ’Ź·āæā±āæįµ ā±āæ įµƒ įµā±āæįµ‰!" 'įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ—āø“ įµ’Ź° Źøįµ‰įµƒā€§ į“µ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ įµā±āæįµ‰ā€§ įµ‚Ź°įµ‰āæ įµƒāæįµˆ Ź°įµ’Ź· įµˆā±įµˆ į“µ įµ‰āæįµˆ įµ˜įµ– įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ā±āæ įµŹø Ź³įµ’įµ’įµ?' į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ āæįµ’Ź· įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢į¶œįµ˜įµ‰!" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµˆā±įµˆ? į“¼Ź°āø“ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæįµĖ¢ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ź°ā±įµāø“ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” Ź·įµ‰įµƒįµā€§ "į“µ'Ė”Ė” įµįµ‰įµ— įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į¶œįµƒāæ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—įµ’įµįµ’Ź³Ź³įµ’Ź·ā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ Ė¢įµ’ āæā±į¶œįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰ įµā±įµˆā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź³įµ‰įµ–Ė”ā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ—ā€§ "į“ŗįµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµˆįµ’ Ė¢įµ˜į¶œŹ° įµƒ į¶ įµ’įµ’Ė”ā±Ė¢Ź° įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰āæįµˆįµƒāæįµįµ‰Ź³ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ė”ā±į¶ įµ‰ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµƒįµįµƒā±āæā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ įµ’āæį¶œįµ‰ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ—ā€§ "į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ–Ė”įµƒā±āæ Ź·įµ’Ź³Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢ā±į¶œįµāø“ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜!" "į”†įµ’Ź³Ź³Źøāø“ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź·āø“ į“µ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· ā±į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ‰Ź· Ź°įµ’Ź· Ė¢į¶œįµƒŹ³įµ‰įµˆ į“µ'įµˆ į¶ įµ‰Ė”įµ— įµƒįµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— įµ’į¶  Ė”įµ’Ė¢ā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæā€§ į“µ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ° Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œįµƒāæ įµ—įµ‰āæįµˆ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ’āæ įµŹø āæįµ‰Ź³įµ›įµ‰Ė¢ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµāæįµ’Ź·āø“ įµƒāæįµˆ įµˆā±įµ—įµ—įµ’ā€§ įµ€Ź°įµƒāæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ā€§" "į“¬āæŹø įµ—ā±įµįµ‰ā€§ į“³įµ‰įµ— Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ— āæįµ’Ź·ā€§ā€§" "į“µ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ’Ź³įµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæ įµƒāæŹøā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ‰Ė¢āø“ Źøįµ‰Ė¢; Ź·įµ‰ į¶œįµƒāæ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµ įµ—įµ’įµįµ’Ź³Ź³įµ’Ź·ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµˆįµ‰įµˆā€§ "įµ‚įµƒāæįµ— įµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ Ź³įµ’įµ’įµ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ į¶œŹ³įµƒį¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ?" į”†Ź°įµ‰ įµƒĖ¢įµįµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±įµā€§ "į”†Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµ—ā±įµ‰?" į”†Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ— Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ āæįµ’Ź· Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³ā±āæįµā€§ "į“¼Ź° į“µ'Ė”Ė” Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ įµƒŹ²įµƒŹ³ā€§ į“ŗā±įµŹ°įµ—āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµĖ¢ā€§ā€§" š˜„š—¼š—暝—± š—°š—¼š˜‚š—»š˜: šŸ²šŸ“šŸ“
My Tiny Genius RibbonDee Summary: After a long day of once again trying and failing to steal the Krabby Patty Secret Formula, Plankton is feeling down in the dumps. It's up to Karen to cheer him up. Language:EnglishStats:Published:2024-02-01Words:721 There were many words to describe the Chum Bucket, and pleasant certainly was not one of them. Overall it reeked of filth, grime and all sorts of health code violations. A certain musty odor seemed to always linger in the air, no matter how much air freshener one used. Truly, it was a wonder this place was still in business. There were many theories as to why, but truly no one except for the restaurantsā€™ owners really knew. One of said owners was in the lobby, waiting as she always did for her husband when he was off with one of his schemes. Karen was standing in the room in her mobile apparatus, her screen blank as she waited ever so patiently. Best case scenario Plankton would simply fail as usual. Worstā€¦ the Chum Bucket was blown to smithereens again. Neither outcome was good, but it was obvious which one was more favorable. Finally, a small tapping sound came from one of the doors. He was back. Karen wheeled over to the red double doors and let the poor man in. He was a mess. He was covered in ash and some bruises, and she was immediately concerned. ā€œPlankton-ā€ she began. ā€œNot now honey.ā€ Plankton sulked off, no doubt on his way to the lab. ā€œPlankton!ā€ The tiny organism turned around to face his computer wife. ā€œWhat?ā€ ā€œI have dinner ready.ā€ ā€œI ainā€™t in the mood for holographic meatloaf.ā€ He turned back around and went on his way. Karen put her robotic arms on where her hips would be and rolled on after him. ā€œWhat kind of attitude is that? At least let me patch you up! It looks like it hurts!ā€ ā€œNo it- ow. Ok fine.ā€ Karen bent over and picked up the creature in her metal palms and gently lifted him up and began to wheel him into the lab area. She set him down on a counter and got out the first aid kit that was for this sort of thing. ā€œHowā€™d it goā€, she said as she began to clean his wounds. ā€œOW! Easy!ā€ ā€œSorry sweetie. But how did things go? Didja get that formula this time?ā€ ā€œWhat does it look like? Nope. I failed again. Always.ā€ ā€œWhatā€™s that supposed to mean?ā€ ā€œIā€¦ I canā€™t do this.ā€ ā€œCanā€™t do what?ā€ ā€œWhat do you think?! I canā€™t get that formula! Krabs is always one step ahead!ā€ ā€œOh hon, surely youā€™ll get it next timeā€, Karen said, giving Plankton a little pat on the back which caused him to fall flat on his face. ā€œOw.ā€ ā€œSorry.ā€ Plankton stood, and sighed. ā€œThatā€™s what you always say. I always go for it again, and it blows up in my face! Literally! Look at all these inventions. Failures. All of them.ā€ Planktonā€™s eye was beginning to tear up. Karen felt her circuits beginning to tingle with pity. Poor little fella. She remembered all of the earlier formula-nabbing schemes, and how motivated and eager her husband was. With each failed plan Plankton grew ever more weary, which was odd as he was usually quite the tenacious type. ā€œOh Planktonā€, Karen said tenderly. ā€œOh Karen! Iā€™m a failure!ā€ Karen gasped in horror. ā€œYou are NOT!ā€ ā€œHow?ā€ ā€œFor starters, you build all these amazing inventions that are way ahead of their time! Youā€™re brilliant!ā€ ā€œGo on.ā€ ā€œYou went to college!ā€ ā€œYeah!ā€ ā€œAnd you're gonna GET that formula!ā€ ā€œYeah!ā€ Plankton made sure to say the last yeah extra loudly, clearly filled with his usual overinflated ego once again. It usually never took to long to reignite his drive via a small pep talk, something Karen was very happy to provide for her beloved single celled spouse. ā€œI am going to get the formula, and make Krabs eat dirt!ā€ ā€œI know you are, honey. But I think you should rest or eat first.ā€ ā€œNo I- ow. Yeah alright.ā€ ā€œThat's the spirit, little guy. Now let's go and relax for a while. You've earned it.ā€ Karen picked up her now relieved husband, and began to wheel them towards their living quarters so the poor little thing could rest. ā€œI love you, my tiny little genius.ā€ ā€œHeh, love you too babe.ā€ And so the pair of strange lovers were off, for now they would relax and perhaps discuss oh so evıl, diabolical and lemon scented plans for the future.
į“³įµ‰įµ— įµįµ– š‘šžššš š­š¢š¦šž: šŸ š¦š¢š§. ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ į¶ įµƒāæį¶ ā±į¶œā¾ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź·ā±į¶ įµ‰ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµįµ’įµ— įµ˜įµ– į¶ Ź³įµ’įµ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ė¢įµ‰įµƒįµ— āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ āæįµ’Ź· į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰āæ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– ā±āæ į¶œŹ°įµƒā±Ź³ā€§ į”†Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ‰āæįµ—Ė”Źø Ė¢Ź°įµ’įµ’įµ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ė¢Ź°įµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆįµ‰Ź³ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°įµ—Ė”Źø įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ź°įµ‰ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— į¶ įµ’Ź³ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ āæįµ’įµ— įµ‡įµ˜įµˆįµįµ‰āø“ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź° įµƒŹ²įµƒŹ³ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆāø“ Ė¢įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œįµƒāæ į¶œįµ’āæįµ—ā±āæįµ˜įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ į“µ'Ė”Ė” Ė”įµ‰įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ— įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ā€§ į¶œįµƒāæ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ‰āæįµ’įµ˜įµŹ° įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ’Ź³ įµįµ˜Ė¢įµ— į“µ į¶œįµƒŹ³Ź³Źø Źøįµ’įµ˜?" į“ŗįµ’įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµā€§ "į“³įµ˜įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ į“µ'įµ į¶œįµƒŹ³Ź³Źøā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæā€§ į“µ'įµ āæįµ’įµ— įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ įµˆā±Ė¢įµ—įµ˜Ź³įµ‡ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ā±į¶  ā±įµ—'Ė¢ Ź°įµƒŹ³įµˆįµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ’įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢ā±āæį¶œįµ‰ į“µ į¶œįµƒāæ įµ‰įµƒĖ¢ā±Ė”Źø įµ–įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµŹøĖ¢įµ‰Ė”į¶ ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ āæįµ’Ź· įµ–įµ˜įµ—Ė¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ā±āæ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆāø“ Ź·ā±įµ–ā±āæįµ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ’Ė” įµ’į¶ į¶  Ź°ā±įµā€§ įµ‚Ź°įµ‰āæ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·įµ’įµįµ‰ āæįµƒįµ—įµ˜Ź³įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµ’āæ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ’Ź·āæ įµƒĖ¢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµįµ’įµ— įµ˜įµ–ā€§ "įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ— įµ—ā±įµįµ‰ ā±Ė¢ ā±įµ—?" "įµ€ā±įµįµ‰ į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµ˜Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ˜įµ–!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµƒāæĖ¢Ź·įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§
"Honey, wake up," Karen said gently. Her voice was the sweet sound of a lullaby echoing through the silent, sterile room, but Plankton remained unresponsive. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor was the only reply to her soft pleas. She sat by his side, her hand intertwined with his, her thumb brushing the back of his palm. But now, his hand lay limp, a stark contrast to the warmth and strength it usually exuded. The antiseptic smell of the hospital filled the air, a stark reminder of the gravity of the situation. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a cold, artificial glow on Plankton's pale face. His chest rose and fell with each shallow breath, and the rhythm was the only reassurance Karen had that he was still with her. The doctor had said it was a mild concussion, but the sight of him lying there, so vulnerable, filled her with dread. She knew that she had to stay strong, not just for herself, but for Plankton. The door to the room creaked open, and the doctor stepped in, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. He was a young man, his expression a mix of professionalism and concern. He looked at the charts in his hand before glancing up at Karen. "How is he?" he asked. Karen's eyes never left her husband's face as she replied, "The same." The doctor nodded, his eye reflecting the seriousness of the situation. "It's not uncommon for someone with a concussion to sleep longer than usual. We're monitoring him closely, and his vitals are stable. We've given him medication to manage the pain and reduce the swelling." Karen leaned forward, her grip on Plankton's hand tightening. "But when will he wake up?" she asked, her voice a whisper of hope. The doctor's eyes softened. "It could be hours, or even days. The brain needs time to heal. But rest assured, Mrs. Plankton, we're doing everything we can to ensure a swift and full recovery." Karen nodded, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. She didn't want to believe it would take that long, but she knew that patience was the only option she had. She leaned back in the chair, her eyes never leaving Plankton's face. Time stretched out before her, each minute feeling like an eternity. The only sounds in the room were the tick of the clock on the wall and the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor. The hospital's white walls closed in around her, making her feel trapped in a world where time had ceased to have meaning. Her thoughts raced, playing out every possible scenario in her head, each one more alarming than the last. A nurse came in to check on Plankton, her shoes squeaking against the floor. She offered Karen a kind smile and a reassuring pat on the shoulder before she tended to her husband, checking his bandages and administering fluids through the IV. Karen watched her every move, feeling helpless and out of place. The nurse noticed her distress and offered her a cup of tea, which she accepted with a nod of gratitude. The warm liquid helped soothe her nerves as she took a sip, her eyes never straying from Plankton. The minutes ticked by, each one feeling heavier than the last. The silence was broken only by the occasional murmur from the hallway or the rustle of pages as the nurse updated his chart. Karen's mind drifted back to the moments before the accident, the laughter and the joy that seemed so distant now. Plankton had been working on his latest invention, a contraption he swore would revolutionize the fast-food industry. It was a wild tangle of metal and wires, something that only he could understand. Karen had watched him, her curiosity piqued but her technical knowledge barely scratching the surface of his genius. "What does it do?" she had asked, her eyes wide with wonder. He had grinned, his teeth gleaming in the light of the makeshift workshop. "It's a secret," he had said, his voice filled with mischief. Now, as she sat by his side in the hospital room, she wished she had paid more attention. Perhaps then she could have anticipated the malfunction that had sent him to the emergency room with a concussion. Plankton had always been so driven by his ideas, so wrapped up in his world of gadgets and gizmos, that he often forgot the dangers that came with his experiments. It was his passion, and she had always admired it, but in moments like these, she couldn't help but worry. The room grew dimmer as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the floor. Karen's eyes grew heavy, and she fought the urge to sleep. Suddenly, Plankton's eyelid fluttered open, revealing eye that searched the room with confusion. "Where am I?" he croaked, his voice dry and scratchy. Karen's heart leaped into her throat, and she leaned forward, her hand tightening around his. "You're in the hospital, sweetie. You had an accident," she said softly, her voice trembling. Plankton blinked several times, his gaze shifting from the blurry ceiling to Karen's face. Recognition dawned in his eyes, but confusion remained etched on his furrowed brow. "What happened?" he murmured, his voice still weak and groggy. Karen's heart swelled with relief at the sound of his voice. She took a deep breath, then explained the accident as calmly as she could. "You fell while working on your latest invention. You hit your head pretty hard. The doctor said it's just a concussion, but you need to rest." Plankton's eyes searched hers, trying to piece together the puzzle of his foggy memory. "A concussion?" he repeated, his voice a mere whisper. "How long have I been out?" Karen's grip on his hand tightened, her knuckles white. "A few hours, darling. But it's going to be okay." She hoped her words were true, that the fear and doubt didn't seep through. Plankton's gaze was unfocused, his thoughts jumbled. He didn't remember the accident, the pain, or the panic that had brought him here. All he knew was the gentle squeeze of her hand and the sterile scent of the hospital room. As he began to sit up, a wave of dizziness washed over him. Karen's other hand shot out to steady him, her eyes filled with concern. "Lie back down, Plankton. You need to rest." He obeyed, his head heavy on the pillow, and his eye fell shut again. The doctor had warned her about the potential side effects of the concussion: confusion, dizziness, and memory loss. It was a strange sight, seeing him so unsure of himself, a stark contrast to the usual confidence that radiated from him. When he opened his eye again, the confusion had deepened. "What's the last thing you remember?" Karen asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Plankton's eye searched the room, as if the answer was hidden in the shadows. "I... I don't remember," he said, his voice filled with a sense of panic that was alien to him. "It's all blank." Karen felt a chill run down her spine. The doctor had mentioned that amnesia was a possibility, but she hadn't allowed herself to believe it would happen to Plankton. "It's okay," she assured him, her voice shaky. Plankton's eye searched hers, desperation flickering in their depths. "What do you mean, I don't remember?" Karen took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of anxiety brewing within her. "Sometimes with concussions, memories can be a bit jumbled. But don't worry, they'll come back to you." She hoped her reassurance sounded more convincing than it felt. The doctor had warned her that the road to recovery might be bumpy, but she had never anticipated Plankton's memory loss. Her mind raced, trying to think of ways to help him, to fill in the blanks without overwhelming him. "Do you remember anything at all?" she asked, her voice gentle. Plankton's eye searched the room again, as if the answer was hiding in the corners. "I remember... I remember working," he said, his voice trailing off. "But it's all... fuzzy." Karen felt a pang of sadness at the lost look on her husband's face. She didn't know how to navigate this new, uncharted territory. But she knew she had to be strong for him. "It's okay, Plankton," she said, stroking his forehead with the back of her hand. "You just need to rest." The doctor had instructed her to keep the environment calm and familiar to aid in his recovery. So, she began to speak in soothing tones, telling him stories of their past adventures. Her words painted a picture of a life filled with love and adventure, and she watched as his face relaxed with each passing moment. His breathing grew steadier, his chest rising and falling in a more natural rhythm. The hospital room was a cocoon of beige and white, the only color coming from the bouquet of flowers she had brought from home. Plankton's chest rose and fell in the rhythm of deep sleep, his breathing steady and even. The heart monitor beeped reassuringly, a metronome to the symphony of his rest. His face was peaceful, free from the tension that had gripped it earlier. She felt a weight lift from her shoulders as she realized the immediate danger had passed. For now, at least, he was safe, and she was grateful for every moment of his peaceful rest. She knew the road ahead would be fraught with challenges, but for now, she was content to sit by his side and enjoy the quiet.
In the quiet town of Ponyville, there lived a young earth pony named Applejack. Her coarse, burnt- orange coat was always dotted with freckles of dirt from a hard day's work on her family's farm, Sweet Apple Acres. Applejack was known for her honesty and her strong work ethic, which were as solid as the oak trees that lined the property. Her mane and tail, a fiery shade of red, matched the color of the apples she grew with such care. One sweltering afternoon, Applejack took a break from her chores, wiping the sweat from her brow with a bandana that smelled faintly of apple blossoms. She looked out over the fields, the sun blazing down like a second sun, and sighed. The harvest was coming soon, and she had so much to do. Her thoughts drifted to her friends, Twilight Sparkle, Pinkie Pie, and the others, and she wondered how they were spending their day. Her contemplation was interrupted by the distant sound of hoofbeats. She shielded her eyes from the glare and saw a figure approaching. As it grew closer, she recognized the purple and white unicorn, Twilight Sparkle, her friend and the town's resident scholar. Twilight looked flustered, her eyes wide with excitement. "Applejack!" Twilight called out, her voice strained from the run. "You won't believe what I've found in the library archives!" Applejack leaned against the fence post, her curiosity piqued. "What is it, Twilight?" Twilight's eyes gleamed with excitement. "I've discovered something absolutely fascinating, Applejack. It's about an ancient artifact called the Element of Honesty!" Applejack's ears perked up at the mention of something old and precious. "The Element of Honesty? What's so special about it?" Twilight paused to catch her breath, her flank heaving. "It's one of the six Elements of Harmony," she began, "each representing one of the core virtues of our world. The Element of Honesty is said to be a rare and powerful artifact that can reveal the truth in any situation. It's been lost for centuries, but I found a map leading to its last known location!" Her voice grew hushed as she unfolded the ancient parchment, its edges yellowed with age. The map was intricate, with swirling symbols and cryptic notations that seemed to dance before Applejack's eyes. "It's somewhere in the Whispering Woods," Twilight whispered, her horn glowing softly as she traced a line over the paper. "Well, shucks," Applejack drawled, "that's a place I've heard plenty of tall tales about, but never actually visited." The wood had a reputation for being eerie and mysterious, a place where whispers of forgotten secrets lingered on the breeze. But the prospect of finding something as important as the Element of Honesty was too tempting to pass up. Twilight's eyes sparkled with excitement. "Applejack, I think we should go look for it. It's not far from here, and who knows what kind of trouble it could prevent if it falls into the wrong hooves?" Applejack nodded, a mix of curiosity and apprehension in her gaze. "Alright, but we'd better tell the others. They might want to come along." They gathered their friends, who were equally intrigued by the prospect of an adventure. Pinkie Pie bounced with excitement, Rarity's eyes gleamed with the promise of a new treasure to add to her collection, and Fluttershy looked nervous but determined. Rainbow Dash and Rarity promised to keep an eye on Fluttershy, who had a tendency to get spooked in unfamiliar places. They set out into the late afternoon sun, the map fluttering in Twilight's magic as they followed the path into the wood. The Whispering Woods lived up to their name, with rustling leaves and hushed whispers that seemed to follow them through the dappled shade. The air grew cooler, and the scent of damp earth and pine needles filled their nostrils as they ventured deeper. Suddenly, a shadow flitted through the trees. "Greetings, travelers, I am Aloysius, keeper of the woods' lore." His feathers were the color of moonlit silver, and his eyes held a knowing glint. Twilight stepped forward, the map still clutched in her telekinetic grip. "We're looking for the Element of Honesty," she said with a hint of urgency. "Could you help us?" Aloysius tilted his head, his beak clicking thoughtfully. "Ah, the Element of Honesty," he murmured. "A treasure indeed. But beware, for the woods are not kind to those who seek without pure intentions." The friends exchanged glances, their determination unwavering. Applejack stepped up, her eyes meeting the owl's. "Our intentions are as true as my word. We aim to protect our town and find this artifact before it falls into the wrong hooves." Aloysius studied them for a moment before nodding. "Very well. I will guide you to the spot where the Element lies hidden. But heed my warning: the woods hold secrets, and they do not give them up easily." The group followed the him, their hoofsteps echoing through the quiet wood. The whispers grew louder, and Applejack couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched. Twilight, ever the scholar, took notes on the various plants and magical phenomena they encountered, while Pinkie Pie chattered away, trying to keep everyone's spirits high. As they ventured further in, the wood grew denser, the path narrower. The light grew dimmer, the sun's rays barely piercing the thick canopy above. The air grew colder, carrying with it a sense of unease that made even Rainbow Dash's wings flutter anxiously. "This place is giving me the creeps," Fluttershy whispered, her eyes darting around nervously. "Don't worry, Fluttershy," Rainbow Dash assured her, "we're all here for you." Aloysius led them to a clearing, where an ancient tree stood tall, its trunk twisted with age. The whispers grew to a crescendo, swirling around the tree's base like a cacophony of secrets yearning to be heard. "Here it is," He announced, his voice barely audible over the din. "The Element of Honesty lies within this tree. But remember, it will only reveal itself to the worthy." Applejack squinted at the tree, her heart racing. The whispers grew so loud, they seemed to form words, urging them to turn back. But she knew they couldn't. "Thanks, Aloysius," she said, turning to her friends. "Let's get to it."
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Go to shortscarystories r/shortscarystories 4 yr. ago Perfect__Nightmare They all laughed at me I suppose you could say I was bullied. It would start with some simple naĶ me calling. The second they started in on me I could feel b!ood rushing to my facĶ˜e. It made them more relentless. I tried to avoid them, but they always found me. They pitch me, kick me, bug me. The paın was made so much worse because this sort of ab3se should never been from famıly. And my parents did nothing. They all hate. I did me too. I wasn't as smĶ¢art, or as talented as my siblings. I had nothıng to offer my famıly. I wanted to earn their lĆ²vĆØ, but all of my attempts just drove them further away. I had almost given up hĢ“ope. And then the day came. I had just encountered my nightly bearing. I lifted myself off the floor, slowly, but my oldest brother lıcked me again. I hit the floor once more. I listened to them laugh as I drag myself over the cĆøld ground and into the darkness. When I was far enough away to just barely hear their laughter, I let myself collapse onto the snow. I cried for a very long time. All wanted now to dıe. I awoke some time later to my father's voice. "Son, wake up. I need your help." My father needed me. This was my chance to make him proud. Before I knew it, it was time. My father told me exactly what to do. I wasn't sure I could do it, but he reassured me. "I believe in you." No one had ever said that to me before. My face grew hot again, but I did as my father said. This time no one laughed. But it didn't matter. I heard the laughing in my head. I felt the attacksā€Ž all over again. I remembered the bloodĘ“ těars, the paın caused by my siblings. I remembered my father doing nothıng. My despair turned to anger, and my anger turned to hate. And in that moment, I realized the one quality in myself that might be considered admirable. I was brave. I whispered it to myself over and over. I said it until I started to make myself believe it. And then, I looked toward the ground beneath me. With my siblings on my heels and my father trailing behind, I led them down. My face grew hot, hotter than ever. "Rudolph, what are you doing?!" I could feel my father pulling on the reins, but I was determined. I was brave. I kept going down until I met the concrete. My eight siblings followed. And then my father. Here's the thing about magic... It wasn't enough to save us that night. But it tried. It made their dEAth slow and agonizing. But me? I smiled and I felt my face grow hotter and hotter. I knew my nose was shining brighter than ever before. And no one was laughing.
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PrinceJustice237 ā€¢ 2y ago As a fan of hurt/comfort/whump, I realised that I put my favourite characters through so much because I want to see their friends comfort them and help them through the aftermath. Itā€™s good old fashioned catharsis, plus drama is just entertaining. A pure, fluffy, happy story where nothing bad happens works great for a oneshot but itā€™s harder to sustain 20+ chapters of that, you need drama and conflict and that requires stakes. That usually involve someone suffering to some degree.
ā€¢ 2y ago Honestly, a huge reason why I torment my favorites is so that when the comfort comes along (because it always does in my case), their friends/found family can show them how much they are loved.
Yk what fk it Regretevator has the gayest ahh fandoms of all time bru , I can't take a step without seeing a gay horizontal threesome. So yk what? Fk it. Fk gnarpy , fk bive , fk split , fk poob , especially fk pest , or fk pest twice I hate that MF , fk Dr retro , fk it all. Oh except for lampert , he's the only chill MF
r/TwoSentenceHorror 1 day ago CenturyCoal I pressed the stuffed teddy bear's chest to hear it's voice box the bear should have said 'i love you' not 'let me out'
Jessica by reddit user Breakevencoast5 ā€Ž ā€Ž ā€Ž ā€Ž ā€Ž ā€Ž ā€Ž ā€Ž ā†“Ė¢į¶œŹ³įµ’Ė”Ė” į¶ įµ’Ź³ Ė¢įµ—įµ’Ź³Źøā†“ My soul mate left me today. All that's left of him now, is pairs of sock that probably fell out of his suitcase, and a note labelled "Read Me" that I found on the kitchen counter, picked it up and started to read. ā€œjust can't take it anymore. Jess, you know love you, and I always will, but over the last few months things have gotten bad for me. Yes, it's her. She's following me again and I'm scared that if she found you she'd kill you. I'm sorry, I wish I could go into more detail, but you be home in a few minutes, and I don't want to have to tell you any of this to your face. It would destroy me to see you cry. - David.ā€ Suddenly the front door creaked open. Instinctively, grabbed a knife off of the knife rack and ran into the pantry. "Hello?" Called a woman from the entrance way. I didn't answer. Instead, I cracked the pantry door open just enough to see the note on the counter. "Anyone in here?" She yelled, walking closer to the kitchen. "I'm not going to hurt you." She stepped into the kitchen. There was a small Swiss army knife in her hand. She picked up the note and started to read. Within seconds she started crying hysterically. The woman fell to her knees and dropped the knife. lignored every logical though in my brain, kicked the door open and thrust the knife into her stomach. "Welcome home Jessica" I said, twisting the knife with a bright smile on my face.
1 day ago u/Sticky_Cheetos He handed me a box and said, ā€œIf you press this button, you get $100,000, but it takes one year off of your lÄÆfe.ā€ I pressed it once, and everything went darkĢµ.
r/TwoSentenceHorror 1 min. ago AcrobaticTransition4 ā€œMy lower back hurtā€ I told the chiropractor Then I heard a snap and then all the pain has been permanently alleviated as i bent slumped over feeling nothing...
r/TwoSentenceHorror 9 mo. ago Jellycaine The aliens invaded planet earth, and the human never seems to notice. A thousand years later and they already think shadows are a natural occurrence.
r/TwoSentenceHorror 13 hr. ago drforged ā†“ ā€œHave you ever seen a monster?ā€ My son asked, as I tucked him in ā€œNoā€ I answered, as I looked into his many yellow eyes...
r/TwoSentenceHorror 2 min. ago derf_vader The crack in the wall was only wide enough for a shadow to pass through. I didn't know once it went in I would be stuck here in the wall along with it, unable to leave, and unable to cry out and warn others.
r/TwoSentenceHorror 40 min. ago derf_vader "Hello Darkness my old friend..." I sang the familiar lyrics as I passed by the dark alley. "I've come to greet you at the end," the Darkness sang back softly creeping, as it enveloped me in the sounds of silence...
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"į”†įµ’ ā±įµ—'Ė”Ė” įµ‡įµ‰ į‘«įµ˜ā±įµ—įµ‰ Ė”įµ’āæįµ įµˆŹ³ā±įµ›įµ‰āø“ Ė¢įµ’ į“µ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— Ź·įµƒāæāæįµƒ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³ įµƒāæŹø įµ’į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė”įµ’įµ˜įµˆĖ”Źø į¶œįµ’įµįµ–Ė”įµƒā±āæā±āæįµā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ź³įµ’Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰ā€§ "į”†įµ’ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ‰Ė£į¶œā±įµ—įµ‰įµˆāø“ į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· Ź°įµ’Ź· Źøįµ’įµ˜'įµ›įµ‰ Ė¢įµ’ įµįµ˜į¶œŹ° įµ‰āæįµ‰Ź³įµŹø įµā±įµˆā€§" į“±įµ›įµ‰āæ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ° į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” įµ—ā±Ź³įµ‰įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ įµįµƒįµˆįµ‰ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰Ė£Ź°įµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµįµ’Ź³įµ‰ įµ’įµ‡įµ›ā±įµ’įµ˜Ė¢āø“ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµā±āæįµ įµƒāæāæįµ’Źøįµ‰įµˆ įµƒĖ¢ įµ˜āæįµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ‰įµ– įµ˜įµ– Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ "įµ€Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ˜āæ'Ė¢ āæįµ’įµ— įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæ įµ˜įµ–ā€§" "įµ‚įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ— Ė¢įµ’ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµāæįµ’Ź·ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į“µ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµā€§ į“¬āæįµˆ į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæāø“ į“µ'įµ įµĖ”įµƒįµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµƒāæįµƒįµā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ–įµƒįµ—ā±įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ā€§ įµ‚įµ‰'įµ›įµ‰ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ–ā€§" "į“µ Ź³įµ‰įµįµ‰įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė”įµƒĖ¢įµ— įµ—ā±įµįµ‰ į“µ įµ—Ź³įµƒįµ›įµ‰Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė”Ė¢ įµ’į¶  Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ– įµ—įµ’ įµƒ įµįµ‰Ź³įµįµƒā±įµˆ įµįµƒāæ įµƒāæįµˆ įµ‡įµƒŹ³āæįµƒį¶œĖ”įµ‰ įµ‡įµ’Źø įµįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰įµ˜įµ įµˆįµ‰įµˆā±į¶œįµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ’į¶œį¶œįµƒĖ¢ā±įµ’āæįµƒĖ”Ė”Źø Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ 'į“µ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰' 'Źøįµ‰Ė¢' Ė¢įµ˜į¶œŹ° įµƒį¶ į¶ ā±Ź³įµįµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæĖ¢ Ź·Ź°ā±Ė”Ė¢įµ— įµˆŹ³ā±įµ›ā±āæįµ įµƒĖ¢ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė”Ė¢ įµ’į¶  Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰įµ˜įµ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ– Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµā€§ įµ€Ź°įµ‰āæ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰Ė¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ āæįµ’įµ— ā±āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³įµƒį¶œįµ—ā±āæįµ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ įµƒĖ¢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµˆā±įµˆā€§ "į“°įµ’ į“µā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ā€§" į”†Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒŹ· ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ‰įµƒŹ³ įµ›ā±įµ‰Ź· įµā±Ź³Ź³įµ’Ź³ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆāø“ į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³ā±įµˆįµ‰ įµƒāæįµˆ į¶œįµ’āæĖ¢įµ—įµƒāæįµ— įµ—įµƒĖ”įµā±āæįµ įµ–Ź³įµ’įµ›ā±įµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµˆŹ³įµ’Ź·Ė¢ā±āæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢āø“ āæįµ’įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰āæįµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–Źø įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ‰įµā±āæ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź°ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµā±Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— Ź°ā±įµ āæįµ’Ź·ā€§ į““įµ‰ įµˆā±įµˆāæ'įµ— Ź·įµƒāæįµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµ’ Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøįµ‰įµˆ Ė¢ā±Ė”įµ‰āæįµ—āø“ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæįµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµ—Ź³Źøā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ āæįµƒįµ– Ź°ā±įµĖ¢įµ‰Ė”į¶ āø“ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ° į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ āæįµ’ įµįµ‰įµƒāæįµ— ā±āæįµ—įµ‰āæįµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³ā±įµˆįµ‰ įµƒįµ— įµƒĖ”Ė”ā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµāæįµ‰Ź· Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ āæįµ’įµ— įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ įµ‡įµ‰ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–Źø įµ—įµ’ į¶ ā±āæįµˆ Ź°ā±įµĖ¢įµ‰Ė”į¶  Ź·įµƒįµā±āæįµ ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ›įµ‰Ź°ā±į¶œĖ”įµ‰ įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ įµƒŹ³įµāø“ įµƒĖ”Ė¢įµ’ āæįµƒįµ–įµ–ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ā€§ į“¬įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢į¶œā±įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ į¶ įµƒā±Ź³āø“ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø Ė¢įµƒŹ· į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ–įµƒŹ³įµā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµƒįµ— įµƒāæįµˆ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³ā€§ "į“®įµ’įµ—Ź° įµ‡įµ’ŹøĖ¢ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ā€§" "į“µ'įµ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź·įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ įµ€Ź°įµ‰ į¶œįµƒŹ³ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰Ė¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ "į““įµ’Ź·įµˆŹøāø“ Źø'įµƒĖ”Ė”!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź³įµ˜įµ‡įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰Ė¢ā€§ "į““ā±āø“ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø!" į“µāæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ‰įµƒāæ įµ—ā±įµįµ‰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµ‡įµ’įµįµ‡įµƒŹ³įµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒįµ— įµ˜įµ–ā€§ į““įµ‰ į‘«įµ˜ā±į¶œįµĖ”Źø Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—'Ė¢ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰āæā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°ā€§ "į“æįµ‰įµƒįµˆŹø į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" įµ€Ź°įµ‰Źø įµƒĖ”Ė” Ź·įµ‰āæįµ—āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµįµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā±āæįµ į‘«įµ˜ā±įµ‰įµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰įµįµ‡įµƒŹ³Ź³įµƒĖ¢Ė¢įµįµ‰āæįµ—ā€§ "į“¬ įµ–įµ’įµ—įµƒįµ—įµ’ įµ–įµ’Ź·įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµā±āæįµ į¶œĖ”įµ’į¶œįµā€½" "į“¼Ź° Ė”įµ’įµ’įµ įµƒįµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ›įµ’Ė”į¶œįµƒāæįµ’ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œįµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµįµ’Ź³įµ‰ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ‰Ź³įµ›įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæ įµ˜Ė¢įµ˜įµƒĖ”āø“ įµˆįµ‰įµ‡įµƒįµ—ā±āæįµ Ź·Ź°įµ‰įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµ’Ź³ āæįµ’įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ–Ź³įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ ā±Ė¢Ė¢įµ˜įµ‰ā€§ "į“¼Ź° įµ—Ź°įµ‰Źø įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ įµƒįµ˜įµ—įµ’įµįµƒįµ—ā±į¶œ į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ—įµ˜āæįµ‰ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė”ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Źøįµ’įµ˜ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³ ā±āæ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ’į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ’Ź·āæ ā±āæįµ›įµ‰āæįµ—ā±įµ’āæĖ¢!" "įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ— įµˆįµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰Źø įµā±įµ›įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź·ā±āæāæįµ‰Ź³?" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ–įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ į¶ ā±āæįµƒĖ”Ė”Źøā€§ "į“ŗįµ’įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµā€§" "į“¼Ź°ā€§" "į“¬ Ė¢įµ‰Ė”į¶  įµˆŹ³ā±įµ›ā±āæįµ įµ‡įµ’įµƒįµ—ā€½" į“±įµ›įµ‰āæįµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œįµ’āæįµ›įµ‰āæįµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµ‰āæįµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‰āæįµˆ įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµˆįµƒŹøā€§ "į“øįµ‰įµ—'Ė¢ į¶ ā±āæįµˆ įµƒ įµ–Ė”įµƒį¶œįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹø į¶ įµ’Ź³ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ā€§" į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµ—Ź°įµ‰Źø'įµˆ įµįµ’ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ‰Ė£įµ— įµˆįµƒŹøā€§ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø įµƒāæįµˆ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøįµ‰įµˆ ā±āæ įµƒ Ź³įµ’įµ’įµ įµƒįµˆŹ²įµƒį¶œįµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒāæįµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒįµįµ‰ Ź³įµ’įµ’įµā€§ "į”†įµ’ į¶œįµƒāæ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµˆ įµ’Ź³ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė” įµįµ‰ įµƒ Ė¢įµ—įµ’Ź³Źø į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" "į“±Ė£į¶œįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ įµįµ‰ā€½" "į“¼Ź° Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œįµƒāæ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė¢ā±āæįµ ā±āæĖ¢įµ—įµ‰įµƒįµˆ ā±į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜'įµˆ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ā€§ā€§" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ āæįµ’āø“ įµƒįµ‡Ė¢įµ’Ė”įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ė”Źø āæįµ’įµ—ā€§" įµ€Ź°įµ‰Źø įµ‡įµ’įµ—Ź° įµāæįµ‰Ź· Ź°įµ‰ įµˆā±įµˆāæ'įµ— āæįµ‰į¶œįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢įµƒŹ³ā±Ė”Źø āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ ā±įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°ā€§ "į“µ įµˆįµ’įµ˜įµ‡įµ— į“µ'Ė”Ė” įµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "ā€§ā€§ā€§į”†Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–? į“®įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ–įµ— įµ’āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź·įµƒŹøāø“ Źøįµ‰įµ— įµƒįµįµƒā±āæ Ź³ā±įµˆā±āæįµ į¶œįµƒāæ Ė”įµ˜Ė”Ė” įµƒāæŹø įµ–įµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’ įµƒ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ—į¶ įµ˜Ė” Ė¢Ė”įµ˜įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³ā€§ į“¬āæįµˆ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµˆā±įµˆ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ˜Ė¢ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”Źøā€§" "į“·ā±įµˆ į“µ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ–įµ‰įµƒį¶œįµ‰ įµƒāæįµˆ į‘«įµ˜ā±ā€” į¶œįµƒŹ³ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ–Ė¢ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµ’į¶ įµ—įµ‰āæ įµ—ā±Ź³įµ‰ įµįµ‰ įµ’įµ˜įµ—! Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµā±įµŹ°įµ—āø“ ā±į¶  įµƒāæŹøā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—Ź³įµƒā±Ė”Ė¢ įµ’į¶ į¶  Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ’Ź· āæįµ’įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ ā±āæįµˆįµ‰į¶ ā±āæā±įµ—įµ‰ Ź³įµƒįµįµ‡Ė”įµ‰Ė¢ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— įµˆįµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµā€§ "įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ—?" "į“µ įµįµ‰įµƒāæįµ— įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµƒŹøāø“ Ź°įµ’Ź· įµįµƒāæŹø įµ—ā±įµįµ‰Ė¢ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—Ź³įµƒįµ›įµ‰Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆĖ¢?" "į“¼Ź° į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į“µ į¶œįµƒāæ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė” Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ’āæāø“ įµƒāæįµˆ įµ’āæā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė”ā±Ė¢įµ—įµ‰āæĖ¢āø“ į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė”ā±āæįµ ā±įµ— Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµā±āæįµā€§ā€§ā€§ "ā€§ā€§ā€§į”†įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæā€§ā€§ā€§ ā€§ā€§ā€§į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė”ā±āæįµ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œįµ‰Ė¢ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³ā±āæįµā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæĖ¢ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ Ź·Ź°įµ’ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“¼Ź°ā€§ā€§" Ā» š°šØš«š šœšØš®š§š­ | šŸ–šŸ‘šŸ‘
I āœŠ just šŸ˜– put šŸ˜¶ my āœŠ newborn šŸ‘¶ son šŸ‘¦ into šŸ‘‡ a šŸ˜¹ blender šŸ‘‹šŸ‘‹
DAMN!! That's the most šŸ‘ GYATT-SLAPPING, šŸ¤ÆRIZZ-tingling thing I've ever heard! Now can you PLEASE tell me more, because I'm SO HOOKED into this [topic name here]! Most people might say I have an unnerving obsession with it, but I deny it. Like, is it really weird how I'm obsessed with it? There's billions of other people in the world who probably have other weirder interests then mine, ok? If you šŸ«µšŸ«µšŸ«µ object then you might be one step closer to achieving world destruction like hitler, buddy. Do you really want that? Think about your actions. šŸ¤”šŸ¤”šŸ¤”
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They found themselves in the bustling lobby of the ocean's most renowned medical center, the Coral Reef Clinic. "You'll be fine," Karen assured, voice steady. "They're the best in the sea." Finally, a nurse called. She gave an encouraging smile. "I'll be right here. You're not in this alone." The doctor examined Plankton's throat. "My Plankton," he said, "you need a tonsillectomy." A tonsillectomy? The thought of surgery was more terrifying than facing SpongeBob and Patrick combined. But he nodded. "Okay," he whispered. The doctor explained the procedure Plankton nodded along. Karen listened intently. The doctor assured them it was a common procedure and that Plankton would be in good hands. Karen packed a bag with his favorite blanket and a few snacks, trying to keep her own anxiety in check. "Ready?" she asked, voice filled with forced cheerfulness. Plankton took a breath and nodded. Karen gave him a reassuring smile, and together they set off for the clinic. Once they arrived, Plankton was immediately whisked to a pre-op room. The nurse explained the process again. Karen stayed by his side, in silent support. The anesthetic began, and the world grew fuzzy around the edges. The last thing Plankton heard was the doctor's calming voice. "You're going to be just fine, Plankton. We'll take good care of you." Then, everything went dark. When he woke up, the world was a whirl. His throat felt as though someone had stuffed it with seaweed. He tried to sit up, but his body felt like it was made of jelly. Plankton blinked slowly, struggling to focus. Karen chuckled softly. "That's the anesthesia, Plankton. It'll wear off soon." The nurse adjusted his pillows and offered him water. The cool liquid trickled down his throat, soothing. Plankton took a moment to settle before speaking again. "Did it...did it work?" "They got 'em out, Plankton. Your tonsils are no more." Plankton's eye widened. "Really?" Karen nodded again, smile growing. "Yes, really. You're on the mend now." Plankton's eye searched the room, still cloudy from the anesthesia. He spotted his favorite blanket folded neatly at the hospital bed. "Did you bring that?" he asked, voice slurred. "Of course," Karen said, her tone warm and soothing. "I knew it would make you feel better." The nurse, noticing his confusion, leaned in closer. "The anesthesia can make you feel a bit loopy for a while, it's completely normal." Plankton nodded, his movements slow and deliberate. "So, these are the... used to...to take them out?" Karen nodded, trying not to smile at his bewildered state. "They're just tools, Plankton. You won't remember anything. It's all over now." He blinked again, his eyelid feeling heavier than ever. "But...but how will I eat?" he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. "Don't worry," Karen said, stroking his forehead gently. "They'll start you on a soft diet, like algae smoothies." Plankton's eye drooped, a lazy grin spread across his face. "Algae...smoothies? Sounds...sounds delightful." His words trailed off, his eyelid grew heavy. Karen watched as he drifted to sleep. Despite his usual scheming ways, she knew he was good at heart. And she was determined to be there for him, every step of the way. As he slept, she took his hand in hers, gently stroking his arm. The nurse gave her a knowing look. "He'll be out for a few hours," she said softly. "Why don't you go get some fresh air?" Karen nodded, giving Plankton's hand a final squeeze before letting go. She made her way to the waiting area, thoughts swirling like the currents outside. The surgery had been a success, but the road to recovery would be a long one. She hoped he'd be ok. Plankton was still sleeping, breathing even. She looked over at him, his tiny form swaddled in the blanket. The room was quiet, save for the occasional beep of the heart monitor and the distant sound of water gently lapping against the shore. Karen leaned over and whispered, "Plankton, can you hear me?" He stirred slightly, eye fluttering open. "Karen?" croaked his voice barely audible. "I'm here. How do you feel?" Plankton's eye searched hers with a dull weariness. "Tired," he murmured. "But...it's gone?" "Yes, gone. You're going to start feeling better." The nurse, noticing Plankton awake, came over to check on him. She adjusted the monitors and took his vitals, confirming that everything was as it should be. "Looks like you're all set to go home," she said with a smile. "But remember, take it easy for the next few days." Karen lit up at the news. She gathered things, eager to get Plankton out and back to the comfort of the cafe. The nurse helped him into a wheelchair, and they began the journey to the exit. Once outside, the sun begun its descent. Karen pushed the wheelchair slowly, not wanting to jar him too much on the cobblestone path leading to their underwater vehicle. Plankton squinted against the light, eye still adjusting. Their ride home was quiet, the hum of the engine lulling Plankton to a doze. When they pulled into the cafe's docking area, Plankton stirred, his eye blinking open. They reached the small living area, and Karen helped Plankton into his favorite chair, tucked his blanket around him, making sure he was comfortable. He looked up at her with a tired smile, his eye shimmering with gratitude. "Thank you, Karen," he whispered, voice hoarse from the surgery. "No need to thank me," she replied, fussing over him. "I'm just happy you're ok." Plankton's eye searched hers, confusion swirling. "But...what happened?" "You had your tonsillectomy, Plankton remember?" Plankton's eye searched hers, the confusion deepening. "No," he croaked. "The last thing I remember is...being in pain." Karen's heart squeezed at the distress in his voice. "You don't remember the surgery?" Plankton shook his head, his eye wide with shock. "No, it's all...fuzzy. What happened?" Karen took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. "Well, you went into surgery, and the doctors removed your tonsils. You've been asleep for a few hours." Plankton's eye grew wide. "Asleep?" he squeaked. "How could I have not known?" Karen nodded, stroking his arm gently. "It's the anesthesia.." Plankton's mind reeled, trying to piece together the events of the last few hours. Everything was a blur, a series of disjointed images and sounds that didn't quite make sense. He remembered the doctor's. But the surgery? It was as if it had never happened. He looked over at Karen. She had a smile on her face, as if she could read his thoughts. "You were out like a light," she said, voice soothing. "What's with the blanket?" "It's for your comfort," Karen said. "You're going to need to rest your voice." Plankton leaned back in the chair, eye drifting closed again. "I feel so...so peculiar," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Like I've been swimming in a sea of bubbles." Karen chuckled. "It's anesthesia," she said. "You're acting like you've had one too many jellyfish jams." "Everything's spinning," he slurred, his speech still not quite right. Karen couldn't help but laugh with amusement. "Plankton. It'll wear off soon enough." Plankton's eye grew wide, and he tried to sit up, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. "Karen, I think...I think I'm floating," he said with wonder. Karen couldn't help but laugh. "You're not floating, Plankton. You're just still a bit out of it from anesthesia." "I swear, I can feel the bubbles!" Plankton giggled, his eye trying to follow invisible orbs floating in the air. His movements grew more exaggerated. "Look, Karen I'm swimming!" "Plankton, you're not floating," she said, her voice a gentle tease. "You're safe and sound." He looked at her with a goofy grin, eye still glazed over. "But I feel so...so light," he said, his voice trailing off into a giggle. "Like I could float." Karen couldn't help but smile at his silliness. It was a stark contrast to the fear and anxiety that consumed him earlier. "You're not going anywhere, Plankton," she said. "You need rest." "It's just...it's all so weird," he murmured, eye drifting shut again. "You're just tired," Karen said, her voice soothing. "Why don't you take a little nap?" Without another word, Plankton's eye slid shut, body slack. Karen watched him, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. She knew for now, he was at peace. Karen pulled the blanket up to his chin. She didn't want to leave his side. As hours passed, Plankton's snores grew softer. The sun sank below the horizon. Karen felt tension ease as she watched him sleep. When Plankton finally stirred again, the room was bathed in the soft glow of the moon through the windows. His eye blinked open, free of the anesthesia's haze. He looked around, his gaze settling on Karen. "Where...where am I?" Karen sat up. "You're home, Plankton," she said, voice gentle. "You had your tonsillectomy today." Confusion swam in Plankton's eye as he took in his surroundings. He felt a dull ache in his throat, a stark reminder of the day's events. "Home?" he croaked. Karen nodded. "You've been sleeping for a while," she said, her voice a gentle caress. "How do you feel?" "Thirsty," he managed to croak. Karen was at his side. She held a glass of water to his mouth, and he took a tentative sip. The cool liquid soothed his throat, and he sighed with relief. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice quiet. "What...what happened?" "You had your tonsillectomy," Karen reminded him, her tone soothing. "You're going to be ok." Plankton nodded, the reality of the situation slowly sinking in. The fear replaced by a new sensation: relief. į“”į“Ź€į“… į“„į“į“œÉ“į“›: šŸ·,šŸ¼šŸøšŸ·
NOTHING BUT THE WISDOM TRUTH iv "Thanks for staying." Mr. Krabs nodded, his eyes lingering on the sleeping Plankton. "Of course," he said gruffly. "Can't have you two dealing it alone." Karen tucked the blankets around him, smoothing out the wrinkles with a gentle hand. The next day, Plankton woke, all traces of anesthesia worn off, cheeks tender to the touch. He vaguely remembered surgery, but everything after was a blur. "Morning," Karen said. She sat beside the bed, her screen warm with concern. "How are you feeling?" Plankton blinked. "K-Karen?" he asked. "Whath's...what happened?" "You had wisdom teeth removed, darling," she said softly. "You're going to be fine." The memory of surgery rushed back to Plankton in fragmentsā€”the operating room, machines, and then Karen holding his hand as he woke up. Wincing, he reached to tentatively touch his swollen face, the pain a reminder of his ordeal. Karen noticed his discomfort and handed him water. "Take it slow," she advised, watching him intently. Plankton took a sip, the cool liquid soothing. He leaned back into the pillows with a sigh. "Do you remember surgery?" she asked, stroking his arm. "It's all a bit fuzzy," he admitted. "Just going in, waking up. Going in the car to drive home? But nothing else.." The surgery had gone well. Karen knew Plankton and Krabs had a frenemy relationship, at best; but she had never considered the possibility that Plankton could harbor any genuine feelings for the crab, delirious or not. Now, as she watched him suffer, she debated whether to tell him. Would it help? Would it hurt? She didn't know. But Plankton's curiosity was piqued. "What's going on?" he asked, trying to read her expression. "Did I do something weird?" "It's nothing," she said, forcing a laugh. "Just the usual post-surgery confusion." Plankton's eye wandered around the room, and his gaze landed on a bouquet of jellyfish on the nightstand. "Who sent those?" he asked, his voice still hoarse. Karen looked at the jellyfish, then back at him. "Mr. Krabs," she said. Plankton's eyebrow shot up. "Krabs? Why would he send me jellyfish?" Plankton's eye narrowed slightly. "Does he know about the surgery?" he asked, a hint of concerned horror in his voice. Karen nodded, "I didn't know who else to turn to," she said, her voice filled with a mix of gratitude and trepidation, her voice wavering slightly, "after you were admitted, I called him. I didn't know who else to call for help. You know, with the recovery necessities." Plankton felt his stomach drop. He had hoped that his arch-nemesis, Mr. Krabs, had been blissfully unaware of his weakened state. The thought of Krabs even knowing he was laid up and helpless was more than he could bear. "You called Krabs?" he croaked, disbelief etched into his features. Karen nodded again, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. "He was the only one I could think of who could help us. And he was so kind, Plankton. He didn't even make fun of you." Plankton's mind raced. The mere thought of Krabs seeing him in such a vulnerable condition was almost too much to handle. He had always prided himself on being the smarter, more cunning one, the one who could outwit Krabs at every turn. Now, here he was, unable to chew, looking like a balloon with legs, and being witnessed by the very crab he had spent his life trying to outdo. "What did he see?" Plankton managed to ask, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. Karen looked surprised. "What do you mean?" "I mean, what did he see me?" Plankton's voice grew more urgent, the fear of humiliation coloring his words. "He saw you sleeping," she said gently. "But you were out of it. You don't have to worry about him." Plankton felt a wave of embarrassment. "How did I look?" "Looked like you were sleeping peacefully," Karen said, trying to reassure him. But she knew that wasn't what he wanted to hear. He wanted to hear that he looked strong, in control, not like the blubbering mess he actually was. Plankton sighed, the sound a sad, defeated hiss. "I can't believe you called him," he said, his voice filled with a mix of pain and annoyance. Karen's hand tightened on his shoulder. "I had to," she said firmly. "You needed someone, and he was the only one I could think of who would help." Plankton's gaze fell to the bouquet of jellyfish. "I hope I didn't budge or talk?" he asked, his voice tight. Karen squeezed his hand. "You were completely out of it," she assured him. "He said you looked tired." Plankton's eye searched hers for any hint of mockery, but all he found was sincerity. He took a deep breath, the pain in his cheeks flaring up, and nodded. He knew he had to accept help, but the thought of Krabs knowing he was down, even for a moment, was maddening. He shifted, trying to find a position that didn't make his mouth throb. "What else happened, with Krabs?" he asked, his voice strained. "He just dropped off the jellyfish and said to tell you to get better soon," Karen said, not giving answers. "I've said all I can say." The silence grew tense as Plankton's mind whirled with scenarios of what Krabs might have seen or heard. He knew his rival had a knack exploiting weakness, and he couldn't let his guard down, even in a state like this. He had to recover quickly, be sharp, to ensure that Krabs didn't use this moment of vulnerability against him. He also knew Karen's not gonna tell him whatever went down. Karen, noticing his discomfort, decided to change the subject. "I'll go grab some ice cream for you," she offered, standing up. "It'll help with the swelling, but don't do anything foolish while I'm gone." Plankton nodded, his thoughts racing. As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, he began to formulate a plan. He had to speak to Krabs, to make sure there were no misunderstandings, no ammo for future taunts. Wincing, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, using the momentum to stand up. He wobbled for a moment, his head spinning, but steadied himself against the wall. In his office at the krusty krab, Mr. Krabs sat at the table, sipping a cup of tea and staring at the floor. He had hoped Plankton's odd behavior was just the drugs talking, but deep down, he couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted between them. He had felt a strange warmth when Plankton had called him 'my dearest friend' in his delirious state. But friends? That was a concept that seemed as foreign to him as a day without the Krabby Patty. He sighed, setting the cup down. It was nonsense, of course. Plankton was just confused. He had to be. After all, they had spent years in a cutthroat competition, stealing ideals, customers, the occasional secret ingredient. The thought of Plankton actually caring for him was absurd. But as he sat, Krabs couldn't help but feel a twinge of something he hadn't felt in a long timeā€”awkward. But Plankton wasn't one to let things go easily. After a few moments of gathering his strength, he shuffled out of the bedroom, the pain in his mouth a distant second to the urgency of his mission. He goes to the Krusty Krab. He pushed open the door to the restaurant, the bell jingling overhead. Mr. Krabs looked up from his ledger, his heart skipping a beat as he saw Plankton stumble in. "What are you doing here?" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "You should be resting!" Plankton's eye narrowed, his jaw clenched in pain. "I need to talk to you," he ground out, each word a challenge. Mr. Krabs' claws clutched the edge of the table, twitching nervously. "Sure, sure," he said, trying to sound casual. "What's on your mind?" "Not here," Plankton hissed, gesturing to the open restaurant. The last thing he wanted was for their conversation to be overheard by prying ears, especially not by customers. Mr. Krabs, visibly confused, nodded and led him out back. The tension in the air was palpable. "Alright, what's so important?" he asked, trying to keep his cool. Plankton took a deep breath, his cheeks flushing with pain. "What did I say to you after the surgery?" he demanded, his voice gruff. "What do you mean?" he stalled, heart racing. Plankton's voice was low and intense. "You know what I mean," he said. "What happened at the house?" Mr. Krabs' eyes searched Plankton's for any hint of a bluff, but found only pain and determination. He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his secret lift slightly. "You don't remember?" he asked, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. Plankton's gaze was unwavering. "I remember enough," he said, voice tight. "I just know you were there. Don't gloat. Spill." Mr. Krabs looked at him, realization sinking in. He met Plankton's gaze. "You were in a bit of pain," he said, his voice carefully measured. "You were talking nonsense." "What kind of nonsense?" he demanded. Mr. Krabs took a step back, his eyes darting around the alleyway. "Oh, you know, the usual post-surgery babble," he said, trying to play it off. "Nothing important." But Plankton wasn't buying it. He could see relief in Krabs' eyes, and it made him more nervous. "I need to know," he insisted, his voice hoarse. "What did I say?" Mr. Krabs took a deep breath, his claws drumming on the counter. "Said something about how we've been through a lot together?" But Pearl, Mr. Krabs' daughter, interrupted, wandering in, phone in hand, scrolling through images. "Daddy!" she exclaimed. "Look what I found on the phone!" Mr. Krabs' heart sank as he realized what's happening. He turned to see Pearl holding up a phone showing a photo of Plankton, post-surgery, asleep with his head resting on Krabs' elbow.
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