《Short Story of Diary Writing》


 Observation in the Room

    For how did I get here¡­I don¡¯t know.


    Every day they ask me ¡°Write what you¡¯ve seen. Or no dinner today.¡± Every single time I did write, but no dinner ever comes on the small window beside the door.


    I have been asking where my dinner was. I know I did write something. But the masked man through the sliding peephole telling me I¡¯m liar because nothing was written there. I think which was odd; they have eyes but they are not seeing what the words on my writing pad. Even the drawings of my friends which took hours to draw.


    And yes I said ¡°They¡± because every time it¡¯s a different person wearing the mask. Whispering of my friends confirm it every time. They have been asking me if I wanted the masked man to not peek anymore. I always shook my head, not wanting anyone to be gone.


    One time on the heat of the moment, I¡¯ve pointed it out to them in writing pad they had given me, ¡°There! There! Can¡¯t you see it?¡±


    ¡°No. I can¡¯t see anything.¡± The masked man said and it will get out of the peephole.


    Screeeak. The peephole says whenever they slowly slide it.


    And mumbles of ¡°Experiment No. 52 failed again¡± was always being said.


    <hr>


    It¡¯s been awhile since I¡¯ve been here. They still trying to make me write or draw. I draw but they can¡¯t see it. I wonder when will they see it?


    The only comfort was the feeling of my friends in this dark place. Some always whispering things at my ears. Some are always hiding under my bed or on the corner of the room whenever the masked man opens the peep hole.


    Are the masked people always this scary? I always asked myself. I never tried to ask them, because they looked terrified whenever I mention the masked man.


    Squeaking of the window caught my attention. A food tray was already there.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    I walked there using my two hands and feet. My back was hurting I can¡¯t stand upright what I used to be.


    I grasped the tray and went to my bed.


    My friends got out of their hiding place. Now playing in front of me.


    The Whispering Sound was near my ear beckoning me to get out of here. I shook my head. ¡°I can¡¯t. My parents might find me here.¡± I hope they understand. But the longer I stay here their whispers getting louder, deeper than ever before.


    One day I know I have to get out of here when Mom and Dad don¡¯t find me here. They always find me anywhere I go. They always did. Maybe I should find another hiding place. This is a very dark place afterall, it must really hard to find me here.


    Using my hands, I grabbed the food on the tray. And started eating. I accidentally bit my hand. My teeth have been sharper lately. I carefully chewed on, so that I can¡¯t bite my lips. It¡¯s hard. I wonder when will my teeth stop growing?


    One of my friends moved. Or swayed will be more correct to what she has been doing this whole time.


    She¡¯s already here when I first got here. I tried to talk to her once but it¡¯s the gurgling sound was all was she¡¯s saying.


    It¡¯s odd that she¡¯s always in the middle of the room, in the ceiling, not moving much. Her head seemed in a forever sleeping position, always on the left side.


    She slowly turned around.


    I stopped eating. She never did that before.


    ¡°Grrrrkaaaah¡­aaaakkkkk.¡±


    It¡¯s the same gurgling sound.


    ¡°Giiiit¡­akkkk¡±


    I shook my head. I can¡¯t still understand her.


    I looked at her, her eyes look familiar.


    I looked at my hand. The same color of the leaves slowly oozing out of it.


    It¡¯s the same color as her eyes.


    I slowly raised my injured hand to her. I offer some of my food to her.


    ¡°You hungry?¡±


    I¡¯ve never seen them eat before. Maybe this time they would eat.


    A slow screeching sound was heard again. Soft light coming out from it.


    My hanging friend disappeared. I can¡¯t find her anywhere.


    I looked at the peep hole. The masked man is there again.


    ¡°Write.¡±


    The window by the door opened and a different writing pad was there. This time larger.


    ¡°Or no dinner.¡±


    The peep hole was closed. The masked man gone.


    I looked at the writing pad.


    I don¡¯t know what to write or draw anymore. I¡¯ve already write my past friends, my parents, my grandparents, the talking eyes, the house and our dog.


    I walk using my hands to the window and grabbed the writing pad.


    Should I write about the neighbors?


    I grabbed the pencil.


    And wrote:


    "Mr. and Mrs. Durnsham are my neighbors. They give me cookies whenever Mom and Dad are away for work. Their house is big like our house. I always play with their son Vincent. They always let me play with him. They said they are happy that I can see him. One time, they said someone told them that they can see their child again. They told me they need the help of my other friends for it."


    I can¡¯t remember it all. What should I write next?


    The Whispering Sound is getting louder. I heard a snap. And my pencil broke.


    Looking at the broken pencil, I guess Ican''t write anymore.


    Maybe this is okay. Maybe they will see it this time.


    I put it on the window again. And looked for my friends.

 The Case of his Great Uncle

    We¡¯ve lived in a societal norms formed by our ancestors who defied the odds of survival, but here we are doing mindless things for comfort over human development. Incels as they call us. We thrive in the world of meaningless pattern; be born, be educated, go out in the world and be disappointed. We tried conforming to societal expectations; doing the same things again and again from morning until noon; clocking in and clocking out to that mechanical contraption they call Time Clock.


    Oh yes indeed. The people who you call ¡°Boss¡± will pay in a form of cheque, but in its exchange will be the hopes and dreams of the child in you will disappear.


    That¡¯s why my dear. I prayed to a God; tried to find him in the depths of the sea where he sleeps. Unleashing the Lord would give us the hope for mankind. The hope of release from these pitiful sorrows.


    The hope of becoming all and becoming none.


    Cyprian was reading the diary of his dead great uncle, Luduvico Mckinnon; a history professor of University of R¡¯lyeh. It was most rumblings about a Deep Sea God and his search for it. As he read deeper unto the pages, the penmanship became more excited giving clues to the state of his Uncle¡¯s apparent madness.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    He was attending the University of Roloa when he received the call of his Great Uncle¡¯s passing. His shock hadn¡¯t been subsided until he saw the coffins of his Great Uncle. The professor had been in great health, no signs of dementia nor signs of impending schizophrenia whenever he called him through the old telephone.


    The coroner was puzzled with his Uncle¡¯s body. There were no signs of trauma in body, no signs of struggle nor clear indication that will shed light to his Uncle¡¯s passing.  The coroner only confirmed that it seems the heart suddenly stopped.


    He was in the room to look for clues as to what happened to his jolly and adventurous Great Uncle.


    In the latter parts on the diary are scrambling and rumblings of the Great Old One. Drawings of unknown origins, clippings of old newpaper articles of disappearances were attached to it.


    One of the clippings had the picture of the cadavers that had sticky skin almost jelly like. The eyes which are blackened on the Editor¡¯s attempt of cover were oval almost circle protruding from the dead man¡¯s eye sockets.


    The event happened in 3<sup>rd</sup> of May, 1920.


    It¡¯s already been a century from these clippings, he thought.


    Investigating an event happened eons ago will prove none to his search for clues.


    He turned another page of the old diary. An article containing ¡°Disappearances¡± was stapled on the diary¡¯s page. A red ink was encircled to the word ¡°Rhode Island¡±.