jordanmademedoit

I was reading downstairs on the couch when I heard the noise. It wasn't a loud noise, and it wasn't one I could pinpoint right away. But as soon as I saw the hair raise on my dog's back, I knew something was wrong. Very wrong. I could feel it—the queer feeling resonating through the air, raising the hair on the back of my neck, and sending a shiver up my spine. I froze, my eyes still staring at my book, but no longer taking in the words. Someone was in my house. I don't know if it was the occasional whisper of a sound that I heard, or the animalistic instinct that there was an intruder that convinced me of this fact, but I was as sure

The doors were all locked . . . from the outside. "Impossible . . ." She breathed, fumbling with the side of the door, searching for something, anything at all to get the door open. The pouring rain outside pelted against the windows. "This is crazy. . . This can't be happening . . ." She wiped her sweaty palms on her now equally drenched sweater. Tears welled up in her eyes. "Oh my God this can't be real . . ." She looked out of the window, squinting, trying to blink away the sweat running into her eyes. So far, nothing to suggest a train would be coming. She quickly resumed her search for escape. Vividly, the memory returned to her. She

Closed and small and cold, lost behind the small locked door, tangled, poisoned vines, more present than ever before. The moon hangs low, trapped in space, Echoing her broken face, while dark, dank clouds cover the skies, Made of guilt, sadness, and lies. Rain like tears pour from the sky Preventing fragile, dusty wings to take off, soar, and fly. But a strange new feeling, foreign and strong, Sneaks through the door, As a sound, a song. New bars of notes never heard before, burst through the cold, hard door. The chains of vines, thorned and charred, try to stop it, but find it hard. The feeling goes on, growing lar

Great powerful gusts rush over the endless expanse of golden grass, making them sway to Heaven's song. Warm, powerful, the sweet smelling breeze dances over the Earth, urging all in it's path to follow it, pulling up loosened particles of Earth's skin, intertwining with the leaves of the trees. Shaking them, waking them up. So very much alive, the expressive force pours all of itself into everything around it, filling all of Earth's creatures with the compelling urge to sing, to dance, to move with the flow and current of the wind. Made up of pure adrenaline, knowing only the sound of whispers, screams, and the pounding beat o

It starts like a tickle. It tricks you into thinking it will soon pass. It comes and goes, like a teasing wave on a nearly dry shore. A throb. A pulse. The edges of the pain are fuzzy, as if it simply faded into numbness. The tickle grows with time, and, like a tickle, grows into something more sinister. The sharp slices racing through your skull render you unable to think, to speak, to move. An endlessness settles in, making itself at home. The feeling that you will forever be trapped in this torturous state of being burrows itself into your soul, filling you, drowning you, with dread. Pinpricks of light assault your vision, and you fee