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About Literature / Hobbyist Member weekendhunters24/Male/Malaysia Group :iconwe-the-writers: We-The-Writers
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Sorry I haven't been around for months. Really, months. I just realized recently. I guess it's due to the fact that I have writers' block, which means I have no stories to write about, which also means I don't really have much of a good reason to visit dA, since I have no stories to publish and the feedback I can receive for them.

Anyway, another reason I haven't been around is I'm in the middle of an internship program, so I'm kind of distracted with work most of the time.

And another, and more important reason, is I got one of my stories published for real. How did this begin, you ask? Well, you see, my friend (who's a slam poet) shared a Facebook status from a local publisher, who were looking for local writers to contribute for their upcoming English horror anthology story. So I quickly contacted the publisher (through WhatsApp, since they're really slow to replying about anything on Facebook).

I then fixed one of the longest stories I have here, The Rotting Man, that the final version is so different from the original version, with the help of some of my friends, and submitted it. So, the publisher accepted it, and now this:


The only catch, though, is that they're not going to print any hard copies of this anthology. Instead, they're going to publish it as an ebook for free on December 10. You can download it from their app, Lejen App, which is available on both Android and iOS. So if you're interested, you can download and read the new, improved version of the Rotting Man. There are other stories, but read mine too.
  • Listening to: Belle & Sebastian
1. Answer the questions.
2. Tag at least two people.
3. Have fun, and make the answers as short or as long as you like!

1. When did you discover you enjoyed writing?
When I was in school, I guess. English class was sort of a stress relief for me, since I get to read and write in class. It wasn't until I decided to start writing for myself, rather than for class, that I truly realized how fun it was.

2. What are your strengths in writing?
Hm. I guess my strengths include the ability to think out of the box when it comes to new stories, and coming up with slightly different ideas for my stories. And I'm good in writing dialogue.

3. What are your weaknesses in writing?
I don't have any weaknesses, I'm perfect.

Okay, just kidding. From the comments I've received, it seems I have a problem with inconsistent tenses, also, my stories can be a bit cliche from time to time. I'm also trying to get rid of my tendency of using cliffhangers to end a story, it felt like a cheap cop-out.

4. What is your favourite genre to write in?
Hm. Right now, it's horror. I'm trying to figure out how to write like one, and maybe deliver some really good scares instead of a cheap feeling of apprehension or dread. Sometimes when I'm really emotional I'd write a slice-of-life piece.

5. Do you consider yourself a good writer?
No, not really. There are better writers than me out there. I'm getting there.

6. Do you like to let a lot of people in real life read your work?
No, I haven't shown any of my writings to my friends and family just yet.

7. How often do you write?
Not enough. The last thing I wrote was published on September 8, which is almost four weeks now. It seems my work is rather sporadic lately, due to work and inability to come up with anything new.

8. Who are your favourite authors and why?
Oh yeah. H.P. Lovecraft, Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Harry Turtledove, Kurt Vonnegut, and Neil Gaiman mostly. Of course I've read the classics, but I usually actively search out titles by these guys.

9. Do you have any OC's? If so, describe your favourite ones.
Used to have my own OCs but I sort of quit writing about them. It's embarrassing to look at them now.

10. Do you write fan-fiction? If so, for which fandoms?
Nah, I don't.

11. Do you prefer writing by hand or typing?
Typing. It's faster and easier, not to mention that my handwriting's atrocious.

12. Are you a huge critic when it comes to writing?

Well, on my own or other people's writing?

I'd say I'm my own critic, but I tend to be incredibly permissive towards other people's stories, but I have my limits. If I read a really crap story I'll just leave it and don't bother criticizing at all.

13. What format do you like to write in the most? (Prose, short story, vignette, poetry, etc.)
Short stories. My concentration can only last that long. I'm considering writing a novel, but I don't have the time, resources or attention to do it.

14. Who do you tag?
:iconkounterpoint: and..
  • Listening to: At-The Drive In
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: strong language)

    It’s safe to say that I’ve been a fan of hardcore and punk for almost ten years now. I’ve listened to countless bands, been to countless shows, bought countless shirts and CDs, and met various people who I consider to be my friends.

    However, there’s this one guy that I usually meet at our local shows, who calls himself “Johnny Necrosis”. Johnny was different from the other guys in that he, in a scene that almost everyone wears (or have a few articles of black clothing) black, he managed to outdo them in wearing his all-black outfit of black jeans, polished black boots, black shirt, black jacket, and dyed black hair, and a fixation for anything to do with horror, from urban legends and online stories, down to novels, slasher films, and of course, horror punk.

    Safe to say, Johnny and I bonded over our mutual interests, especially over horror movies. I’d go over to his place, with his bedroom covered wall-to-wall with movie and band posters, and watch horror movies till I’ve had my fill, and he seemed to enjoy my company, since there weren’t many people around where he lived that appreciated his interests.

    It wasn’t long before I realized something about Johnny, though. He had an almost myopic obsession with horror punk, and I only realized it when I took the opportunity to look through his music collection, and was surprised on how focused he was towards the genre, which was pretty odd, since almost everyone I knew had various albums from various bands of various genres, but Johnny’s music collection was a who’s who of horror punk.

    “Say, Johnny,” I asked as I held a copy of The Misfit’s ‘Static Age’, “Don’t you have anything else other than horror stuff, man?”

    “Nuh, I don’t,” he shook his head, and looked at me cautiously, probably worried that I might drop and break it. “Put it back, man,”

    I cautiously put it back in its place, and sat down next to him. “It just seems odd, man. Most guys I know have lots of albums, you know, some hardcore here, some skate stuff there, some pop punk there…”

    “Yeah, well,” he said nervously, “I’m not like most people,”

    “Hey, that’s cool,” I said, “I’m just curious, that’s all. If you like this stuff it’s cool by me,”

    “Yeah, yeah,” he nodded, before he turned to me. “You know something?”


    “These guys,” he stood up and waved a hand at his music collection, “sing out of nothing more than what they see on horror movies and books or simply make stuff up,”

    “Yeah, that’s what most people do. What’s your point?”

    He turned around and looked at me intently. “My point is, is that these guys are simply faking it, man. All they ever do is make this stuff out of thin air. I want realism, you know. I want these guys to tell me something from experience, you know. Some real horror. Have you wondered if their lyrics would improve if they actually did it in person and then write down exactly what they felt?"

    I shifted uncomfortably on my spot on the floor, and said, “Dude, you’re freaking me out right now. Are you kidding me, man? The reason they don’t go out and do that kind of thing is because they know doing things like killing people, desecrating graves and all that kind of crap is just plain wrong in a moral sense, not to mention that you’ll get into trouble for doing that kind of thing.”

    I sat down, huffing at the inanity of his statement. “Besides, that’s the point of the whole thing, man. They’re just doing it for fun, to shock and terrify people by coming up with these songs about murder and wear face paint and nail polish and pretend to be madmen and demons just for kicks, man. It’s just entertainment,”

    Johnny sat down, defeated. “Yeah, I guess so.” He said, “But you know how great it would be if they were singing from experience?”

    “I guess,” I shrugged. Everything else went on as usual, we watched Evil Dead for the umpteenth time, raided the kitchen, hung out for a few hours, before I went home for the night.

    In the following weeks, I heard and read a series of rather distressing news around town. The first news I received was that someone had broken into Allison’s grave. Allison was a childhood friend of mine, beautiful on the inside and outside, and had died just the previous day from a bad heart.

     Her funeral was attended by almost everyone who knew her. The short period between her funeral and the break-in and the theft of her body made it especially jarring for everyone.

    A week later, they found her body again at her grave. It was exactly like the way they had left her, but it was obvious that she had been violated. Despite the requests from her friends to have the police to look into it, her parents had had enough of it, and she was buried as quickly as possible, trying to forget the misfortunes that had befallen her.

    A fortnight later, there were reports of people’s pets being kidnapped, before they found their corpses again, and it was obvious that whoever did it had beaten them up so badly that they had succumbed to their injuries. Many pet owners were outraged by what’s going on, that many took to arming themselves and locking their pets indoors, and some even requested for increased police patrols to find the suspect.

    All while this was happening, I was wondering what Johnny would make out of this. Part of me wonders if he’s actually responsible for it, but I quickly dismissed it. Sure, Johnny might have an almost unhealthy obsession with horror, sometimes he gets a bit too immersed in his fantasy and talks about wanting to do this-and-that horrible thing, but that’s just empty talk if you ask me. Everyone has that kind of thing in their mind, but they’re smart and reasonable enough to know not to do it. Johnny’s no different than the rest of them.

    The unnerving part, though, was that every time I called him during that period, it would simply go to voicemail, which was unlike him. Usually he would answer or return my calls. I even tried visiting him a few times, but each time, he’s either away or wouldn’t open the door. I even asked his parents about it, (he moved out a few years ago) and they admitted they had trouble getting in touch with him lately.

    Although confused and worried by what was going on, nothing prepared us for what happened next. One morning, as I turned on my computer and checked Facebook, I learned that someone had been stabbed and disemboweled. From what I can gather, he was leaving a pub after closing hours, was lead to a dark, isolated part of town, was stabbed a few times, and after he had died, the perpetrator then got to work, disemboweling the corpse and removed the guts.

    Some of them claimed they have pictures of the dead body, but I hesitated and decided not to view them. I’ve had enough of horror and madness in this town. I can’t even deal with another bad news, let alone seeing pictures of a disemboweled corpse.

    A few days after that, as I was checking my mail, I noticed an A4-sized enveloped jammed into my inbox, and retrieved it. All it said was that it was for me, with no stamps or any return address, so the mailer might have simply jammed it into my inbox and left.

    I took the envelope to my room, set it on my desk, and opened it. Inside the envelope was several pages’ worth of paper, with doodles of skulls and tombstones and death scenarios by the sides of the pages. The first page was a black piece of paper (typical, I know) with some cut-and paste collage of blood and skeletons by the sides of the page, and the words, “Plan Nine: Descent into Darkness”, which confirmed two things.

    First, this is definitely Johnny’s handiwork, and secondly, he probably has some material ready for an EP or something, hence the cover art and pages. And the fact that everything was hand-made confirmed who it was, since he was never big on using a computer for any of his artistic endeavors; he said it felt fake and not as sincere as something one would do with their own hands.

    I picked up the first handwritten page and read through it. It was titled, “Liberation”, and had lyrics like, “As I stood by the corner, watching them leave, watching them, who claimed they loved you, but when you needed them the most, they left you, one at a time, until there’s the two of us left. As I stood over your earthen prison, I can hear you beckoning, beckoning for me, begging to be saved…”

    Well, shit. Johnny did have some talent as a lyricist, apparently. Who knew? As I read the whole thing, I felt a strange feeling of déjà vu with what I’m reading here. Haven’t I heard of this before? The digging into the grave, the breaking of the coffin with a crowbar, and carrying off her body into the night…it’s almost like what happened to Allison, but I’m just over-thinking things. It’s possible that he had heard what had happened and simply imagined doing it himself.

    I then read the next page, titled “Embrace”. It appears to be the sequel to “Liberation”, where the eponymous character embraces his dead lover. I don’t feel like going into full detail, but basically in this song…well, the character has sex with the body he had “liberated” from the grave, and had lyrics like how beautiful her pale skin was, how smooth it felt, how different his warmth of his skin felt against the coldness or her skin, and it gets rather graphic at moments.

    I then noticed something else. In the lyrics, it mentioned biting her in the inner thighs and ears, and how, when he knew the time was up, he took a lock of her hair, and reluctantly returned her back to her grave. I’ve heard rumors that when they examined Allison’s body, they found bite marks on her ears and inner thighs, and someone had taken a lock of her hair. Despite my growing level of unease, I quickly dismissed it, reasoning that Johnny might have heard of the same rumors himself and thought it would go well with the story.

    I then read the next page, “Cries of The Small Ones”. It was basically a story about how the protagonist took out his wrath on small, innocent creatures. The lyrics were basically something like this: “As I entered the encasement, I looked at the creature’s eyes, the look of innocence, looking for mercy. Oh, how I hated that. As I stamped on their frail bodies, and hearing their cries, bought a rush of blood to my head. Oh, how dizzy I felt, dizzy with elation, dizzy with joy, and I wanted more.”

    Okay, this is fast becoming unnerving. I feel like excusing myself and saying he probably imagined himself as Godzilla attacking some Japanese town or something, but I'll be lying to myself. These lyrics were basically what Johnny had aspired to achieve: To write the perfect horror lyrics, based on true experience. All those crimes, he did it, just so he can see what it feels like.

    At this point, I’m not sure whether I should just send the whole thing to the police or to continue. To my surprise, I chose the latter. This page, titled, “The Hunt”, basically described the murder of a man he had been tracking for a few days, before taking his chance and murdering and disemboweling him.

    The lyrics, were of course, hair-raising. It detailed how he watched as the man got around his daily routine, finding that one spot that he can use to take advantage of. And once he found it, he took it, with the lyrics describing how it felt doing it, “The blade slid through the ribs, nice and smooth. Crimson blood started spurting out of him, his life ending at every single drop. His voice was gone, but his eyes begged for mercy. I cut through his skin, saw his life leaving his body, the sounds from his throat simply made me smile, and as his eyes turned white, I savored his blood from the wound…”

    I put the page down. Fucking hell, Johnny, you lunatic, I thought to myself. All this effort for a five-song EP.

    As I rubbed my face, I noticed there’s another page left inside the package.

    I wondered what it might be. Maybe it’s an explanation, like he was basically telling me that he got the lyrics from rumors and the news and that he hoped that I liked it.

    Turns out it was another page full of lyrics, called “The Proposal”.  As I read through it, a chill ran through my spine. It told, in perfect detail, about how he had sent a “beautiful proposal to a prospective partner”, and waited in the darkness as “the partner went through my carefully worded letters”, and seeing “how moved he was from the beauty of my creation,” but still, “he remained unconvinced, but I shall persuade him about the beauty of our potential partnership”.

    As I put the page down, unnerved by the content, I heard someone walking up the stairs, towards my room. I tried to move, but I sat on the floor, frozen in terror.

    Johnny emerged at my bedroom door, carrying a kitchen knife with one hand and a crazed smile on his face.

    “So, buddy,” he asked. “Do you wanna start a band with me? You could play guitar.”

Horror Punk
So I was looking at the music section on the CreepyPasta wiki and noticed just how lame the stories were; they were simply nothing more than "woo this song is demonic" or "this song drives people to suicide".

So I thought I'd write a story about a guy who has a friend who's really obsessed with horror, and felt that the songs sang by horror punk bands such as The Cramps, The Misfits, AFI, TSOL, Nerve Agents, etc, were basically nothing more than musical play-acting, and wanted the real thing.

(Yeah, I know black metal musicians waay back in the nineties did it too.)

                I was walking around the old neighborhood, the first time after being away from a long time, taking in the familiar sights; the row of houses, the plants planted by the road, the small animals wandering around the neighborhood, the still, calm air enveloping the neighborhood, before I stopped by the playground.

                I stood there for a moment, looking at the deserted, but well-maintained playground. I looked over the two badminton courts on the left of the field, and the main playground, formerly occupied by a large stone structure consisting of several tunnels, a staircase and a swing, replaced with a more modern structure made out of plastic and rubber-coated steel pipes. As I thought wistfully about the times I used to play here, my sight moved towards the extreme right corner of the playground, and I saw it.

                The old monkey bar, with a new coat of blue paint, located a little further away from the playground, beneath some tall trees enveloping the area, giving it an eerie, almost surreal feeling. It’s normal for kids to avoid playing there, not just because how creepy it was but also because it attracts mosquitoes, which can be quite a nuisance at times, until the municipal workers got rid of the surrounding bushes that acts as a breeding ground for them.

                But still none of the kids would go near it.

                Well, there was this kid. I don’t remember when I met him, but I remember the day he showed up. I was five years old, and had just arrived at the playground that evening, and was waiting for some of my friends to show up, when I saw him.

                He was dressed in black, which is pretty odd for a five-year old. He was sitting by the monkey bar, just staring at the ground. Thinking that he might be new around the area and had no friends to play with, I walked up to him and smiled.

                “Hey,” I said, “How are you?”

                The kid slowly lifted his head, and looked at me blankly with his dark eyes, obscured by his dark fringe. Although surprised, I said, “I’m so-and-so. What’s yours?”

                He didn’t answer my question; instead, he looked at me with the same vacant expression.

                “Are you new here?” I asked. “Mama said I should be friendly to new people, they could be my new friend,”

                The kid simply nodded.

                “Well…my friends will be here soon. Do you want to play with us?”

                He didn’t nod or shake his head, which confused me.

                “Well…what do you want to play first?”

                He pointed at the monkey bar.

                “You want to play at the monkey bar? Okay, who goes first?”

                He slowly, motionlessly lifted his pale left hand and pointed at me.

                “A-uh-okay,” I said nervously. I’ve always been a bit nervous around the monkey bar, its height has always been intimidating for me when I was five.

                I slowly climbed up the monkey bar, opting to pass through it from the upper side. That way, I’d have a lesser chance of falling down to the ground, and I climbed across as fast as I could.

                “There,” I said as I climbed down, “Now it’s your turn,”

                The boy didn’t say anything, and started climbing from the inside part of the monkey bar, and started climbing slowly, almost timidly, before he fell down. I quickly rushed to his aid, but instead of crying like a child our age would do, he simply walked past me and tried again. And again. He repeated it several times, until, with bloody hands and weepy eyes, managed to go across the monkey bar.

                I stood there motionlessly, in awe of his persistence. Just as I was about to congratulate him on his success, he jerked his head towards me in a sharp, sudden movement, and looked behind me in horror. As I was about to ask what horrified him so much, he started running, never turning back. I looked back in curiosity, and saw that the playground is now deserted; it was almost dusk, and quickly returned home myself. It’s possible that his parents ran a very tight ship, and returning home late, and at such a filthy state, made him worry.

                Later that night, I told my parents about the new boy I played with earlier in the evening, and they appeared to be quite surprised by it, since as far as they know, there are no new families moving into our neighborhood, especially children my age.  

                Adding to the confusion was when I went to kindergarten the next day. Apparently, when my friends reached the playground yesterday, they saw me by standing the monkey bars, looking anxiously at them, occasionally saying words of encouragement, as if someone was there. They tried calling me several times until they all went home, but to no avail.

                Unnerved by what they had told me, I started to cry uncontrollably, that they had to ask my parents to take me home. I stayed at home for a week, afflicted with a fever that caused me to wail and thrash around uncontrollably at times. After I had recovered, my parents tried to get me to play again like I used to, with a degree of success, although I now avoided the monkey bars, and always went out with my friends, instead of venturing out by myself like I used to.

                I shuddered as I thought of what had happened, and I was just about to walk away, the same boy, from twenty years back, stood at the exact same spot I met him for the first time. Only, this time, when he saw me, he started smiling, showing a row of perfectly black teeth.

                “You came back,” he said cheerfully, and before I could react, he grabbed me and led me to the monkey bar once again. “I’ve been waiting for so long,”

                “Why me?” I asked.

                “Because you’re my friend,” he said, looking at me with those pitch-black eyes.

                Oh fuck, I thought to myself.

                As we arrived at the monkey bars, he looked at me, and said, “You climb,”

                I gulped. Even if they’re not as intimidating as they used to be, what happened here still added to my apprehension, but slowly, steadily, I climbed up the steps, and began swinging through the bars, the boy, whatever it is, kept looking at me as I did that, a look of ravenous interest on his face.

                Somehow, I lost my grip at one of those bars and fell down. As I dusted myself, he approached me again and said, “Do it again.”

                “I’m too old for this,” I said. “Sorry,”

                “No, you have to do it again,”

                “But I don’t want to,”

                “YOU HAVE TO!” he screamed, “I waited so long!”

                I hesitantly climbed back up and began going through the bars, and fell once again. I repeated the process several times, until I fell again for the last time.

                “That’s it,” I panted, “I give up. I can’t do it,”

                He looked at me when I said that, a look of disappointment on his face quickly turned into a face of pure, unabashed fury. Without any warning, he started biting me, his teeth sinking into my thigh, and I felt the teeth digging into my flesh. I quickly kicked him away from my foot, not before he tore off some of my skin and flesh.

                I quickly gave him another kick, hoping no one had seen it, and limped back home, as fast as I can. Nobody home. There’s only me. I locked the door behind me, locked the windows, drawn the curtains, treated my wound as best as I could, and holed up in my room. I sat there in my room,  praying as darkness descends.

                “Dear god,” I whispered, “protect me from harm…” but before I could finish, I heard a tapping sound on my window. I don’t have to draw the curtains to know who it was. “Come on,” the voice said, “Let’s play some more,”

                I sat there in the dark, paralyzed with fear, as he kept on tapping on my bedroom windows, coaxing me to come out. I’ve locked the door. My lights are off. I have to go to the bathroom, but I know I can’t leave. I can’t afford to fall asleep. As I sat there, crouching in the darkness, I noticed that the tapping sounds had finally stopped.

                As I got up, I heard the tapping sounds again.

                It came from my bedroom door this time.

The kid by the Monkey Bars.
Well, I guess Floppies is on hiatus for the time being, until I can figure out how to proceed. The inspiration for this story came when I was walking by a local playground, and noticed that the monkey bar was placed on the far right corner of the park, isolated from the rest of the playground, and I thought it looked pretty creepy.

    “I haven't heard from ZippoPinhead in a while,” DWatts thought to himself, as his fingers lying idly on his keyboard. “I hope he's okay,”

    DWatts is no stranger of the internet – He's been using it for almost twenty years now, and he has seen many online relationships come and go for various reasons. A falling out. Their favorite forum closing down. Loss of interest in the same topics. Games and software no longer supported by the developers. Real life intervening into someone's online life, be it growing up, getting a career, illness, or death.

    He surely hoped that ZippoPinhead, or ZP, as he has been calling him lately, didn't come down with a case of the death, since the chances of recovery for such an ailment is zero. He didn't really know much about him. His background, his age, what he did for a living. All he knew was that sometime ago, he and ZP somehow got a very odd floppy disk in the mail, ran it, and from that simple act, strange happenings have been happening towards them.

    But it seems that ZippoPinhead got the brunt of it.

    It's been a week now since he saw the video ZP uploaded, and noticed the weird silhouette that went unnoticed, and pointed it out.

    He wonders if that had silhouette had anything to do with this, and his innocuous act of pointing it out drove ZP into hiding. He's not, as he likes to claim, a superstitious person, but the fact that such an occurrence happened within a short period of time is no coincidence.

     To his family's(Two daughters and a dog) concern, he began digging up his old camcorders, and set them up at his bedroom and study, without even explaining to them his reasons for doing so.

    And every morning, he reviewed those tapes. Nothing. No silhouette, no strange occurrences happening when he's asleep. He even asked his two daughters if they experienced anything out of the ordinary, and to his relief, they answered in the negative, although the question only added to their concern for his well-being, which he immediately brushed off.

    He even tried searching for answers online, on the significance of the dates, and the only significant events that occurred on August 1st, 1999, was the death of an Indian writer, while on July 31st, 2000, a partial solar eclipse had occurred, but he doubted this is what the application meant when it asked him those questions. Besides, there's no way he can re-take it again, since the application self-destructed after he had run it.

    Oh well, too bad, he thought to himself. I wonder what could've happened if I got the answers right, huh? Things could've been more interesting.

    He spent the rest of the day searching for answers, and cursing himself silently for not getting ZippoPinhead's personal information, which would've made communicating and collaborating with much easier.

     His inquiries led nowhere, as he kept on returning to the same answers over and over again. On a whim, he decided to look for the name of the application itself, and this time, there was a new result, a blog post made by someone, and read it.

    The first half of the entry was essentially a retelling of what he and ZP went through, but then the writer mentioned that she got in touch with someone who calls himself “Zippo Pinhead”, and it appears that there's at least another person affected by the disks itself. She also mentioned that after the initial encounter, Zippo Pinhead didn't get online any further, barring her from any future updates and help in case something happens.

    He quickly sent an email to the blogger, curtly explaining himself as the second person affected by the disks, and attached the video link and screen caps of the video itself, which, he speculated, might be the reason for ZP's disappearance.

    However, he added, he seems to be unaffected by it so far, although he had taken extra precaution to record and take note of anything out of the ordinary, as well as what he discovered about the dates discovered by the application, with a further note that it might not be what the sender was looking for.

    The rest of the day went by uneventfully, occasionally refreshing his email inbox to see if the blogger replied to his email, or hopefully, ZP coming back online with an update on what he had uncovered during his disappearance, but nothing so far. He sighed, disappointed with the lack of progress, and sort of wished he didn't run the disk in the first place.

    He went to bed early that night, a slight sense of foreboding and dread enveloping his bedroom. However, he woke up the next day fully rested and feeling somewhat optimistic, partly due to the bright sunlight enveloping his bedroom. He then checked his email and favorite forums again, and was pleased to find a response from the blogger, who explained, that she, too, had been worrying about the fact that ZP has been offline for more than a week, and that she hasn't experienced anything weird herself, but she still remained cautious about it.

    He was reading the news after breakfast, when he looked out of the window and noticed the postman approaching his house. He then went out and greeted the mailman, and made small talk with him about the weather, before the postman reached into his bag and handed him a small package, and he froze.

    It was another package with no return address, in the size of a floppy.

   Stunned, he took a moment to regain his composure, took the package, thanked the postman, and went into his house.

    Hastily, he went into his office, grabbed both his camera and letter opener, and slowly and steadily, he took pictures of the package as he opened it, and just as his suspicions had confirmed, it was yet another floppy.

    There were two words scrawled on the floppy.

    It read, “Try Again?”

Floppies (Part 4)
Our protagonist has been offline for a week now just when things are progressing, so DWatts, another person affected by the floppy, decided to have a look around and find some answers himself.

The first chapter begins here:
The previous chapter:
Sorry I haven't been around for months. Really, months. I just realized recently. I guess it's due to the fact that I have writers' block, which means I have no stories to write about, which also means I don't really have much of a good reason to visit dA, since I have no stories to publish and the feedback I can receive for them.

Anyway, another reason I haven't been around is I'm in the middle of an internship program, so I'm kind of distracted with work most of the time.

And another, and more important reason, is I got one of my stories published for real. How did this begin, you ask? Well, you see, my friend (who's a slam poet) shared a Facebook status from a local publisher, who were looking for local writers to contribute for their upcoming English horror anthology story. So I quickly contacted the publisher (through WhatsApp, since they're really slow to replying about anything on Facebook).

I then fixed one of the longest stories I have here, The Rotting Man, that the final version is so different from the original version, with the help of some of my friends, and submitted it. So, the publisher accepted it, and now this:


The only catch, though, is that they're not going to print any hard copies of this anthology. Instead, they're going to publish it as an ebook for free on December 10. You can download it from their app, Lejen App, which is available on both Android and iOS. So if you're interested, you can download and read the new, improved version of the Rotting Man. There are other stories, but read mine too.
  • Listening to: Belle & Sebastian


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LunaNitor Featured By Owner Oct 15, 2014  Student Writer
Thanks for joining LiteraryOpulence. If you have any suggestions on improving the group, please let me know! :)
crazytintinlover Featured By Owner Oct 9, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
em hi
i was going through my message box and i found this…
i thought you might be interested
weekendhunters Featured By Owner Oct 9, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Oh wow, thanks for the heads up. I appreciate it. I might not be able to come up with anything excellent, but I'm definitely giving this a shot.
crazytintinlover Featured By Owner Oct 9, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
glade to be at help
the person directing this contest seems to do things like this often
i suggest you make her in your watch list
fully-blue Featured By Owner Sep 28, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
thanks for the fav =]
Kounterpoint Featured By Owner Sep 10, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday, man. :party:
weekendhunters Featured By Owner Sep 11, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Hey, thanks.
poweredbyostx Featured By Owner Jul 11, 2014  Hobbyist Interface Designer
Thanks for FAV, glad you like my work.
Pastwriter Featured By Owner Jun 4, 2014
Thanks for the fave,
ObeseQueen Featured By Owner Jun 2, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for :+devwatch:watching me back!
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