Underwear
Pants
Shirts
Socks
Shoes
Toothpaste/toothbrush
Headphones
Swimming gear
Ice skates
Towel
Space suit
Scuba diving suit
Knifes/Forks/Spoons
Pillow
Plates
Flour
Washing Machine
Pegs
Oven
Unread Library
Kitchen Sink

Has this ever happened to you? You’re at a child’s birthday party when you’re attacked by a balloon sword. You’re in the office when a piece of paper attacks you. A tiny stone infiltrates your shoe.

Everyone knows the pain these scarring events cause. Paper cuts, balloon attacks and shoe stones are among the highest causes of pain today.

Everyone hates pain, but getting rid of it it impossible. That is until today!

Introducing the newest and best pain relief technique. This new method of pain relief is scientifically proven to eliminate all pain. Introducing the guillotine!

The guillotine can’t stop paper cuts, balloon attacks or shoe stones, but it does provide immediate pain relief when they strike.

Try it every time paper attacks!

SIDE EFFECTS MAY INCLUDE DEATH

Imagine an OCD serial killer, OCD about gravestones. That could totally work.

Stretching that idea out a bit. Every serial killer has an obsession that they have to fulfil by killing people. Well, the obsession of this serial killer is gravestone death dates.

Most are different to the birth date, and that annoys our serial killer every time they go to a cemetery.

14-12-1884  –  28-4-1945.

Dates like that annoy them (and incorrect spelling and grammar on gravestones). Everyone should die on the date they were born, just so the gravestones look better.

Our serial killer is pretty much just like every other serial killer, except victims only have to be nervous on one day of the year. How nice of our serial killer. With most serial killers they make you worry everyday, but this one means you can stop worrying. Well, most of the year.

Abigail Stanbury slowly walked down the hallway. She passed thirteen rooms, each one containing six beds. Mrs Preston opened the door to the fourteenth room and showed her inside.
“Good evening girls. This is little Abigail. She’s six years old and she’s going to be staying here with you.”
She hated that word. Little. Everyone called her that. Poor little Abigail, only alive because she was small enough to fit inside the ice chest while the fire raged around her.
“Everyone say hello Abigail,” prompted Mrs Preston.
“Hello Abigail,” said the girls.
“Abigail, this is your bed,” said Mrs Preston as she placed Abigail’s suitcase on the bottom bunk of the third bunk-bed.
Abigail wandered over and sat on her new bed.
“Goodnight,” said Mrs Preston as she closed the door.
A voice from above cut through the silence, “How did they die?”
A sharp restraint from across the room followed, “Regina! Sorry about that. My name is Christine, above me is Susan. Over to you left is Louise and Rosemary. And above you is Regina. We’ll all introduce ourselves properly in the morning, for now just try and get some sleep.”
Abigail took off her shoes and placed them underneath her bed. She pulled back the blanket and got into bed. Since the fire she hadn’t had a comfy bed to sleep in. Her head floated on air as it came to rest on the pillow. She pulled up the blanket and closed her eyes.
“How did your parents die?” came Regina’s voice from above.
“Murdered.” The papers reported a fire at her parents house, Abigail was the only survivor in a family of six. That was five weeks ago, since then she had slept on cold and hard floors.
“But everyone says your house was burnt to the ground.”
“It was. They were already dead.”
“Who killed them?”
“I did.”

No, of course not, it’s a football I hear you say. But let me tell you you’re wrong.

You have correctly observed that this object is a regulation size 5 football. And my toe would indeed remain unaffected if I dropped this football on my toe. But you’re still wrong.

And to see why we need to switch viewpoints. What if my question was about the football? I’ll rephrase it for you: Would this football feel pain if it collided with my toe?

Now you might still think the answer is no. But I’m sure a few of you are now thinking about what happens to the football.

This football suddenly falls from my hand, now falling is an inbuilt fear for all of us, so why not for the football?

The football falls uncontrollably towards the ground. For us this one meter fall seems like nothing, but remember that we are two meters tall. The football is only 20 centimetres tall. For the football this fall is the equivalent of you or me falling from a five story building.

While the football uncontrollably falls, it spots my toe out of the corner of its eye. The impact causes most of its mass to continue toward the ground, causing massive displacement of the internal organs. While the small area in contact with my toe has nowhere to go and takes the full crushing impact.

And now you all think that the football would be in unimaginable pain.

When I was younger there was a demon under my bed.

His voice was deep and ominous, I was four years old when I first heard it. Dad said goodnight and turned off the light. My room was pitch black and a storm raged outside. That was when I heard it.

“Hello, my name is Stewart.”
I pulled the sheet over my head as a pool of urine chilled my rear-end, but there was no-way I was moving off the bed to clean it up.
The voice spoke again, a bit softer this time, “What’s your name?”
Silence was everywhere but my head, inside thoughts shot from one side to the other. Nothing made sense, my room was empty, yet a voice spoke from under the bed.
But in the silence the voice spoke again, “Don’t be afraid, I only want to be friends.”
The voice was calm. And for some reaoson I felt I could trust it, “My name is Kevin.”
“Hello Kevin, do you like toys? I saw a car on the floor.”
The sheet came down and I took a breath. “Yes I do. I have lots of toy cars, and a race-track.”
“That’s so cool. I like red cars. They’re the best.”
“I know. My dad says that he’s gonna buy me a red car when I’m old enough, a real one. At the moment we have a white one.”
“Wow, you’re so cool! My dad doesn’t need a car.”
“Why not? My mum and dad use the car all the time.”
“What’s a mum? I only have a dad.”
“That sucks. Mums are so cool. They make food and fix things all the time. And they’re good at giving hugs.” The voice didn’t speak for a bit after that, but I liked talking to him. “Hey, what’s your name? I forgot.”
“Stewart.”
“Hello Stewart, my name is Kevin. Do want to be my friend?”

I’m writing a story, but I need a good villain.

I have some awesome main characters, but I still need a villain to complicate things. Currently my main characters are bored, they’re just living their life and nothing is happening. That needs to change.

Maybe the villain is similar to them but slightly different. Such as missing an arm that our hero’s cut-off and have hidden. I could work with that, the arm’s hidden in our hero’s house and our villain wants the entire house for complete revenge.

Now that could work. But what does my villain look like? Are they a guy or a girl, maybe both. I know I want a more intellectual villain, so they should wear glasses. Most villains tend to plan in a secret location, let’s remove the secrecy, the villain lives with the hero’s in the same house.

That sounds interesting…

“Hey kid, here’s some free advice. Never eat ice-cream. It’s not worth it.

Ice-cream is brain manipulation food. Sorry, you’re young, ice-cream controls your mind! Got it? No. Ice-cream makes you think wrong. It alters the thought trains of children, making them easy to manipulate and control.

Kids everywhere fall into this trap. It’s as though all they can think about is ice-cream. Parents all over the world use its powers. Ice-cream is the only thing that makes kids, like you, finish their dinner in peace and quiet.

It’s a conspiracy. You probably have no idea what I mean, but trust me kid, don’t eat the ice-cream. I hope goo-goo gaa-gaa means you understand.”

Once again the eyes looked down.

But the clothes she wore were ghastly. Her garmets resembled bloody shirts and torn pants. She wanted to change the world. To inspire and teach. To entertain and enrich. To love and comfort. But she couldn’t choose her clothes.

They were just words on a page.

Mark unlocked the door. Grant and I were expecting them home a bit later, we hadn’t had time to clean up after our tomato sauce fight.

Grant was in the bathroom cleaning himself up when I heard Mark’s car pull in the driveway. Looking around I saw that all the tomato sauce on the floor and me looked like a brutal murder scene. I lay down in the middle of the floor and closed my eyes. It was going to be the best prank ever.

Mark was first through the door, followed by Maria, Toni and Shane. They were shocked, I knew they were all staring at me. I like being the centre of attention.

I heard Mark ask Maria if she was alright. That was typical, they were so cute together. Mark could be having a heart-attack and still thinking of others. But what about me! Shouldn’t he be checking on me!?.

I heard some muffled noises from the hallway, but I ignored them, I didn’t realise how much concentration it took to pretend to be dead. I’d burst out laughing if Grant told a joke.

I ignored thuds in the hallway and footsteps, concentrating on being still. I felt Toni’s eyes on me, I know exactly what Toni’s presence feels like. She gently picked up my hand and started crying. I knew exactly what she was thinking, we had been through a lot together, and the thought of losing me must’ve been unbearable.

I opened my eyes, put my arm around her and whispered “I’m sorry.” I felt her delight, but mostly I felt her comfort.

We stayed there embracing. Maria came over and joined us, she was crying too.

When I finally looked up I saw Mark, but no Grant or Shane. Mark had concern all over his face, “Shelly, something’s happened to Grant.”

My heart sank as I heard the siren in the background. I moved towards the hallway, but Mark stopped me. He wasn’t quick enough though, I saw Grant lying in a pool of blood, real blood.

Toni and Maria came over and embraced me. Now it was my turn to cry.