Scribble Me Words

       Image Credits: Freepik     It was half past eight, the air cemetery-still, and the darkness of the sky hung above us like the blade of a guillotine. The wagon of death had arrived to pick up my brother and me. Our destination: a dinner at the House of Goblins. To the man and woman who had come to take us away, we must have seemed ecstatic—grinning ear to ear as we stepped into this vehicle of doom. Of course, we couldn’t let them sense our dread; they’d sink their fangs into our necks if they did. As if the atmosphere wasn’t ominous enough, a torrential downpour began, straight out of a Friday the 13th movie. Sheets of rain slammed against the windows, blurring the world outside into watery streaks of shadow and light. But I had to make it out alive—and so did my brother. We exchanged glances in the backseat, silent prayers flitting between us like moths. If any supreme being happened to be watching, now would be a fine time to intervene. As we neare...

Image Credits: thecoolist.com I dream of you in vivid colours, Happy moments, fleeting minutes that pass on all too soon. You're long gone,  I don't hold out hope of ever seeing you again. Is it too selfish to be thankful? Not ageing into childhood. Thought you'd stay a while longer, But the scary whirlpool is now at rest.  I dream of you in colour. It's hard not to. I'm not trying to. You yell at me, disappointed, I'm nothing like you and I'm nothing like me. You're alive in my dreams, Blood pumping the way it's supposed to, Eyes vibrant, that's how they should be. You're smiling. It's been a while since I've seen those gleams. I dream of you in black and white, We were laughing at the moon. Mystical being. Spot on the phone. Our feet meeting deserted streets, That was our paradise.  Can the dead really live again? We force them alive, In pictures and memories and flashbacks and regrets. That's how they'd want it, We tell our...

Image Credit:  Generated with the assistance of ChatGPT and DALL·E (OpenAI)      I'm lying in my bed. It's cramped and stuffy, but it suits me. I'm dressed in my favourite white skater dress, pink ballet flats, and the infinity necklace Grandma gifted me for my eighteenth birthday. I was worried I'd look bloated and pale, but they did a good job tidying me up!      All dressed up with nowhere to go. Well — technically,  I am going somewhere. I'm being sent away even though I want to stay.  I blame my baby sister. She wanted to swim at the lake house, despite the water being too cold and deep.  She slipped under. I pulled her out. Now, here I am. She's breathing and I'm not. They're sending me off. Six feet under with no return ticket.

Image Credits: Generated by   AI using OpenAI's DALL·E model (2025).          Ever met someone who unsettled you before they even spoke? A face unfamiliar, yet strangely significant. They slip into your life like a recurring dream—appearing in hallways, in fragments of conversation, in places they shouldn’t be. And though you tell yourself it’s coincidence, a small part of you wonders if something else is at play. If the universe has stitched your stories together in ways you’re only beginning to understand. His arrival wasn’t foretold in any prehistoric cave painting, nor was it heralded by some mind-boggling miracle. Maybe it was a clerical error from the heavens. Or a prank from the underworld. The gods, amused, watching one mortal unravel. That’s how Tora felt: like the punchline to a cosmic joke. He wasn’t Atlas Corrigan, he wasn’t a Greek god, and he certainly wasn’t her type. Still, girls fawned over him. That swagger, that chaos. A magnetic storm of...