amcs :: creative stuff

On a cold, dark night in the run down farmhouse he felt something warm nuzzle his hand and he instinctively reached out to stroke it. The rabid dog took two of his fingers before he was fully awake.

He had often wondered what it would be like to ride the night bus all the way to its terminus and finally found out the night he fell asleep and missed his stop. As the bus came to a stop he awoke to a panorama straight from the bowels of hell: dim lighting; rusty chains; meat hooks; a grinning man in a bloody apron waving a gore-smeared cleaver.

They had been hearing sounds outside the caravan for over an hour: whispers; muffled footsteps; a snort; metallic scraping; and now the door handle was moving. “Why the hell did I let you talk me into stopping here,” she hissed, “I told you that Free Overnight Parking sign looked dodgy.”