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Call Me Crazy by Arek - HTML preview

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Hello ladies and gentlemen. The following are going to be short stories, some half a page and others maybe three to four pages long. Who knows what my pen is going to dream of? Do you? You see I right stories. Funny aren’t I with my mistakes. I write these shorter stories because I like to, but not really. Well it’s what I do because there is nothing else here to do in this God awful place.  And well a novel, I would hate to write something that long. A novel is just a big strain on a creative mind, to stay with one character, a single plot, and all for a long writing period of time. It would drive anyone mad. Maybe that’s why most novelists end up in the nut house. Well I’m not a novelist, so I’m not crazy. I dare you to call me crazy. And I would not have the time to write a novel. And as I already said, I wouldn’t want to because I am not crazy. So without any further ado about myself, I bring to you some of the stories I compiled here or in the process of. So stay settled and be entertained. I promise after the first read you’ll want more. How do I know you ask? It is because everyone always does. Everyone wants more, more, and more. It entertains me, you enjoying reading my stories as much as I hate writing them. So please do stay because I’m lonely here.




Once upon a time there was a little man who hated his appearance. And for hours he stared at the bathroom mirror, finding everything wrong with him.

“My eyes can be bigger, my nose smaller. God my teeth are so ugly, my hair is all falling out,” he said.

And he would pull, tug on his hair so hard that it would be the only reason it would fall.

“God, I am so ugly. Even at just one glance!”

If at any time he had to go out, he would wear a hat to cover his head. And even in sizzling sun, he would have a scarf brought so high to his face, it would cover his mouth. But, he hardly did ever go out. His favourite pastime was to be stuck in that bathroom, having the mirror watch back at him.

“My clothes are so horrid. God nothing ever looks good on me. I’m so skinny. I should be bigger. I should be stronger, like a real man. Look at my smile.”

He smiled, he tried to smile in front of the mirror but it was insincere and broke from it.

“God, I can’t smile.”

He raised his lips with both index fingers to look like a smile, and he held it. But, he also broke down into tears.

“At least I can smile. I can finally hold a smile.”

He stared hard, and his lips started cracking from being spread to wide. They eventually cracked, drawing blood. He stopped, licked his lips and tasted blood and his tears falling from his face. He took a picture of himself and sent it on the internet to see if anybody in the world thought he was handsome looking. He came back to it the next day to check the responses. And he sat there, quietly, reading the few he gathered.

“God, why did I do this? I’m pathetic.”

He went into the bathroom, stared at the mirror, pulled hard at his hair that a handful came out. He opened the medicine drawer, taking out a syringe. He had his daily use of cocaine at hand and ready. He put it in the syringe improperly, sixty percent air and the rest cocaine. He stared hard at himself. Then closed his eyes briefly, thinking of how beautiful he was as a boy and how beautiful he could have been. Careful he had been to not let the air bubbles burst while he put the needle in his skin. He stared at his despairing expression.

“I can’t hold a smile. I’d kill to smile, all for a smile.”

He injected himself, keeping face, and stared in the mirror. Quickly he got dizzy and lay on the bathroom floor till he died of air embolism.  


The End

Obviously, it’s not a true story. None of them are, but I guess will see when I put the pen down or stop narrating my story. I mean how personal is it all going to get? How much truth will I put into this all? I have no idea yet, but it will be entertaining. Why? Well hell, it is because even imagination has got to come from some kind of reality. And reality is entertaining, isn’t it? And, I truly believe there is never a truly untruthful story whether based on fiction, sci-fi, or whatever, it all comes from a realistic moral or some real experience. I mean someone had to write the damn thing from something that came from their mind .It’s the same thing to be said about an honest man, he will be dishonest at times to portray his honest image. And even a dishonest man can be honest about being dishonest. Like I mentioned before, there is never an untruthful story or an honest or dishonest man, not completely anyways. But my secrets are going to be hard to figure out, spotting out the truth in my little stories. They are unbreakable secrets kept in my fingertips that my pen finds hard writing down. Okay I`ll keep entertaining and stop with my shitty distractions. I’ll keep my opinions to myself, I promise.

The next one is for novelist writers, my favourite writers. Excuse my sarcasm, but novelist writers are crazy and I’m thankful not to be. Here’s a tip worth allot to anyone thinking about becoming one, don’t do it. Do not go spending 280 pages inside your head, you’ll go crazy. And at the end, publishers want to kill you. Well, they want to get your work for dirt cheap and then nobody reads your novel anyway. Here is some better advice, work at McDonalds. You will probably earn more money there then trying to aspire being a famous writer. So this one is for the aspiring kids writing at their novel, but you need to be putting the pen down to read it.

Putting the Pen Down

Eyes grew wide, lips got pursed, and for the first time everything was just fine. No distractions, words came, and the characters he never thought he could think of, have appeared in his mind. And all the little doubts and anxiety that once had went out of mind. Johnny, Selma, Richard, Ron, and Kenny the hero, and all his attributes and personalities, he would put in his novel. He finally settled down and started writing. He sat in his high rise leather black chair, spun around, wrote a few words. He spun again. Then he wrote some more before going to his old rustic kitchen. There was dust all over, with spider webs connecting five odd chairs to his kitchen table.

“Today will be a good day,” he said as he blew the dust from the tea kettle.

There had already been water in it. So he turned the stove on and waited patiently for it to boil.
He started hitting his nails hard on the kitchen counter. Growing impatient, and as it came to boil, he quickly got his tea franticly ready and walked back. His hands were shaking and spilling along the way.

“The ideas, they got to stay.”

He came back. Murder, sex, drug abuse, yes, he thought. But who could be the killer? What kind of Killer? He looked around his room and saw puppets. The murderer would be a puppeteer who murders people for his only gain, pleasure. His blood raging until he finds a new victim and drinking blood tea to calm him so he doesn’t go crazy lose on the street. He would be a highly sophisticated victim chooser, making no mistakes. But could a killer drink tea? The writer thought, would that just be too weird?

Cold his tea got when he got to it, but drank it all anyway. He looked out of his window, which had a tree in front. It was summer and the leaves, blooming green. He based a couple of his pages during the summer season. Hmmm, he thought and realized that people usually say the word, not think it. No! No Keep concentrating, he thought again. He looked outside his window another time. It was winter and the tree, bare. He based a couple of his pages during the winter season. His fingers hit the type writer so hard two nails broke. And even in pain he kept writing. He almost had been finished, and would refuse to stop until so.

“A few words, just a few more and you are there Patrick.”

His last words came. And he leaned back in his chair to write them, THE END. He was in love.

“Today will be a good day,” he said as he got up from his chair, with much persistence and pain.

“Today will be a good day,” he said again.

He took a step and fell to the ground. His stomach was in much pain and so he closed his eyes. He died of starvation.

The End

Well that story just goes to show why you should never become a novelist writer, you will become crazy. In the story he died of complete stupidity. Some passionate people might argue he died for love. Letters and words, it’s all that they are. It’s only sentences. Nobody gives a shit anyway. Sentences don’t yell! They have no emotions behind them, only you do. I think it’s actually sad when people forget that only you have emotions reading them, they express nothing back. No one should sympathize for me for what I write down. No one should love me, just because I wrote it for you. As I mentioned earlier, never become a novelist writer. I apologize, I just realized I got a little personal with the story I finished writing.  My pa`s name was Patrick. Huh, I didn`t even realize that I used his name. Well hell, whatever, he`s dead now. This is not his story, it`s mine. Who gives a single toilet seat about him and that? Not me! Nor should you! Where was I before? Starvation is a horrible thing to die from. I just had an apple in my hand, so I’m well fed. What happened to my apple? I didn’t eat it, I swear. Well I had an apple. God, I’m hungry. But that story I just finished is not about me, not at all.

But, the next one you should enjoy if you are a zombie lover. If any of you are still entertained and actually stayed to keep reading, I’m pleased. I hope you don’t think it a mistake reading my story and if so, I’m sorry.  But truthfully not really, I could care less about you.

Mistakes are made to Forgive

Where all going to die and it’s not even a question of when anymore, it’s how? Or optimistically, if you’re own of those, how the hell am I not going to die?
The dead count, six hundred just from my neighbourhood alone. But it’s been hard to keep track. The guy who use to come to my house and did the count, is a count now. Infection is spreading. Zombies are raging for blood. And people, unbelievable people with their last few days left go fulfill their inner darkest goals. People I never expected to be killer’s are, and not on zombies but killing other normal humans. Priests are becoming molesters. Rapists are screwing dead corpses before they turn. I guess it’s because they don’t believe in God anymore, or he doesn’t believe in us. If he did, he would never let this happen. This just goes to prove, there is no God. We are all going to hell, at least to shit anyway. I hope that will have nothing to fear in death. Whatever, it’s all shit anyway, me thinking. But the only way I can keep sane is by thinking, so sorry for being crazy. It’s just this boredom and waiting I’m in, it’s crazy. I guess that’s why allot of people just gave up and let themselves be turned. I guess that’s why my will is breaking to. But, still there is allot of things I would have wanted to do before I died then being locked up in the basement with a lighter. I spark my lighter for entertainment. Shit sorry, it’s easy to get distracted. Oh yeah this gun I have, an axe, shit food, and the one that is the worst is my pregnant girlfriend. These are the worst circumstances to have a child, it’s a mistake. We will never have a normal family, it’s all shit. I mean if you lose one, see it be turned to a dead walking person only born to hurt people. I just can’t bear it. It was a mistake. But still if it weren’t like this, I would have loved to be a father to my kid.

“I hear something sweetie.” That’s my girlfriend.

Well not only that, but I would have liked to be a good father, very fun and loving unlike mine.

“Do you hear me John, they got in the house.”

You know what I also would have liked. I would have loved to drive a very quick fast sports car, which only rich bastards drive but don’t appreciate. I mean they never punch those cars to the limit. Why the hell would they buy it then? Bastards I call them.

“John,” she whispers but squeals with a high pitch, “they’re at the basement door.”

“I love you, and I don’t think you’ll ever know how much. And, I think you always thought I didn’t care, but I did. I’m sorry for putting you through such hell. ”

I also wanted to always tell her that to. I always appreciated her for taking care of me, especially after the accident that left my legs paralyzed. I blamed it all on her. You see I got to our house here and she was with my best friend. I caught them. I stormed out and drove till someone hit me. It left my legs paralyzed. She stayed with me, begged and apologized, and took care of me. She had been trying to make it up to me since, sincerely. I stayed with her because she was with child. I didn’t even know if it was mine. But she said it was. She said she only slept with my friend that one time. And well, she told me about the child before the incident. For like a month, I didn’t eat, didn’t go to work, I didn’t even acknowledge her existence really, and then the world went to shit. But I realized, through all that time, she was the constant that stayed. I guess, I mean I never loved or appreciated her the way I truly really ever should.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell her.


The knob starts to turn slowly, but it’s locked and sealed. The knob turns slow again then violently and an axe goes through the door. A head pops out from the hole. A dead, bleeding head, a zombie.

“Go hide under the trap door, quick.”

“I love you.”

“I love you to.”

She runs to it and hides. I see the zombies halfway through the door with rage in their skulls, while looking at me like I’m dinner. I pick up my axe, but drop it. I search for a cigarette and find them in my top shirt pocket. I light up the last one. I might as well look badass. Taking my gun, I shot the one zombie right in the head trying to get in, but two come popping through the door. I take the gun to my head, look around the room. And, I shoot at the gas tanks that heated up the house. I can hear the spray from the bullet holes. I close my eyes thinking about the life I could have had, and inhale the last of my cigarette. It could have been better, better than this shit. They run down the stairs to get to me.

“See you all in shit’s town,” I say hoping it won’t hurt.

One bites at my arm and pushes me off my chair. My head goes to the floor and I could hear my baby crying through the trap door. I could make out her yelling I’m sorry, and screaming out of pain that I’m almost dead. I manage to sit up and grab the lighter, and notice that all of them are in the basement now. It’s painful to bleed dry, and I’m almost all gone. But I close my eyes and let the flame explode. I could hear the fire crackle. Goodnight love.


The End

Well I can actually relate to that story. I am in a wheelchair and there was a fire because of gas. But I don’t really want to get into it. It really is none of your business anyway. And I don’t remember if I mentioned this already or not, but I don’t really like to get overly personal. I mean, I really hate assholes that get overly personal. They expect empathy from everybody. Should people move off their seat for pregnant mothers? Should handicap people have a closer parking space? I don’t think so and I’m a handicap. I hate bending for people and nobody bends for me.  I don’t empathize for no one, not anymore. And I don’t want anybody to do it to me either. Go to hell! It gets easier to judge people and like them, hate them, when you become personal, it’s awful. Whatever, nobody listens to me anyway. It’s all shit. But I will tell you I have child, a daughter. She is a beautiful daughter. Ever since the accident, it has been hard on me to take care of her. Like I said, I don’t really want to get into it.

Anyways if you are still here, the next story is about a boy named Adam and his father. I hope you’re entertained. 


My saddest day and I am only a seven year old boy. You might wonder to yourself what a seven year old can be sad for. I probably have more money than you. Don’t be mad though, I have more money than anyone I know. Well, at least I think I do, my mommy tells me anyways. She tells me that I should not play with other young boys, which I consider to be my friends, because they are poor. She hates the fact that some are a strange color, called niggof or something like that. Once I told my teacher that color because I wanted to know what color it could be, and she told me to sit by a corner by myself. I can’t even remember the last time I saw them, my old real friends. I still remember, on my sixth birthday, my mother invited little young kids my age, and I didn’t even know any of them. Mommy said that none of my friends wanted to come to my birthday. I got upset at them, and I never talked to them. Funny that I should miss them still, they could always cheer me up. Yet I guess even now it would be hard to cheer me up, even with my friends around. All my toys, my swimming pool, my butler, nanny, none could cheer me up today. I seem to be so fortunate, so people look at me differently because of my riches and my possessions. But nobody knows. They don’t have a clue, what it is to be me. He is only seven, a child, with rich parents, is what everyone thinks of me. Even my teachers at school, they look and treat me differently, like nice when I’m around but then they talk behind my back when I’m not there. Even the other kids and their parents, they look at me differently when I pull into school in a limousine sometimes. However, it always seems to surprise me that they know what I am living through. They don’t have a clue, and why should they. They have been taught to hate the rich and that they have no feelings. Be merciless and strong, that’s what my father use to say about what people thought of him. But truthfully my father only taught me to be kind and help everybody, because they helped him live the life we have. He said we should never take it for granted or something of that sort. They think that people like me, and my family, are care free with nothing do to but waste money. Yet, they don’t even know what we’ve been through, and how fortunate they all are. At least, I can admit that I’m fortunate, they can’t. They have a home, food, and they live with their families, whom are healthy. They don’t see that there are people who don’t have a home, food, or that are alone in the world because their family died. I met a boy named Tom, on my trip to Africa, last year. He was a thirteen year old African boy, with black hair, and the strangest baby blue eyes I’ve seen. He told me he was alone, how his mother gave food to him, and not feeding herself. He told me how she died.

Her last words were, “Tom, sacrifices are hard. But with sacrifices comes rewards. The greatest reward is making somebody else happy, so they can go off and make somebody else happy, and so the world can go around happily. Don’t be selfish and don’t be cruel. Others have it much more worse then you.”

Then she died by his side, of a disease that I can’t pronounce, or ever heard of. When I met him he was the happiest boy in the world, happier than me it seemed. We played soccer with my dad. My mother did not want to go on vacation with us. I don’t know why, maybe she was sick? But we had the happiest time, playing with a ripped up soccer ball and two palm trees as a net. I can’t’ remember any other day my daddy was as happy. Maybe it’s because I was so happy.

“Adam,” my mother yells, from the bottom of the house. “Can you come downstairs please?”

Her voice starts to dim down, but I can hear her more clearly as she makes her way up the steps. I turn so that the door faces my back, and I face a wall.

“Come on Adam, it is time to go,” she replies as she sits down on my bed. “It’s time to go to church.”

“I don’t want to. The church is boring, and I don’t want to go. Not today,” I reply in an angry tone and cross my arms.

“I know you don’t and I don’t want to neither. Everyone is waiting already. Can you please do this for me? Just get dressed and get down stairs...for me Adam,” she reassuringly replies giving me a kiss on the cheek.

Slowly, I turn around and see her heading for the door, almost in tears. She has a nice black dress with flowers imprinted in it. I don’t want to go to church, I say to myself. But I remember my father always telling me to listen to her, because I would not always have him let me be so free. I wait a minute or two, I can’t tell, before I get out of bed. I look around my room, seeing my toy helicopter flying in the sky. And my train set chu chuing around my room. And all my toys that I now call junk. I take a deep breath, and I go to my closet. I take out my suit, because my mom said that in church only suites should be worn. I take it out and change into it. I slowly make my way downstairs.

“Oh doesn’t he look like the sweetest thing,” my grandma says loud.

My grandma was the sweetest old lady, and I never understood why. Especially in a day like this, I can’t understand why she is so happy. Others are waiting downstairs for me, all wearing the same type of clothing. My mother and I share a limo, with grandma and grandma. We usually took a sedan when we went to church. We only took limousines when we went to parties or friends. It just does not make sense to take a limo to church, we are not celebrating anything. The limo ride was quite. As we approached, my grandma started to burst into tears. She seemed like a happy women, but not anymore. Me to, I feel a bad feeling, a sad one. We get out, mass starts. It is really boring and a lot of people cry. My mother and I go first to see the man in the casket. We slowly make our way up the steps. Tears flow down my face because I already knew who he was: a good man. I close my eyes, just to make sure I am not dreaming. I open them up again, my heart shatters, and my mom hugs me and cries on my shoulder. I hug her back.

“Daddy,” I softly reply in my mother’s ear.

“I’m sorry,” she replies back to me, holding me tighter, and tighter with each breath.                                       

He was a good man: a father.              


The End

Why I wrote that I have no idea, my father was a horrible man. He was awful, an evil man! I didn`t take anything from him, and I barely mentioned him to my daughter or wife. He beat the shit out of me and my mother, when I was young. When I got older, he was a weak old man and I socked him back. And I left home, from the mess, forever that day. I realized something when I hit him, I was becoming like him. I hated that feeling and I left, without ever discussing it. Not even to my mother, I never told my mother goodbye. But I did trail them, now and again. When I got older and had my own family, I couldn’t bear seeing my mother and explaining to her why I had to leave. I regret the most, or should I say, I miss hugging her every time I use to leave the house and saying, “I’ll see you in a while crocodile”. They lived in that same house till they died. By the way, my name is Adam and I have no connection the story I just wrote, except having a dead father. But I don`t like to get overly personal, I hate fluffs th

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