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Thursday, December 29, 2016

DON'T BUY PASTA FROM THE SPLATTER MAN

DON’T BUY PASTA FROM THE SPLATTER MAN


DON’T BUY PASTA FROM THE SPLATTER MAN

My twin brother, Fernnie, answered the door.


– 1 –

I learned this the hard way at four A.M. on a windy winter night. The wind was shrieking at my windows, howling and moaning as if was trying to warn me of something.
I didn\’t pay any heed. I was too hungry to worry about what some spirit among the trees might have to tell me. I looked in the phone book. All the pizza places were closed at that hour –
except only one – \”SPLATTER PIZZA, WE DELIVER REAL QUICK\”.
It said, “Just enter your phone number, address and order, and you’ll never buy pasta
from anyone else.”
I was about to make the worst mistake of my life. I filled in the empty spaces of the order form shop on line. In almost no time there was a loud pounding at my door.
I was upstairs in the shower. Fernnie, my twin brother, he answered the door. There was
a lot of sounds like scrambling, scraping,tackling, run and a thump…I thought I heard a scream
as I was drying my hair with a towel. Then the door slammed.
I went downstairs. The delivery man was gone. There was the box of a
pizza, extra large on my kitchen table. On the box was written, “SPLATTER PIZZA !” in big red letters. The corner of the flat box seemed to be wet. It appeared to be dripping.

– 2 –
I was starving. I put my hand on the pizza box. It was  warm.
I went out on the porch and smoked some Jamaican herb.
I began hallucinating just a bit. That stuff is too strong for
me – I don’t need the flowering tops, the marijuana buds –
I’m more of a mushroom and chemicals guy. I like to keep
a clear head. Ho! Ho!
Well, some of the time…
Anyway, I was getting the munchies real bad.
I stumbled into the kitchen. I put my hand on the box.
The pizza box was still warm… Goody for me.
I tasted the wet spot on the corner of the box.
It didn’t taste like pepperoni.
The light was too bright. I had to focus. I turned one
light off. I opened the box. And what did I see? I saw my
own face staring back at me. What the fuck!? Is this some
kind of a joke?
It was my face, all right. But it looked twice as
wide as my face. And it was entirely flat – twice the size
of my head. The eyes stared up at me with no expression
in them. Dead pizza eyes. Some weird
sick attempt at painting my portrait I picked up a
piece. It was crispy and hot…
I noticed the oven door was open behind me.
The oven was hot. I turned it off and shut the door.
I had a bite of the strip of pizza. It didn’t taste
like pizza.
I had a horrible thought. ‘No that couldn’t be
true.’  I’ve been accused of having an over-active
imagination. I splashed cold water in my face,
then I went back out of doors and looked out
into the night. Still the wind howled and moaned
in the windows behind me.
I shut the door of the house. I went for a drive
by the lake. I had some thinking to do.
I got out of the car and walked out onto
a wharf into the lake. The lights in my rear view window
had blinded me.
I walked about 100 feet onto the wharf. I looked
across the lake. I heard footsteps behind me on the boards
of the dock. There was a large, athletic looking guy
walking up behind me.
I thought, “There is no way off
this dock without running into that guy behind me.”
I turned and started walking back. I saw the man
more closely. He was wearing an orange baseball cap…
On the cap were written the words, “SPLATTER PIZZA.”
I could see the guy more closely now. He had mad eyes
and a big crazy smile on his face. He was grinding his teeth.
In his right hand he held a samurai sword.
(C) 2015 by W.G. Milne
Reactions:  THIS IS PART TWO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Check Creepypastas for PART ONE



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2 thoughts on “DON’T BUY PASTA FROM THE SPLATTER MAN

  1. Always delightful to read a horror story on Christmas day – before or after the turkey!

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Saturday, December 24, 2016

IF YOU'RE LOOKING FOR AN ANSWER

SHE DID NOT FEEL SO WHEN HER LOVER LEFT






She did not feel so when her lover left,
When she wept long ago to the empty waves:
She sat mourning for many days with
        unkempt hair,
Pouring out speech to the cruel brine,
And though she might never see him again,
She grieved still
Thinking of their long happiness...

She did not stand this way
With her sumptuous gaze
Jewel-bedecked 
In her empty bedroom
When the wind snatched
Her dreams away
And her love
For that stranger.

I often feared great pain
From your fickleness,
Yet still I never expected
Treachery.







                                With honour to Propertius,
                                 Passages re-arranged
                                 And completed by WGM

Friday, December 23, 2016

DON'T BLOW KISSES AT THE MOON lyrics

 

MUGGA MUGGA MUGGA Eddy's ma died some years back,

Left him a message on a card...

He had to read it kinda slow,

And this is how that message goes:


*

Don't blow kisses at the moon,

Don't carry flowers down on Laraby Street,

Don't open your umbrella on a bright a                     sunny morn,

Don't blow kisses at the moon.

*

Ten years later he was in love

With Sara Thompson who has a job at night

Black suit and cowboy hat and he stands five              foot two

She's the tall blonde who works the                        corner.

*

She never gets up 'til the afternoon -

He works the funerals at dawn;

She has her first cup of coffee after her                    second cup of booze

He stands in the graveyard til everyone

          is gone.

*

She never gave him too much time...

She said, "Hello," and she said, "Hello",

Some times they'd shoot the time

Once or twice they had a smoke

*

She said: "We're not lovers, we're just                    friends,"

He said he understood but he never did.

She said: "You'd better go!"

He said, "I can't, I love you so,"

And this is what she said:

*

"Don't blow kisses at the moon,

Don't carry flowers down on Laraby Street,

Don't open your umbrella on a bright and               sunny morn

Don't blow kisses at the moon."

*

He went to her corner down on Larabie St

With a ring and a bunch of roses and that's

 all

He waited seven hours 'til he heard                         something was wrong:

She was sick down at the hospital.

*

No one came to see her that last time,

Not her husband, not her lovers,

             none at all...

But she sees Eddie Logan, leaning 'gainst

             the wall

He stands beside her

All night until the dawn.

*

 Sara knows, Sara knows she's pretty sick,

And she knows.. Eddie's not that smart;

He's just a crazy, just a crazy little guy,

But all he has is heart...

All he has is heart.

*

So she wrote words these words down on a

card

Said, "Read this when I am gone."

It'll be cold comfort on these cold and

           icy dawns...

She wrote the words down to this song:

*

"Don't blow kisses, don't blow kisses at the               moon,

Don't carry flowers down on Laraby Street,

Don't open your umbrella on a bright and                  sunny dawn;

And find your true love when I am gone...

    *  *   *

And find your true love when I am gone."

 

                           (C)2014-2016 by W.G. Milne



                                                     William Milne

 







Thursday, December 22, 2016

REMOTE RELATIONSHIPS: SHARED AND SEPARATE EROTIC

       Living in these vast countries - the United States, Canada and Russia - we all have experienced telephone love affairs, or writing letters from too remote places 4,000 miles apart.
               Sometimes you and your love are living in the same city - but circumstances and/or psychological realities keep us apart.

        As a doctor once crossed a 4-lane street to
inform my friend and I :
              "Two manic-depressives should never
live in the same house!"

        OK... remote relationships: intimate yet distant... together yet alone.

        This is the situation the following poem describes.
         All of it is in the poem, but I find sometimes --- I can't stop talking.
         Other times I won't say a thing.
                        


shared and separate erotic


Wistfully staring at the
        hot sunlight of stars
Across the arid hot desert;

Aroused, yearning
        wind tickling fine hairs
On your dry naked body
We are intimate and
        tender
Against the icy clarity
      of sky.

Snow-capped mountains
So close and distant
The Pleiades a cold
        delight.

Together alone
Intimate apart
Vast distances stroke
Our near and naked
        thighs.






(C) 2016 by W.G. Milne




Thursday, December 15, 2016

I USED TO KNOW A BUSHMAN

July 7, 2016


BUSHMAN TO PROFESSOR TO BUSHMAN AGAIN


I used to know a bushman

Near a bar up north,

It seemed he could hardly

Speak English.

*

I used to take him booze and food

Twice a month,

He had an aware, conscious

Relaxed and limber way.

*

He was missing a tooth or two

And he didn’t smell good

Always in the same coveralls

Before and after chopping wood.

*

I didn’t let his lack of hygiene worry me,

There are some things more important

Than cleanliness;

*

He could hardly speak a  sentence

His grammar was bad

I thought he’d  live in the bush

For eternity.

*

But with a twinkle in his eye

And a laughing way

 He seemed to read what I was thinking

With each expression in my face.

*

He laughed, not at me but with me,

So much he couldn’t say

To inform me.

*

I got a job down south,

Didn’t see him for years,

I was teaching at the university.

I heard laughter next door

In the philosophy class

This man was teaching right next to me.

*

He wore a three piece suit,

With well cut hair;

He was speaking most articulately.

*

The same bushman I knew

From the woods east of here

It seemed an impossibility:

 *

How he got here from there,

Cleaned up his affairs,

It certainly seemed a mystery.

*

                   2

*

Now I live in the bush,

It’s where I want to be,

Only wash my clothes when it rains;

 *

Old clothes and an axe and unkempt hair

I grunt and howl and seem to hardly speak,

Only the rare word

Is civilized in me.

*

And I laugh like I know all the world!

                           *

*
*
*
*

(C) 2016 by W.G. Milne