u/NateIzNeat

Thanks to all who participated in our second mini prompt. We hope you enjoyed getting a chance to write some possession stories. Now I will announce the winners, so you can go show them some love!

🥇First Place: Body Crashers by u/AffectionateLeave677

🥈Second Place: The Eyes are the Hard Part by u/Lime-Time-Live

🥉Third Place: The Type of Things to Happen in Virginia by u/4THEB3TTERG00D

Stay tuned for a new AP event coming soon!

It’s an AP triple feature! In a further effort to overwhelm you with great stories, this episode features host and mod TheSaladMann! We hope you enjoy!

It’s an AP Pod double whammy, this time covering the winners and honorable mentions of the Road contest! Congrats to those featured and we hope you’re excited for upcoming competitions!

The Anxiety Pilled Podcast is back with episode 12! This time covering the Meat Rain series by u/MANWITHFAT . Stay tuned for the Road contest episode coming very soon!

I. THE LIONS

Renalia the Swift was the first to breach the castle’s fortifications, true to her name. Perhaps the feat belonged to Gormund the Strong, who had used his massive warhammer to force his way through the battlement. But Renalia had stepped onto enemy territory first, and her blade was the first to lick the throat of an adversary.

He fell to his knees, hands clutching his gushing neck. Renalia didn’t know whether his pleading eyes longed to cling to life or for a swift death. He received neither. 

The infantry had moved forward now, cutting through the enemy forces with ease. Gormund’s booming chuckles echoed in his lion helmet as he brought his warhammer down over and over again. A soldier tried to crawl away from the onslaught only for his torso to pull away from his legs. Once he was satisfied with the torture, the stout warrior ended his life by crushing his skull.

“At this rate, I’ll be at the tavern by sundown!” He chuckled again. His great stomach bobbing underneath his chestplate. 

Leonard the Brave spoke next, appearing from around a butcher’s shop covered in viscera. “The enemy slaughtered all their livestock before we arrived. Perhaps they expect the castle to fall.”

It was true, among the fighting and bloodshed there was pen after pen of mutilated animals. They looked as though they had been emptied of their blood and organs, dry husks.

The lion knights made their way towards the middle of the castle yard, countless opponents falling in their path. Renalia whipped around to block a sword strike from behind, teetering off balance for a moment. Regaining her stance she struck back. The man froze, not even attempting to guard against her attack. His head lopped off in one clean motion, but his body stayed standing. Puzzled, Renalia placed her palm on the body to push it over, and felt his chest swell with a drawn breath.

Suddenly, a pig's head burst outward from within the severed stump. It squealed and dribbled blood from its tusk filled maw, eyes wild and frightened. Without picking up its sword, the beast charged at Renalia. Her shock prevented her from assuming a stance, instead holding her sword out in front of her timidly. The pig headed man leapt at her, the sword entering its mouth. It charged until its lips reached her cross-guard, and then went limp.

The screaming began shortly after, the infantry was being killed in droves. There were men with cow udders exploding through their armor. Chicken beaks pulled eyes from men and plucked bleeding holes in helmets. Renalia, still panicking, struggled to pull her sword from the mouth of the pig beast. She felt a hot tongue lap at the back of her neck, and turned around only inches from the sideways pupils of a goat. Ribs crunched as she was rammed. The monster reared on its back legs, the only remnant of humanity left was a human face on its underside, frozen in fear.

Leonard was dragged to the middle of the castle yard, onto a great podium designed for entertainment. His helmet was missing, and so was his golden hair. He blinked the blood from his maimed scalp out of his eyes. A man lifted his head, forcing him to face the crowd. He had the eyes of a sheep, and the legs of lambs dangled from his body like a robe of flesh. Leonard’s throat was slit as the horrors spectating below lapped at the blood running down the podium with overgrown tongues.

Gormund swung his war hammer, but the bull horns jutting out at every angle from his opponent's body worked better than any armor. His back to a wall, he fought valiantly. With her dying breath Renalia watched the creature pin him to the wall, where they both became stuck. After a short bout of squirming, both bodies fell lifelessly to the ground.

II. THE CRESCENT MOONS

General Marinus approached the nameless exile’s dilapidated shack with trepidation. It took one knock on the door before it creaked open. Sitting around a collection of wet specimens and animal skin bound books, the exile was waiting.

“You’ve come to visit me, general?” The exile croaked. His throat inflated like a frog’s pouch under his cloak. “I presume three hungry lions are snarling at your doorstep?”

“The Castle of the Crescent Moon cannot fall.” The general's voice came out shaking. His eyes darted across the exile’s features. Two arms with leathery green skin had emerged from his oversized clothing.

“But it shall, you’re outnumbered and outclassed. So you came crawling back to me.” The fetid exile laughed, but it sounded more like a cricket’s chirp. He drummed his gnarled fingernails against his workbench, lined with tools encrusted with blood and mucus. Marinus let the pouch of gold pieces drop onto the table.

“Once you give me that gold, I’ll be true to your request. A spell cast cannot be undone. Make sure that’s what you truly desire.”

“Tell me what I must do.”

“Just before the battle, slaughter all your livestock, the more the better. Leave them to bleed and waste in the grass. The sorcery will do the rest, old friend.”

Marinus shuddered at being called a friend by the cursed being. He tried to remember his old compatriot's appearance, but could only conjure the image of the overgrown amphibian in front of him.

“All you require is our livestock? That can be done.”

The exile leaned forward, two golden beady eyes glinting in the light of the small cobwebbed windows. “That is the catalyst, yes.”

Marinus couldn’t help but feel a slight bit of relief. Losing the livestock would be well worth preventing the castle from falling. He left the gold and walked the way he arrived. Through the cracked window he could hear the exile’s gurgling, disgusting laugh.

After a brief hiatus, the anxiety pilled podcast has returned with another episode! This time Top and MWF cover our mod and podcast organizer Batking’s stories. We hope you’ll join us in celebrating the work of someone who gives so much to this community!

https://preview.redd.it/231ppkzi8aeh1.jpg?width=1343&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=b1c941045246c2e6fda61089756f5ed74866ac5d

The submission window for r/anxietypilled 's third writing challenge is now over! Thank you to all who submitted a story. The judges will deliberate, and the winners will be crowned on a special episode of the Anxiety Pilled podcast.

“There’s only ever been one damn road, it don’t make a lick of sense.” Old Man Perchy was stroking his grey beard and squatting in front of the asphalt. The bravest and nosiest in town had gathered on a dewy summer morning to figure out just why a second road ran straight through Bramblemill. Perchy wiped the sweat from his brow and stood up, hands resting on his sides.

“I followed it down that way, it goes clean through the corner store!” Mrs. Onbeck hollered from further up the new street. The townsfolk muttered amongst themselves as they moved towards her. She wasn’t lying, unlike when she said her chili was homemade during the cookoff. The road went straight under the wall of the corner store and out the other side.

Mr. Greyson pushed the door open. A bell jingled as the door drug loudly across the altered ground. His brow furrowed as Mrs. Onbeck squeezed past him and started yelling again. He massaged the bridge of his nose with two fingers and stepped in after her. Dry asphalt had climbed up the walls where the road had run through it. A section of the floor was replaced entirely, the shelves’ feet partially submerged inside. Like it had been wet for only a second. It continued onward, went up in a small hump, then exited on the other end of the store.

“Mr. Normayyyyyy! Where aaaaare youuuu?!” Mrs. Onbeck’s voice boomed from years of rounding up naughty children. Mr. Greyson had gone ahead and was kneeling beside the lump in the middle of the store. He shakily leaned over and pushed his small round glasses up his nose, examining the scene. The raised spot was cracked and uneven, which stood out against the perfectly straight and smooth sections they had been following. He peered through a crack and leapt back.

“I see his shirt!” Mr. Greyson yelled, his voice high and frightened. It had become clear all too quickly, Mr. Normay had gotten paved clean over. Perchy fetched a shovel from his garage and went to work, jamming it underneath each crack and pulling chunks up. He fought that asphalt like he fought perch on the fishing line, true to his nickname. Mrs. Onbeck went to fetch more help. Mr. Greyson sat back, fishing in his pocket for an inhaler as he hyperventilated.

The fragmented pieces of street were cured tightly to Mr. Normay’s skin, leaving pink raw flesh in their wake. Perchy and Mr. Normay had grown up together. Perchy was the older boy in the group, and the other boys had looked to him like a role model. He felt powerful then, fit and handsome. Mr. Normay was one of the last anchors Perchy had to hold onto those good times. Working his aged hands under each segment and desperately pulling them from his friend’s body made it feel like those times were drifting ever further from his grasp.

The more Mr. Normay was freed, the more apparent it became that something was horribly wrong. He didn’t move, laying in the hole contorted like a squashed bug. His limbs were a tangled mess, broken bones causing them to bend where they shouldn’t. His skull was partially crushed and caved in but not broken. There was no blood. It was like when a cartoon character got flattened by a steam roller. His eyes were blood red and bulged out of his head like plump grapes. Suddenly, he rose like a soldier at attention, his ruined eyes fixed forward with conviction. He opened his mouth, a shower of teeth pouring from inside. Still no blood.

“Albert, is that you?” Mr. Normay squeezed from his mangled bent throat. Perchy hadn’t heard his real first name in years. It cemented to him that the warped thing in front of him was indeed his childhood pal. A scream echoed through the corner store but Perchy’s eyes were fixed ahead as Mr. Normay took his first staggering step towards him. “I can’t see you, Albert. I'm scared.” 

Mrs. Onbeck had gathered every person she could find that could still walk without a cane, and now they all watched as Mr. Normay shuffled forward like a newborn animal. He groaned in agony, knocking over a store display full of bags of chips as he went. The crowd separated like the Red Sea as he haphazardly shoved his way through the front door and around the side of the building.

All except Perchy stayed behind. Especially that no good wuss Mr. Greyson, who Perchy cursed for not helping a damn bit when his friend was in danger. Sitting there with his stupid comb over and glasses. 

Perchy watched helplessly as Mr. Normay shuffled down the second road, further and further into the morning fog. His bad knee ached like hell but he was keeping up okay. Mr. Normay walked like a toddler, one shaky step at a time. He kept his eyes on the dark distorted silhouette.

Another shadow joined Mr. Normay’s, equally misshapen but undeniably human. A third exited the trees, joining in lockstep with the others. Perchy pushed his tired body to catch up, his breaths hitching with terror. Something deep in his mind wanted to see so badly, the dark shapes ahead bringing him morbid curiosity. Before he knew it the road in front of him was packed with them, all marching shoulder to shoulder. A mangled parade of the misbegotten.

In many ways Old Man Perchy joined the parade that day, swallowed up by the road he was so keen on following. A tangled mass of flesh and bone would drag its way across the road for miles before stopping forever, baking in the afternoon sun. They would’ve never reached whatever goal they had, the road that circles the world has no dead ends.

“There’s only ever been one damn road, it don’t make a lick of sense.” Old Man Perchy was stroking his grey beard and squatting in front of the asphalt. The bravest and nosiest in town had gathered on a dewy summer morning to figure out just why a second road ran straight through Bramblemill. Perchy wiped the sweat from his brow and stood up, hands resting on his sides.

“I followed it down that way, it goes clean through the corner store!” Mrs. Onbeck hollered from further up the new street. The townsfolk muttered amongst themselves as they moved towards her. She wasn’t lying, unlike when she said her chili was homemade during the cookoff. The road went straight under the wall of the corner store and out the other side.

Mr. Greyson pushed the door open. A bell jingled as the door drug loudly across the altered ground. His brow furrowed as Mrs. Onbeck squeezed past him and started yelling again. He massaged the bridge of his nose with two fingers and stepped in after her. Dry asphalt had climbed up the walls where the road had run through it. A section of the floor was replaced entirely, the shelves’ feet partially submerged inside. Like it had been wet for only a second. It continued onward, went up in a small hump, then exited on the other end of the store.

“Mr. Normayyyyyy! Where aaaaare youuuu?!” Mrs. Onbeck’s voice boomed from years of rounding up naughty children. Mr. Greyson had gone ahead and was kneeling beside the lump in the middle of the store. He shakily leaned over and pushed his small round glasses up his nose, examining the scene. The raised spot was cracked and uneven, which stood out against the perfectly straight and smooth sections they had been following. He peered through a crack and leapt back.

“I see his shirt!” Mr. Greyson yelled, his voice high and frightened. It had become clear all too quickly, Mr. Normay had gotten paved clean over. Perchy fetched a shovel from his garage and went to work, jamming it underneath each crack and pulling chunks up. He fought that asphalt like he fought perch on the fishing line, true to his nickname. Mrs. Onbeck went to fetch more help. Mr. Greyson sat back, fishing in his pocket for an inhaler as he hyperventilated.

The fragmented pieces of street were cured tightly to Mr. Normay’s skin, leaving pink raw flesh in their wake. Perchy and Mr. Normay had grown up together. Perchy was the older boy in the group, and the other boys had looked to him like a role model. He felt powerful then, fit and handsome. Mr. Normay was one of the last anchors Perchy had to hold onto those good times. Working his aged hands under each segment and desperately pulling them from his friend’s body made it feel like those times were drifting ever further from his grasp.

The more Mr. Normay was freed, the more apparent it became that something was horribly wrong. He didn’t move, laying in the hole contorted like a squashed bug. His limbs were a tangled mess, broken bones causing them to bend where they shouldn’t. His skull was partially crushed and caved in but not broken. There was no blood. It was like when a cartoon character got flattened by a steam roller. His eyes were blood red and bulged out of his head like plump grapes. Suddenly, he rose like a soldier at attention, his ruined eyes fixed forward with conviction. He opened his mouth, a shower of teeth pouring from inside. Still no blood.

“Albert, is that you?” Mr. Normay squeezed from his mangled bent throat. Perchy hadn’t heard his real first name in years. It cemented to him that the warped thing in front of him was indeed his childhood pal. A scream echoed through the corner store but Perchy’s eyes were fixed ahead as Mr. Normay took his first staggering step towards him. “I can’t see you, Albert. I'm scared.” 

Mrs. Onbeck had gathered every person she could find that could still walk without a cane, and now they all watched as Mr. Normay shuffled forward like a newborn animal. He groaned in agony, knocking over a store display full of bags of chips as he went. The crowd separated like the Red Sea as he haphazardly shoved his way through the front door and around the side of the building.

All except Perchy stayed behind. Especially that no good wuss Mr. Greyson, who Perchy cursed for not helping a damn bit when his friend was in danger. Sitting there with his stupid comb over and glasses. 

Perchy watched helplessly as Mr. Normay shuffled down the second road, further and further into the morning fog. His bad knee ached like hell but he was keeping up okay. Mr. Normay walked like a toddler, one shaky step at a time. He kept his eyes on the dark distorted silhouette.

Another shadow joined Mr. Normay’s, equally misshapen but undeniably human. A third exited the trees, joining in lockstep with the others. Perchy pushed his tired body to catch up, his breaths hitching with terror. Something deep in his mind wanted to see so badly, the dark shapes ahead bringing him morbid curiosity. Before he knew it the road in front of him was packed with them, all marching shoulder to shoulder. A mangled parade of the misbegotten.

In many ways Old Man Perchy joined the parade that day, swallowed up by the road he was so keen on following. A tangled mass of flesh and bone would drag its way across the road for miles before stopping forever, baking in the afternoon sun. They would’ve never reached whatever goal they had, the road that circles the world has no dead ends.

“There’s only ever been one damn road, it don’t make a lick of sense.” Old Man Perchy was stroking his grey beard and squatting in front of the asphalt. The bravest and nosiest in town had gathered on a dewy summer morning to figure out just why a second road ran straight through Bramblemill. Perchy wiped the sweat from his brow and stood up, hands resting on his sides.

“I followed it down that way, it goes clean through the corner store!” Mrs. Onbeck hollered from further up the new street. The townsfolk muttered amongst themselves as they moved towards her. She wasn’t lying, unlike when she said her chili was homemade during the cookoff. The road went straight under the wall of the corner store and out the other side.

Mr. Greyson pushed the door open. A bell jingled as the door drug loudly across the altered ground. His brow furrowed as Mrs. Onbeck squeezed past him and started yelling again. He massaged the bridge of his nose with two fingers and stepped in after her. Dry asphalt had climbed up the walls where the road had run through it. A section of the floor was replaced entirely, the shelves’ feet partially submerged inside. Like it had been wet for only a second. It continued onward, went up in a small hump, then exited on the other end of the store.

“Mr. Normayyyyyy! Where aaaaare youuuu?!” Mrs. Onbeck’s voice boomed from years of rounding up naughty children. Mr. Greyson had gone ahead and was kneeling beside the lump in the middle of the store. He shakily leaned over and pushed his small round glasses up his nose, examining the scene. The raised spot was cracked and uneven, which stood out against the perfectly straight and smooth sections they had been following. He peered through a crack and leapt back.

“I see his shirt!” Mr. Greyson yelled, his voice high and frightened. It had become clear all too quickly, Mr. Normay had gotten paved clean over. Perchy fetched a shovel from his garage and went to work, jamming it underneath each crack and pulling chunks up. He fought that asphalt like he fought perch on the fishing line, true to his nickname. Mrs. Onbeck went to fetch more help. Mr. Greyson sat back, fishing in his pocket for an inhaler as he hyperventilated.

The fragmented pieces of street were cured tightly to Mr. Normay’s skin, leaving pink raw flesh in their wake. Perchy and Mr. Normay had grown up together. Perchy was the older boy in the group, and the other boys had looked to him like a role model. He felt powerful then, fit and handsome. Mr. Normay was one of the last anchors Perchy had to hold onto those good times. Working his aged hands under each segment and desperately pulling them from his friend’s body made it feel like those times were drifting ever further from his grasp.

The more Mr. Normay was freed, the more apparent it became that something was horribly wrong. He didn’t move, laying in the hole contorted like a squashed bug. His limbs were a tangled mess, broken bones causing them to bend where they shouldn’t. His skull was partially crushed and caved in but not broken. There was no blood. It was like when a cartoon character got flattened by a steam roller. His eyes were blood red and bulged out of his head like plump grapes. Suddenly, he rose like a soldier at attention, his ruined eyes fixed forward with conviction. He opened his mouth, a shower of teeth pouring from inside. Still no blood.

“Albert, is that you?” Mr. Normay squeezed from his mangled bent throat. Perchy hadn’t heard his real first name in years. It cemented to him that the warped thing in front of him was indeed his childhood pal. A scream echoed through the corner store but Perchy’s eyes were fixed ahead as Mr. Normay took his first staggering step towards him. “I can’t see you, Albert. I'm scared.” 

Mrs. Onbeck had gathered every person she could find that could still walk without a cane, and now they all watched as Mr. Normay shuffled forward like a newborn animal. He groaned in agony, knocking over a store display full of bags of chips as he went. The crowd separated like the Red Sea as he haphazardly shoved his way through the front door and around the side of the building.

All except Perchy stayed behind. Especially that no good wuss Mr. Greyson, who Perchy cursed for not helping a damn bit when his friend was in danger. Sitting there with his stupid comb over and glasses. 

Perchy watched helplessly as Mr. Normay shuffled down the second road, further and further into the morning fog. His bad knee ached like hell but he was keeping up okay. Mr. Normay walked like a toddler, one shaky step at a time. He kept his eyes on the dark distorted silhouette.

Another shadow joined Mr. Normay’s, equally misshapen but undeniably human. A third exited the trees, joining in lockstep with the others. Perchy pushed his tired body to catch up, his breaths hitching with terror. Something deep in his mind wanted to see so badly, the dark shapes ahead bringing him morbid curiosity. Before he knew it the road in front of him was packed with them, all marching shoulder to shoulder. A mangled parade of the misbegotten.

In many ways Old Man Perchy joined the parade that day, swallowed up by the road he was so keen on following. A tangled mass of flesh and bone would drag its way across the road for miles before stopping forever, baking in the afternoon sun. They would’ve never reached whatever goal they had, the road that circles the world has no dead ends.

Hello all! Quick mod update! The podcast team wanted me to let you all know that the episode this week will be delayed slightly due to some circumstances out of their control. The episode will hopefully still be launching this week! Thanks for your patience!

We have some fun stuff coming for AP that we hope to share with you all very soon!

-Mod Nate

A new episode of the Anxiety Pilled Podcast is here! This time Batking and Salad cover fellow host u/Top-Contribution1248

We hope you enjoy hearing what one of the pod hosts has to offer!