r/CreepyPastas

Nancy Jiracyn is oc I created!

Sorry because I not good English, because of that I use google Translate

Nancy Jiracyn's storyline

Nancy Jiracyn is a 19-year-old girl. She stands about 1m52 to 1m53 tall and weighs only around 38 to 39 kg. She suffers from severe depression along with several other psychological disorders, yet no one notices, despite her showing severe symptoms of these conditions. Even her own family refuses to get her medical help; instead, they constantly berate her, calling her insane and autistic. Trapped in a vicious downward spiral, she has absolutely no one by her side in life. One fine day, she stumbles upon the "Doll 096" experiment and volunteers for it. She genuinely believes that she will transform into a perfect, beautiful doll, allowed to sit quietly in one place instead of struggling with the endless misery caused by her family.

But she was gravely mistaken. She is subjected to horrific torture; the experimenters perform surgery on her directly without any anesthesia. They plunge a knife into her eyes and gouge them out, replacing them with red buttons that have a cross etched in the center. Terrified and bewildered, she is muffled and threatened with a gunshot to the head if she makes a sound. The side effects of unknown, homemade drugs and injections cause her skin to turn a ghostly grey. Because she constantly screams and writhes in agony from the excessive violence, they eventually sew her mouth completely shut. Spending 5 years in that hellhole, a helpless and pitiable 14-year-old girl who fell into despair instantly traded away her entire future.

Now, at 19 years old, on a dark and gloomy night, she notices a researcher accidentally dropping a utility knife. She sneaks over, grabs the knife, and stabs several of the experimenters who tortured her before escaping. Once a physically weak and timid girl, she has grown and hardened into a silent young woman consumed by deep hatred and resentment. After fleeing, she ends up in a deserted suburban area, crying out in agony over her tragic fate. There, a towering entity—Slenderman—spots her. What happens next remains a mystery, but she ultimately becomes one of Slenderman's proxies, residing in the Slender Mansion.

Her words when she met the victim: "I hate number 96, I'm a flawed doll. Let me slash you too and make you an even more pathetic doll than me!"

And my youtube, everyone can search and see more content about Nancy Jiracyn later! : @Saphirre-XinO

My name is Rose.

People at school call me a freak.

Maybe they’re right.

I got into another fight today. Three boys cornered me behind the gym like always. Jacob ended up with a broken arm, Cameron lost three teeth, and Tim… well, Tim couldn’t stand after I slammed his head against the concrete.

I don’t regret it.

The ride home was silent except for the sound of my mother’s old car rattling down the road. She kept glancing at me with disgust.

My messy black hair covered most of my face, hiding the empty glass eye sitting where my real one used to be. I was born different. Broken. At least that’s what everyone says.

“You need to stop obsessing over Jeff the Killer,” my mom snapped finally. “He murdered people in this town three years ago. Your father says evil like that spreads.”

I stared out the window.

“He isn’t evil,” I whispered. “He’s free.”

My mother looked horrified after I said that.

Good.

When we got home, my father was already waiting for me. Sage. The town priest. Everyone loved him.

If only they knew.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” he yelled, grabbing me by the collar. “Hurting people in God’s world!”

Then he hit me.

Again.

And again.

His fists slammed into my ribs until I collapsed onto the kitchen floor gasping for air. The smell of whiskey poured from his breath while my mother stood there and watched.

Like always.

He dragged me to the table and forced a notebook in front of me.

“Write it,” he snarled.

I’m sorry.

I wrote the words over and over until my hand cramped and blood dripped from my knuckles onto the paper.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

Finally, he threw me into my room.

I locked the door and stared at myself in the mirror. Pale skin. One brown eye. One fake eye. Long black hair hanging over my face like a curtain.

I hated myself.

But I hated him more.

I reached into my drawer and pulled out my favorite scissors. The blades were stained dark from years of use.

Every time he hurt me, I cut myself.

Not because I wanted to die.

Because I wanted to remember.

Thin red lines opened across my arms and stomach. Blood slid down my skin while tears burned in my eyes. My body was covered in scars already. Proof of what he really was beneath the priest act.

A monster.

The next morning, I went to school pretending nothing happened.

That was my first mistake.

Tim and his friends were waiting for me near the football field. Tim’s arm was wrapped in a cast from the fight yesterday.

“Hey, freak,” he laughed. “We got you a present.”

He pulled out a flare gun.

Before I could move, he fired.

The pain was unreal.

I remember screaming.

I remember the smell of burning flesh.

Then darkness.

When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. My face felt like it was melting. I could hear my parents arguing outside the room.

“He looks like a monster now!” my father shouted. “He looks just like that killer she worships!”

I slowly climbed out of bed and looked into the mirror beside the sink.

Half my face was destroyed.

The skin was blackened and peeling away in strips. My hair on one side had burned off completely, exposing raw flesh underneath. Blood dripped from my jaw onto my hospital gown.

I should’ve been horrified.

Instead…

I smiled.

For the first time in my life, the monster on the outside finally matched the one inside.

I grabbed my scissors from my backpack before the doctors could stop me.

Slowly, I pushed the blades into the corners of my mouth.

The metal sliced through skin.

Blood flooded down my neck.

I kept cutting wider and wider until my cheeks split open into a permanent grin. The pain made my vision blur, but I couldn’t stop laughing.

I looked beautiful.

The smile kept tearing, so I grabbed a stapler from a nearby tray and stapled the skin together piece by piece.

Click.

Click.

Click.

My smile would never fade again.

I walked into the hallway covered in blood.

My parents froze when they saw me.

“Rose…” my mother whispered.

I buried the scissors into her throat before she could scream.

Blood sprayed across the hospital walls while she collapsed choking on her own blood. My father tried to run, but I tackled him to the floor.

“For God?” I whispered into his ear. “Where was God when you beat me?”

Then I stabbed the scissors into his eye.

Again.

Again.

Again.

I didn’t stop until his face was nothing but torn flesh and shattered bone.

The hospital alarms screamed around me as nurses ran in terror.

I laughed the entire time.

By the time the police arrived, I was gone.

The woods became my home after that.

Years passed.

People started disappearing near the forest. Campers. Hunters. Lost teenagers.

They always found the bodies smiling.

Some say I began worshipping Jeff the Killer like a god. Others say I became something worse than him.

Now people whisper my name the same way they whisper his.

Rose the Killer.

If you ever hear laughter outside your window late at night…

Don’t look.

Because if I see your face—

I’ll make sure you smile forever.

He needs an excuse to go to the store. Another afternoon coming off a long high, he takes a few edibles at around 8:30pm. He’s running out, but he doesn’t mind. Pay day’s less than a week away, & he has the ingredients to make more at home. Well, everything except butter. He refused to use vegetable oil, per the instructions on the box, because he swore that the fat content in the rendered butter bonds better with the THC distillate .

So, at 9:15, he decides to walk to the store. It’ll be a thirty minute round trip, nearly fifteen minutes each way. He wants snacks anyways, despite the overwhelming options in this pantry. He has his sights set on a frozen delicacy. A supreme Tombstone Pizza.

Bluey slippers on each foot, & his Smoke-Shop, Delta-9 vape in his pocket, he makes his way out into the muggy, Virginia summer night. The mosquitoes buzz as they flock to his exposed skin, so he picks up his pace.

As he makes his way under the first light pole of the trip, he thinks he sees something. The lights of the neighborhood porches & the streetlamps illuminate his immediate surroundings, but between the trees & the edges of the fences, shadows held firm like curtains.

He takes his earbuds out. He only hears the few cars on the nearby highway. As he gets closer, he can make out the faint visage of a woman, hiding in the dark.

Just like that, there it is. The faint sound he could've sworn he heard. The sounds of buzzing & chirping, like the sounds of a machine, maybe a printer. As he passes her, maybe fifteen feet away, she watches him, & he realizes something that makes his skin prickle. The mechanical noises were coming from her, & even though he couldn’t clearly see her face moving from the dark, he knew the sounds were mimicry made by a human voice, repeating perfectly on a loop. He picks up his pace slightly more. He keeps his sights ahead after he passes her, trying not to attract her attention.

“Maybe I’m just higher than I think,” he mutters. He didn’t see her head rotate to watch him, just her eyes, but even then, his mind could’ve just been playing tricks on him. He goes through the light of the immediate next street lamp & looks back at her. He was now about twenty-five feet away. She was staying still, her position unflinching. He turns away & continues. Under the next streetlamp, he repeats, looking back again. Still, nothing. At least forty-five feet away by this point, he lets out the breath he hadn’t even realized he had been holding, & pops his earbud back in.

“Huh, weird.”

Sixty feet away, under the last umbrella of light on his street, he humors a last glance back, just before he bolts. She’s strolling briskly towards him, calculated & confident. She’s not even on the road, she’s cutting through dark driveways & lawns in a direct beeline. As she gets closer, he runs faster & faster. By now, he’s closer to the store than to his mobile home.

“Holy shit! I need to get somewhere with fucking cameras & lights," he thinks.

He rounds past the small, vacant Sheriff Deputy building, & under more streetlights. He was now out of the neighborhood, on the sidewalk right next to the sparse highway, no further than two closed establishments from his destination. He looks back, momentarily grateful to see she’s not visibly behind him anymore. He begins to slow slightly, his unfit joints & atrophied muscles shrieking in pain. The cramps nip his ankles & thighs, & his pace loses steam. That is, until he sees two individuals across the road to his left.

They keep his pace & watch him predatorily. He can’t make out their faces clearly, but he can see they’re wearing something on their heads. Something silvery that went down just above their mouths that exposed their eyes. Something was… off. Uncanny about their expressions. They looked so angry, & their faces were flush. Too flush.

To the contrary of his body, he speeds up again. Some predators try to surround their prey & block off the exits. He was going to take his chance before he lost it. With one last burst of energy, his feet smacked from pavement, to grass, & back onto pavement as he crossed the threshold into the parking lot of the open Family Dollar. Nearly tripping, he threw himself into the unlocked glass doors, & with a blinding light, he’s done it. He’s inside the store.

Relief blossoms in his stomach & warms his fingertips. He wipes his mouth & looks around. The small shop is nearly empty. His heartbeat flutters rapidly, & he desperately tries to regain his breath.

“Dude?”

He snaps his neck to face the person who spoke & took his earbud out. A small employee, donning a nametag that says, “Grenda,” looks at him like they’d been trying to get his attention for several seconds.

“Dude. You good?” Grenda asks, visibly concerned.

He looks back out the glass doors. No one in the parking lot, in the road, on the sidewalk. No normal people, no one with helmets. He turns & looks at Grenda again.

“Yeah, I think. Sorry.”

He picks up a basket & wearily begins traversing the store. The shelves are like a thin maze. He grits his teeth & pushes on. He grabs a few small snacks. Some Pork Rinds, a case of kool-ade & a jar of pickled jalapenos. But he has his sights set on the refrigerator section. A pizza & some butter. Looking both ways like he’s crossing the street first, he makes his way to the brightly lit, freezing cold aisle. As he does, he bumps into an older woman, another customer.

“Oop, sorry ma’am.”

She mouths something in response, but he can’t hear her over the sound of his reactivated earbuds.

He crouches down to look at the selection of frozen pizzas, & his earbud runs out of battery. As soon as it does, he hears that sound again. The person imitating a robot. In surprise, he falls back onto his ass & looks up. There it is, fully illuminated. She looked like she used to have a thick head of blond hair. She’s bright pink, like a lobster. Flush as if she’s been exerting a great amount of effort, but she doesn't breathe, her nostrils don’t even flair. She just stands there, wide enough to block the entire aisle, & built like a bulldog. Her lips are pulled up in a sneer, & her teeth look rotten, gritted together so hard that her jaw visibly strained from the effort. The part that made him want to cry was what it was wearing. She was wearing normal houseware, a tanktop & some basket-ball shorts. She looked like a normal person, juxtaposed against something horrendous on its head.

Covering the cranium down to the tip of the nose, was a filthy wrapping of duct-tape. It partially concealed all manner of exposed wires & blinking things, motherboards & copper shavings that reflected the light's glint. The only thing that was not covered were her eyes. They were bulged out of her noggin like overfilled water balloons, squeezed through a thin pipe. Blood leaked from the edges of their duct-tape sockets, & from under the border that covered her cheeks & the tops of her ears ran streams of blood across her blushed skin as well, dripping all the way under her chin. & down her neck. He was frozen for a moment from sheer panic. What was this?

As soon as he gathered his bearings enough, he scrambled up & backed away, trying to keep sudden movements to a minimum.

“Lady, lady!” He gasps, addressing the older customer who he’d bumped into earlier.

“What?!”

“What is that?”

She glances over, her eyes trained on the same spot as his, at the end of the aisle.

“What?”

“Look!”

“Look at what?”

He momentarily turns to assess the old woman. She looks dumbfounded.

“You don’t see her?” He breathes.

“See who, young man?” She gulps, frightened & a little flabbergasted.

He looks back at the thing, & it’s moved closer. Now merely five feet away, more details become noticeable. The antenna on top of its head. The two pulsing buttons on the side of its left temple. The way that even though the eyes were on the verge of bursting, they stayed locked on him.

He didn’t even bother taking the items with him. He just dropped everything & ran out the door. He tried to call 911, but his phone ran out of battery too. Once outside, he didn’t look back, but he did hear it start to catch up. He closed his eyes & pumped his legs, pushing harder than he ever had before. He wouldn’t look back.

When he was a kid, he heard the story about the man whose family got a pass out of Sodom & Gomorrah. The wife had looked back, & got turned to salt. As he heard the sound of the thing getting closer behind him, footsteps smacking the pavement at a constant, precise speed, he tried not to think of all the things that might happen to him if he dared.

He ran, & it kept a steady pace behind him. A couple of times, he got some good distance, others, the thing was almost close enough to brush him with its fingertips. At some points, he swore he heard other footsteps, like the pack of them were coming back to finish him off, but over the sound of his heartbeat, he couldn’t have been sure. The entire time, he heard that repeating sound. The whirring, puffing, beeping & buzzing. Its vocal chords were worn out, & they strained to continue droning, but on they did.

A round trip that wound up usually being thirty minutes was done in twenty-five this time. The wood of the porch thumped under his slides & he gripped the handle, twisting & yanking with all his might. The automatron sounded like it could've been just yards behind him. He slammed the metal door shut behind him & slumped to his knees, letting out a half sob, half wheeze. He whimpered & crawled to his blinds, shutting them too. The tears were welling up almost as hard as the stomach bile in his throat. He hadn’t run like that in so long, he almost felt like he’d pulled something in his calves. Everything burned. He sat down on his couch & tried to plug his phone in. That was the last thing he did before he realized someone was under his table.

That night, his neighbor reported seeing him run into his camper, & then a few minutes later, screaming. When the police arrived, all they found was the top of his skull, scalp still intact, & a puddle of bloody spinal fluid.

“What do you think, Detective?” A policeman asked as he placed yellow caution tape over the door of the trailer.

The detective picks up a brownie from the microwave & smells it.

“It’s these damn kids & their weed, it's always these damn kids & their weed…”

Thanks to everyone who checked out my story last night! The encouragement was great, so I finished editing this one I had in the making and figured I’d share it tonight. This one was really fun. I hope it translates well into written format, this was originally intended to be a short film. Hope y’all enjoy!

The Ultimate Toy Story Iceberg Explained: Surface Level to The Abyss 🔥

This is the most complete deep-dive into the Toy Story universe ever made — covering everything from the beloved movies to the darkest corners of Pixar lore, deleted scenes, lost media, and disturbing fan theories.

If you need Explanation Comment Below 👇

From Woody and Buzz’s iconic friendship to hidden Pixar connections, theme park secrets, canceled projects, and the wildest internet rabbit holes… this iceberg leaves nothing out.

What’s Inside:

• The four main Toy Story films (1995–2019)
• Lightyear & all spin-offs
• Pixar shorts & TV specials
• Video games & Disney Parks attractions
• Easter eggs & shared Pixar universe
• Production history, deleted scenes & abandoned concepts
• The internet’s most infamous Toy Story theories

Iceberg Layers:

• Surface Level — Everyone knows this (basic plots & iconic moments)
• Shallow Depths — Easter eggs & details real fans catch
• Mid Levels — Deep lore, continuity secrets & production drama
• The Abyss — Obscure lost media, disturbing theories & niche rabbit holes

A while back, Apple released the first ever smartphone. Initially, you had two ways to access it. Either leave the thing unlocked, or use a four digit pin for security. Eventually, they introduced more options. Fingerprint ID, six digits, different pattern locks and password codes. When the fingerprint ID came out, convenience caught me like a catfish on a hook. Nowadays, it's standard, not really anything special. Within the last couple years, they even made it so you can use a face scanner to unlock a ton of devices.

With every cellphone upgrade, I kept the same four digit verification as my passcode. 9932 was my go-to for most everything from my home security system to my bank account password, but I would stick almost exclusively to the fingerprint scanner, using the thumb on my dominant hand. It was just so easy, barely even took a second thought, and I was sure that my phone was completely secure that way. Between a pin and a thumbprint ID, what could go wrong? As far as I was concerned, I had nothing to worry about.

A year ago, I got into a fight with my blender. I call it a fight, really, it was more like my stupid mistake that led the appliance to defend itself. I jammed my whole hand into it to retrieve a ring that had fallen off, a ring that was trapped underneath the four, razor sharp blades. The damn ring wasn’t even important, it was just some cheap copper cast bling from a Walmart jewelry set. Rather than unplugging the thing and disassembling it safely, I thought, “I’ll just reach in and grab it real quick. What’s the worst that can happen?”

In less than 5 seconds, my boob accidentally mashed the start button, and my dominant hand was left as an oversized, bloody stub with prolapsed knuckles. When shock kicks in, you feel a rush of warmth, almost like a deep blush, and sometimes, you don’t really understand exactly what you’re looking at.

I remember staring at what was left of my digits, not fully comprehending what had happened, and thinking to myself, “that can’t be right, why does my hand look like an inside out rhubarb?” As soon as the realization began to dawn, the pain set in. I picked up my phone and frantically tried unlocking it with my thumb, a thumb that was now bony pulp, emulcified and pooling under the blades of the blender. The shiny ring still glimmered cruelly from the bottom of the clear plastic machine.

It took 3 attempts of smooshing the “thumb” side of my appendage into the home button before shredded nerve endings alerted me to the scale of my predicament. I gritted my teeth and entered the four digit passcode using my non-dominant hand. 15 minutes later, I was losing consciousness in the back of an ambulance on my way to the ER.

Almost every bone in my hand was obliterated. The doctors said that very little of my hand still had skin, and most of the flesh was like uncooked hamburger meat. My fingers were all completely gone, and a good chunk of the palm was unsalvageable. I spent a while in the SICU of my city's shittily-funded hospital, pitifully bitching my way through a series of bone grafts and skin procedures. In the end, I was left with a bright pink, tight, zit-shaped knob that extended two inches past my wrist. One continuous line of ugly, black stitches went from left to right, decorating my new tip like a macabre sandwich bag zipper.

Eventually, I was back home. My dads stayed in for a week or so to help with recovery, but once I started showing progress in physical therapy, they decided that their job was done and fucked off back to Vermont. To be fair, I guess they were right. The night I came home from the hospital, my dads had a look on their faces that I won’t forget. They’d seen something traumatizing. When I asked about the noticeable odor that filled my kitchen and dining room, they had a sit down discussion with me.

When an uncomfortable situation arises, I’ve noticed that most people tend to speak less and imply more. Unless you happen to be a very straightforward person with few reservations towards disagreement, most people just dance around their point to avoid conflict.

My dads are like that.

They gently meandered conversationally. It reminded me of when I was 10, when they tried to indirectly explain the birds and the bees to me, when they found porn on my laptop. But now, as an adult, I was able to gather what they were trying to tell me. The trip from their place in Vermont to mine is nineteen hours normally, twelve if you’re lucky, which they weren’t. My house sat empty for almost a full day from the moment I got into the ambulance, to the moment my dad with grey hair opened the front door. Half a cup or so of my viscera was still sitting on the counter inside the kitchen appliance, and logically, smelled how you’d assume it would after being left out for so long. They cleaned up the mess to the best of their abilities, and the biomatter waste removal guys disposed of the whole blender, per my request. Despite their attempts to improve my home aroma using everything they could, from candles to Febreeze, the smell just continued to linger…

“So, it’s me? I’m the smell?” I asked.

“Oh sweetheart,” my dad with brown hair cooed, “no actually… well, I guess, yeah. I mean, it is what it is. What can you do?”

“Well for one, why didn’t you try opening all the windows and setting up fans to air it out?” I raised an eyebrow, gently holding my sore injury so as to not cause myself more discomfort.

“Wow, that’s a really good idea Katie,” my dad with grey hair said sarcastically, crossing his arms and turning to look pointedly at my dad with brown hair, “yeah Beck remind me, why didn’t we do that? I think I remember someone telling me, ‘nah, we just need more candles.’”

“Jeez Lance, can we not right now?” My dad with brown hair groaned.

Satisfied, my grey headed father glanced at me as if to say, “I told him so, but he wouldn’t listen.”

We sat uncomfortably for a moment, allowing the information to settle over us like a cold blanket. Finally, I broke the silence.

“Never mind the smell, what did it look like?” I asked.

“What?”

“My fingers, what did they look like? All turned into… well, you know.”

“God Katie, we don’t really need to–”

“Dad, they were my fingers, they used to be attached to my hand. What did they look like when you got here?”

My brunette dad just stared at me like a fish out of water. After waiting a moment, my grey headed father spoke up.

“Well, we didn’t really look at it for too long, because those guys came and cleaned up pretty soon after we got home,” he started, “but I remember it kind of looked like a maroon-ish chili.”

My dad with brown hair didn’t look at his companion, he just kept watching me, but his expression transformed from gobsmacked to unwell. His husband continued.

“And um… pulpy? You remember when we made tomato sauce when you were 15, but the tomatoes were still kind of whole? Not fully emulsified?”

“Yeah,” I humored, “chunky.”

At that, my brown haired father became physically sick. He stood up and ran into my bathroom, making a retching sound.

“Ah, I’d better stop,” my grey old man mumbled.

“C’mon. Was there actually blood everywhere, or am I misremembering?” I pleaded, indulging in my morbid curiosity as I leaned forward in my seat.

My dad stroked his wispy beard, the sound of his husband emptying himself audible from a room over. He watched me like he was surveying me, taking account of my condition.

“Katie, I don’t really want to think about… look, I’m gonna be stuck in a car with your father for like nineteen hours in a few days, I don’t want him to be sick the whole way home. I love you girl, you’re a freak of nature with a good heart. But I think I done told you quite enough now. Get some rest.”

He put his warm hand on my shoulder and stood up to meet my other dad in the bathroom, and the conversation was over. Then, seemingly in the blink of an eye, they were gone, making the trip home like they’d never been here in the first place. I was alone in my home again. Or so I thought.

I got better, physically. Mentally, I think there was some healing, but not much. I’m not sure if I’ll ever fully recover. Sometimes, I go to unlock my phone, and that, “tap to unlock with fingerprint,” message just taunts me from the bottom of my baby-blue screen, right above the home button. My eyes would linger on it for a few seconds, then I’d just tap the passcode in, and continue. I never deleted my old fingerprint from the phone, and I never swapped it to my remaining thumb. I would just enter that same memorized code. 9932.

I kept working at physical therapy. Eventually, the stitches were removed, and I got to where I could flex and curve the remains of my hand to act as a pseudo-mitten. I could pick up some cups with handles, I could balance tableware, and occasionally, when I would start to drift to sleep at night, I’d be torn awake to the sound of the blender’s skull splitting roar, like a chainsaw going off right next to my ear. A phantom shotgun blast of pain would rip through my knuckles like I was right back in my kitchen, hand eviscerating as I reach for that stupid ring. On those nights, as soon as the sleep was ripped from my eyes and I’d boot straight up, the sound would immediately disappear, kind of like that feeling of falling when you’re dozing off. When you wake up, you think for a second, “did I even really feel that?” But I knew I did. I always did.

I think I could handle it, all of it, the trauma, the phantom pain, if not for what happened today when I got home from physical therapy. I forgot my phone on my kitchen table. Upon discovering such, I decided not to turn around, and to just go without it. It was only an hour, what could happen? I unlocked my front door and made it inside, exhausted from the arm workouts, and ready to binge Welcome to Derry while eating a whole, steaming hot Tombstone pizza. But my blood ran cold, every ounce of self assuredness tunnelling out of my body and abandoning my flesh like worms from a rotten apple the moment I approached the table and saw it. The fleeting message displayed on the small, rectangular portal, lying next to my flower vase. The notification had so recently appeared, that it was barely fading by the time I read it, an oval of maroon grime above the home button at the bottom of the screen.

“Biodata ID Confirmed: Device Unlocked.”

Someone had unlocked my phone using my dominant thumb, and it had been very, very recent.

Howdy! This is the Author, Mikey, and I just wanted to say, thanks for reading. This is my shortest story that I’ve posted yet, and I think this is the one I’m most proud of. I may be huffing copium, so if I need to be knocked down a peg or two, please feel free to tear me a new one in the comments! I need critique, and there’s no one better suited to give it to me than you, dear reader. I hope to get better, so please, if there’s anything I can improve on, let me know. Thanks again for sticking around to the end, it means the world to me. To all the night owls, I hope y’all enjoyed!

Art by @ oifrann_ on Instagram

Name: Rebel

Age: 24

Height: 5’8

Favorite gum flavor: cherry

Rebel is an enigmatic woman who claims to be the “next thread in the string of chaos” to reestablish the set order within the city of Estex.

The real identity of Rebel is unknown. This narcissistic anarchist is hellbent on completing her self made mission of “rearranging order.”

Stories she’s currently appeared in:

“Rebel”

“Ms. Anzu vs. Elise”

https://www.wattpad.com/1238800875?utm\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_source=ios&utm\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_medium=link&utm\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_content=share\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_reading&wp\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_page=reading&wp\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_uname=IAmDaRealPumpkinKing

My first post it's my version of Jeff The killer.

Haunting recollection -Alan Walowitz
From the Movie “Poetry In Motion II”
A G&E Production
Gregory Gioffi- Director