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Moabarmorgamer
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Moabarmorgamer
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Hi. This is Moat. And this is where I would like to see people post some morbid poems, stories, etc. Although they don't have to, and I will be mainly the one posting here. First entry to my Morbid Literature Journal:

A very much more selfless, brighter, and, dare I say, more optimistic and therefore idiotic, view.

The Only Thing I Ask

I am on the test, the trial
For my life, the danger is dire
But, dear God
The only thing I ask of You
Is to keep others from the same fate
Protect them from this amount of hate
Save the others
Please God the only thing I ask of You
Save my friends and my mother
From this horror
My photographs, my memories
Will have to help me through
I'm lonely and I'm tired
I'm missin them again
The hatred of others burns like fire
Why do they hate me?
I'm just a man
But, dear God
The only thing I ask of You
Protect my family and friends
And my strength, it will hold
Through the dark and through the cold
I'm hurting and I'm hated
They hurt me with word and rod
But, dear God
The only thing I ask of You
The others around me have lost hope
But I pray to You
And I remember the good times
You have given me
With my family and friends
And I can pull through
Because hurt is nothing new
In this world
And all I need to do
Is pray again to You
I'm lonely and I'm tired
I'm missin them again
The hatred of others burns like fire
Why do they hate me?
I'm just a man
But, dear God
The only thing I ask of You
Protect my family and friends
And my strength, it will hold
Through the dark and through the cold
I am weak outside
They have hurt my body and my mind
For no reason other than I'm different
I believe that the other prisoners went
Well, I am still alive
As long as I can, time after time
Think about those I love
Those left so far behind
But I can't help but wish
That I could be there again
Back where I love to be
There's nothing here for me
On this road of life
But I trust You, dear God
And I pray to You, dear God
The only thing I ask of You
Save them this day
I'm lonely and I'm tired
I'm missin them again
The hatred of others burns like fire
Why do they hate me?
I'm just a man
But, dear God
The only thing I ask of You
Protect my family and friends
And my strength, it will hold
Through the dark and through the cold
There's no one here
Noplace to go
My overwhelming fear
Oh, no no no
But it's not for me
It's for them
I will believe they're safe
Until the end
And there may be horror
There may be strife
But if I lose them
It'll be like a knife
And to you I pray
Dear God
The only thing I ask of You
Protect them on this darkest day
When I'm not around
When I'm much too far away
I'm lonely and I'm tired
I'm missin them again
The hatred of others burns like fire
Why do they hate me?
I'm just a man
But, dear God
The only thing I ask of You
Protect my family and friends
And my strength, it will hold
Through the dark and through the cold
Dear God
You can take me
Save them, protect them
The only thing I ask
Save the others from this fate
Protect them all, upon this day

  • 252 Replies
samdawghomie
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samdawghomie
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Peasant

*spits out toast*


Samdawg, that's taking it a bit far.


Ok, I'll try to hold my self to only blood. But you might be suprised.

And I will say, you made title what it is, and if you don't let me write what I think is morbid literature, well.
Moabarmorgamer
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Moabarmorgamer
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You could give a graphic warning. Or post a censored and uncensored version. I'm not bashing your works or anything.

samdawghomie
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samdawghomie
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Peasant

Ok, I'll make a warning sign. You'll see it in a little bit. And it will be a big warning, because of the big morbidness.

Moabarmorgamer
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Moabarmorgamer
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Nomad

Dun dun dun.
After I
A. Stop looking for pre-written morbid works of mine, because I know I've run out
B. Get off my lazy butt
I will begin to write the next story.

samdawghomie
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samdawghomie
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Peasant

http://img9.imageshack.us/img9/4950/warningsign.png

THere. Big enough?


Ohh, B. I choose B.

TSL3_needed
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TSL3_needed
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Helicopters' Wrath

The chopper is flying,
The men are running.
All there is,
Is a certain doom.

It flies over them,
It screeches from above.
It's guns open fire,
Shredding the men into piles of pulp.

The men scatter,
But there is nowhere to go.
They're alone on that road,
That road in the dessert.

The Apaches are shooting,
The rockets are flying.
Men are being slaughtered,
Thrown around and shot.

The tanks are fleeing,
The jeeps are seeing.
All these helicopters are doing,
Is the final blow of the US Army.

There are hundreds of them,
Running,
Driving,
Screaming.

But the helicopters,
The birds of death,
Keep firing,
Until not a soul is left.

The poor soldiers are gone,
None left.
All in pieces,
Splattered and slaughtered.

The massacre was short,
The pain long.
The helicopters merciless,
The pain real.

Death gripped the men,
From Kuwait they had been.
They tried to take it,
But failed miserably.

Now they lay in ruins,
Death overtaking them.
The tanks rolling over them,
Burning them.

From the dessert they came,
To the dessert they died.
Few were left,
Most were dead.

And that's it. That's my poem. It's based off the 1991 massacre of the soldiers fleeing from Kuwaits' capital city, and getting layed to waste by our Apaches. We won, as always.

Moabarmorgamer
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Moabarmorgamer
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The Darkness Of Daniel Cooper


"Hey Tom, why don't you tell us a ghost story?" said Jimmy, trying to warm his hands at the campfire. He didn't really trust Tom. They had found him in the woods, wandering, completely lost, a few hours prior. Their cell phones didn't get reception here, and they had no means of leaving(their parents would pick them up tomorrow) so they decided to let him stay with them for the night.
"Yeah Tom, I'm not really good at that kinda thing," agreed Mike. He shifted on the rough log he had chosen to sit on. He half-wished that they had chosen to go with his little sister and mom trick-or-treating instead of going on the Halloween camping trip at Lake Kalakaua. Erica might annoy him, but at least home was warm and not at all frightening. Something felt off about these woods they were camped in. He rubbed his silver cross necklace. His grandma had told him it was made of pure silver. Rubbing it always comforted him.
"Fine," said the lanky figure on the far left. The firelight illuminated his thin, pale face. His eyes almost seemed to glow. Add to that the fact that he was dressed all in black and had close cropped black hair, made him downright creepy. And then he began to talk, in the frightening, low whisper he reserved for ghost stories. It was hypnotizing.

"In the late 1700s, there was a boy who was drowned in a lake shore far from home. His name was Daniel Cooper, and he was only 13. Nobody investigated the case, because he'd been born on a Halloween, on a Friday. At that time, of course, superstition was at its' all-time high, so everyone in the small villa he lived in assumed he'd dabbled in witchcraft and so, didn't care about him. The constable said it was an accidental drowning, and everyone let it go without another thought. The next Halloween, however, Cooper took matters into his own hands, desperate to bring the people who drowned him to justice. He finally gathered the strength to speak to the people. He told them who his killers were. However, the townsfolk, still being superstitious, hailed the murderers as heroes for killing a demon. This infuriated Cooper. He again spoke to them, Halloween the next year. This time, he warned them to serve justice, or he would reap his revenge. Being frightened, the people went to the local priest. He promised them that he would protect them from Cooper, and told them not to obey him. They believed him. The local "witch hunters", the people who had killed Cooper, were now being avoided largely. They became rather sick of this. The next Halloween, Cooper swore to take his revenge on his murderers, and all the people who had let them get away. By this time, he had grown very strong. He caused plagues, droughts, and famines to come to the town all year. Finally, on the next Halloween, the desperate townsfolk pleaded and begged for Cooper to make it stop. They took the murderers and publicly executed them. But Cooper, who had developed an evil side, continued with the natural disasters anyway. Finally, the priest took action. He banished Cooper, and for almost 100 years Cooper remained dormant, unable to do anything. But then, some foolish girl who had got it in her head that she was a witch, tried to summon Cooper. She failed, but she cut herself on the knife she was using. A single drop of blood fell. This gave Cooper all his power back. He then became corrupted and hungry for power.He killed the girl and took her blood. This continued for years, until finally Cooper realized what he had been doing. He controlled himself. He took blood only once a year, on Halloween, simply to keep himself alive. But slowly, as the fertile soil the village was built on transformed into harsh mountain and woods terrain. It was unfit to live on anymore, so the residents moved away, and Cooper's power began to fade. Years later, it is rumored that he still remains."
Mike shivered, but Jimmy cheered.
"That was, without doubt, the best ghost story I've ever heard! What do you think, Mike?" Jimmy said
"It...was ok," Mike said. The ghost story had really spooked him.
"Oh. Are you scared, bro? Come on. You're scared of a ghost story? You have to look at your little sister Erica's face every day, a task that would reduce most people to whimpering in a corner, but we come across a moderately scary ghost story and you shiver?" Jimmy said
"It was really frightening," Michael said, shaking his head.
"Just remember it's not real, Mike," said Jimmy
"Oh no, this one's real," said Tom.
"Pfft. Sure," said Jimmy disbelievingly.
"It's true," said Tom. Mike tried to elbow Jimmy to stop, but Jimmy wouldn't back down.
"Uh-huh. How would you know?" Jimmy asked.
"Because I'm Daniel Cooper," growled Tom. Then he disappeared.

The next morning, when Jimmy's and Mike's parents came to pick them up, all they found at their campsite was a silver cross necklace, covered with blood.

Moabarmorgamer
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Moabarmorgamer
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The Guilty Will Pay

The young Confederate private bowed his head in sorrow as he followed his company through the body-strewn battle field on his Appaloosa. Private Franklin Brand had been drafted and trained less than a week before he saw his first battle, and the poor lad wasn't prepared for the bloodbath he saw. His company rode into their station just a few hours later. Brand had always been kind and friendly, to all. The intelligent young man had a bright future ahead of him. But after the battle, he became a downright recluse. His best friend was still on the battlefield, and wouldn't get up. He'd had enough of this. He wanted his revenge. And he would get it.

Brand became hellbent on revenge. He trained and worked harder than any other soldier. The time he wasn't training or working, he spent simply sitting on the porch, staring into the sunset with darkened eyes. And he became accustomed to pain and death. They were his friends now, the fuel for the fire that raged within Franklin Brand. And naught could stop him. He advanced quickly, first to sergeant, then lieutenant, and finally, as captain, he got his own regiment. He didn't care about them. He cared about results, killing Yankees. He became drunk with power. The once-handsome and friendly boy who had been taken from his home to the army became the dark, power-corrupted, half-insane recluse; Captain Franklin Brand. And yet, he seemed invincible.

Soon after that, Brand received orders from General Lee. Take your men to the east coast and trap the Yankees in a bottleneck. Destroy the force before it can reach the new battlefield. So he took his men, in the dead of winter, through snow blocked mountain passes to carry out these orders. Several of them had to have fingers and toes amputated due to frostbite. Afterwards, they reached the position. They waited and waited for the Yanks to come. Brand became impatient. He had a taste for blood that needed to be satisfied. He ordered them to attack, go after the Union. They obeyed. The result was a total disaster. It had been an ambush. And the entire regiment he had been given was killed. He hastily retreated, and escaped unscathed. To keep his rank and his power, Brand lied to the General. He knew that it was his impatience that had killed the soldiers, so he said that the Yanks had simply beaten them by pure force and that the survivors had been killed by a blizzard in the mountains. The General let him off. He remained a captain.
The next day, Franklin Brand had disappeared. Search parties were sent everywhere, combing nearby hills and bunkers, but could find no trace of Franklin Brand. Weeks later, Captain Franklin Brand was posted as AWOL(Absent WithOut Leave)and dishonorably discharged from the Confederate Army. After that, everyone assumed that the Indians had gotten him during the night, and the search was abandoned.
But almost a decade later, scientists were digging around old Civil War battlefields to discover new things. And they unearthed something very odd. They found an entire regiment buried in one place, and although regiments can all die in a battle, this was special. Because every single soldier was in pristine condition, as if they had died just moments ago. And on each and every one of their faces, even if they had died a horrible, gruesome death, was a smile, and open eyes. And buried in the center of the battlefield was Captain Franklin Brand's body, still as though he'd just been alive moments ago. And carved on his forehead, a jagged and infected cut, as though with dirty, long, cruel fingernails, was "crimen mos persolvo."

Moabarmorgamer
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Moabarmorgamer
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The Unnamed
Charlie smiled at his friends.
"I made it into the college!" he said, excitedly.
"All right, Char!" said Kip, patting him on the back.
"I'm just going to go and sign in," said Charlie, high-fiving his friends. They smiled and waved. Charlie drove down the long highway, and parked at the college. Then, he fell asleep.

When Charlie woke up, he got up and tried to open the door. But his hand couldn't grasp the handle. It must be slippery, he thought. He tried and failed again. He tried to kick the door, that always worked if it was being difficult, but his foot seemed to slip past the door and he was caught off balance and fell off his seat. Then, he fell through the floor. What the heck! Charlie thought. What happened to me? He walked up to a woman in a gray suit.
"Ma'am! Can you help me? Can you tell me what's happening?" he asked, getting desperate. But the woman ignored him. So he went from person to person, but no one saw him or heard him. He ran to the nearest pay phone and desperately popped some quarters in it. He dialed his dad's number, and someone picked up.
"Help me! I don't know where I am and nobody is talking to me," Charlie exclaimed. The person on the other end heard nothing but a strange hissing noise.
"Leave me alone to mourn my son's death in peace!" shouted the voice on the other end.
"But I am your son!" Charlie shouted, but the other person had hung up.
"Somebody help me!" shouted Charlie, waving his arms in the sky "Please!"
And then, he awoke with a start, back at his apartment. He rubbed his eyes. Oh. It was only a dream, Charlie thought, scratching his head. What a creepy one. He walked down the stairs and outside, where his friends and family were waiting. He waved at them, and they were all crying for some reason, as he went into the taxicab.
"1200 East, 400 North," Charlie said, yawning.
"I beg your pardon?" said the driver, in a low, gravelly voice
"I said, 1200 East, 400 North." Charlie replied
"Sonny, this cab only goes to one place," the driver said, craning around to look at Charlie.
"Where, then?" Charlie asked
"Hell."

Hope you liked! I just dug this out! I disobeyed my options

Moabarmorgamer
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Moabarmorgamer
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Ashes In The Wind


David slouched miserably on his hard cot. It had been just over a week since Abraham's death, and he still couldn't get over it. The look of his best friend since birth lying on his deathbed,pale, shivering, sweating, too weakened by typhoid fever to even raise his hand or speak a single syllable, still cut him to the core. He recalled how full of life and energy Abraham had been, bright blue eyes and unruly brown hair. He'd always been so energetic and humorous. David had felt nothing when the Gestapo had beaten him for trying to keep them from Abraham's body, trying to save his best friend from being reduced to ashes that would blow away in the wind, forgotten, just like his family. No. He had felt such emotional pain that physical pain seemed like a brush of the wind. Ah, the wind. He missed the sweet scent of the spring wind, carrying with it the faint whistle of birds and the sweet smell of flowers and grasses soon to come. But he hadn't smelled that in years, since the Gestapo came and dragged all the Jews to the concentration camps. There, only sweat, blood, and tears could be smelled, and sometimes the harsh, revolting scent of bodies being burned. And no, he didn't hate the Nazis for what they had done. He had hated them for a very long time, until the deaths began. Then David cried and cried, until he had simply cried himself out and had no more tears and no more emotion. He was just numb, a void shell of the boy he'd once been. His pale face was smudged with so much soot and dirt that skin was difficult to see. And what you could see was black and blue from numerous beatings. His eyes were red and dull. He had no one and nothing left in this world. He knew he belonged in a better place. The afterlife? No. Only Hell would take him now.

The next morning, David awoke as usual and went to work. He could see the Nazis, eating, drinking, and laughing in their room. Then, they all left. But wait! One of them had left his sidearm on the table. David felt alive for the first time in years. He felt alive. David snuck into the room and stole the gun. He knew he would be killed. But that was what he longed for. He left the building. Then, he slowly pointed the gun at a Nazi's back. He wanted blood. He began to pull the trigger, when suddenly, a white hand stopped him. He turned, aghast, to see his family and Abraham, gathered behind him. They stepped up, their opalescent bodies shimmering in the scorching sun.He saw a flash of memories that weren't his. They belonged to the Nazi he'd been about to kill. He saw a family, and fear when the Fuhrer had announced drafting for the Second Great War would commence. Then, the memories blurred together and was lost.
"Don't kill..." said his family "Just wait..." their whispers echoed in David's mind. Then they blew away, like their ashes in the wind. David watched them. He lowered his gun from the Nazi's head. But he just couldn't take any more.
An earsplitting, resounding CRACK! was heard. Nazis and Jews alike came running towards the sound. And they saw David, a bullet hole in his temple, blood trickling down onto his grubby shirt, his mouth open, tongue lolling out, and eyes wide open and staring at the last sight he would ever see.
"Family..." whispered the dying boy. "I'm coming."
Just a few days later, the Soviets came and rescued the Jews from their prison. The Jews joyfully burned the concentration camp down to the ground.
And David watched, as the ashes flew away into the wind. And wished he'd made a different choice.

Moabarmorgamer
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Moabarmorgamer
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Here's my version of the Warning: Morbid Literature sign.
http://i1004.photobucket.com/albums/af170/JJnapper/signy-1-1.gif
The red splatters in the bottom right corner prove that I'm not messing around.

samdawghomie
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samdawghomie
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Peasant

Awww you have a gif. I can't do that.

TSL3_needed
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TSL3_needed
5,579 posts
Nomad

You should ask a mod to modify the name of the thread and put a warning.

Moabarmorgamer
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Moabarmorgamer
8,570 posts
Nomad

Hmmm...
But I'm so shy around mods!
That's a good idea. If only we could edit our posts...I could change my very first post and warn people...

TSL3_needed
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TSL3_needed
5,579 posts
Nomad

Hmmm...
But I'm so shy around mods!


Hm, me too. But I guess I could ask?
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