Young Writers Society

The Museum’s List of Oddities and Supernatural Occurrences: Log #756

     Once, while traveling on a long, dark, road, I came upon what I believe to be a new supernatural creature or occurrence. As I walked along the path I scribbled aimlessly in my journal (I’ve learned the difficult skill of logging whilst walking). The sun was sinking, low in the sky. It reminded me like a cut open grapefruit. The air was crisp and cool, and felt almost brittle when I breathed it in. There was no one else walking with me. The meadows and pastures of the country were my only company. At around 8:17 P.M., I began to hear what could be described as someone banging several keys on a piano. It followed a tune, albeit poorly. I was inclined to ignore it. It didn’t sound real: it sounded as though I was just replaying a song inside my head. What caused me to begin logging the account into my journal was the trombone that began accompanying it. The following text is taken from my journal.

x

Saturday, 8:18 PM

A country road in the middle of nowhere

     Journal, the strangest thing is happening! It really is quite marvelous. I should be scared, but when your profession is collecting oddities, it’s an excitement whenever one occurs! I was just strolling around this quaint country road when I began to hear a piano play. No one is around but the grass and occasional cow. It didn’t sound real - it sounded as though I was just making it up in my head. But journal - my colleagues at the Museum are not going to believe this! About a full minute after the piano began playing, a full orchestra has joined in! It has gotten significantly louder - I must be alert, but I must also document everything!

x

     I continued walking along the path, my interest piqued. I flipped through my thick field guide, searching for any spectors or oddities that could be responsible. I automatically assumed that it could have been an entire undead orchestra, but thought that was silly. And anyways, “Why would a dead orchestra be playing in the middle of a dirt road? Stupid, stupid!” (Excerpt from the journal entry). I walked on for a ways, listening to the increasingly louder orchestra warble a faintly recognizable tune, when I realized the sun was no longer red. It had turned a deep purple, and seemed like it cut into the horizon. It startled me, to say the least.

x

Saturday, 8:20 PM

An increasingly mysterious country road

     The sun is purple. It no longer even looks like the sun, but instead looks like someone colored a piece of paper purple and pasted it sloppily against the horizon. I am quite shaken, journal. My hands are trembling, but I have to press on. I have to document this.

x

     The next journal describes the de-construction of reality that took place in the next few minutes. It is hastily written, as my hands were trembling so badly that I could hardly write it.

x

8:25

    Good God. The grass is tiny slivers of green, and red, and yellow construction paper that looks like a child’s craft. The sky has turned into moving scribbles of black charcoal, and the flowers are quickly drawn circles. The music has grown ever louder, and I’ve recognized the tune as children’s nursery rhymes. Everywhere I look, reality has been replaced with crudely cut out paper and blindingly saturated colors. I am either in the presence of God, or a very angry child. Perhaps both. I think I am descending into madness. I’ve begun singing along with the rhymes.

x

     The journal continues in incoherent scribbles and child-like drawings.

x

Mary had a little lamb, whose fleece was white as snow

As white as snow

Snow is wonderful. It is it is I love it! It is my favorite! Snow is falling now, look! Look look look!

Man has colored the white paper with our colorful sin

Rip the paper

Please

tear it, I want to feel myself ripped to shreds m mmm oh

Tear me tear me

It is ripping at the seams, look! God have mercy on my

Mary had a

She had a little

It’s ripping!

x

     The very last entry in the journal is a poem.

x

rip me

I will tear myself

To shreds

Color the sky black and diediediedie

Nothing is everything

We are

Construction paper

Graphite

A Childs scribble

Oh oh ohhhh

Mary had a little lamb whose fleece was white as snow.

Rip it to shreds

Paint on it

Paint on my hands

shreds in my hands

rip

Me

We’re ripping now

Can you

Feel

It

?

x

     The journal ends there. I woke up on a park bench on the side of the road with all my materials in my bag, which I had been using as a pillow. I had no memory of what had occurred. The only proof this had ever happened was the scribbles that now cover my arms and legs and the journal entries I had written. Considering my previous assignment prior to the occurrence, there had been no reason for me too even be walking on that country road at all.

     I have concluded that nothing in this world is real and that a higher being is playing arts and crafts with time and space. This is my final log and suicide note. It has been an honor working with you all.

T.I.G.

Museum Curator’s Note: Although Collector Thomas does give a quite convincing argument, we have tested his theory and have inconclusively decided that our technology is not advanced enough to interact with high enough deity’s as this. Therefore, it does not exist. It would provide a useful explanation for politicians, though. Have a lovely day at the Museum.