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Once upon a time, Naomi noticed someone posting as her on the Internet. Ordinarily identity theft would be a problem; however, identity theft proved a disaster in Naomi’s case. Her catering supply business ran into danger. While the Internet offered new business pipelines, her catering supply business pipelined into the area catering—parties, dining, receptions for bored brokers and bankers. When High Frequency Trading HFT had been moved from Wall Street and installed in the Middle West United States, Naomi’s catering business moved along with High Frequency Trading. High Frequency Trading profit jumped. Naomi’s business profit jumped. Unfortunately, impersonation and hacking jumped with it.

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Death of Sanity

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Do people who've gone insane recognize the changes they've gone through that got them where they are? What I mean to say is do they know they are going crazy? Are they helpless to the events happening to their minds? Or are they oblivious to the events, making their life an ever morphing horror movie? Both sound very intriguing, I don't think I could choose one way or another. I think the journey alone is an adventure worth experiencing. Which brings me to the paradoxical question am I sane? Conventionally no, but I understand this. This is why I will choose and not allow time or fate to make a choice for me.

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Dear Harold

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Dear Harold,

It was real good to see you the other night. Not many guys would have bought a girl pretzels on a first date. To me it was a real sign of you. Like a statement, I guess you would say.

Anyway, I think you should not be too embarrassed because your fly stuck open at the dance. I don't think people noticed. They looked at you and laughed because of that funny joke you told I am sure. I felt bad you had to explain it three times to those dummies at our table. But some folks just are not too swift you know.

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Death by Diamond

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What a keen sensation it gave me! Riding on a night-bullet-train, head out the window, sharp daggers of air against my face. Yes, I stole the diamonds. And it felt good.

The only problem was that I knew you'd soon catch up with me. Then I’d be reduced. Made into a regurgitated bean.

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For Rome

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Breakfast was impossible. Hard bread was never the most appetising of meals, but that morning I just could not find the courage to force it down. The sun was so hot and the bread so dry, my lips so chapped and my stomach so tight.

This unease had been building in me for weeks. At first I thought it was just seasickness, but we had reached land days ago and yet still it remained. I knew what was causing it, but I had so far refused to admit to such un-Roman weakness . Now, however, it had grown so strong that I could no longer ignore it; it was so much bigger than me.

I sat down on a dune and looked out over the bay. Despite the sickness of my mind, I tried to see things as I ought to.

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Blood for the Blood God

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"Yes, now and forever" It whispers, followed by incoherent profanity...

The figure approaches the house, through the window it stares.

A grin appears on its face, "The time is near" it murmurs.

It walks to the back door of the house and walks in like it’s at home. Silently it floats up the stairs and enters a bed room. It pulls up its hood and pauses, it listens for a while to the soft breathing. It walks over and leans over the bed. It raises one arm forward, with the other it reaches into his robe and pulls out a cruel shaped ceremonial knife with kill written in blood all over the hilt. It pauses and then suddenly screeches as it slashes its wrist. Blood spurts all over the silhouette, There is no movement in the bed.

"Blood for the Blood God," it screeches.

Blood drips down the figures arm as a dark mist slowly engulfs the room, revolving around the shadowy figure slowly. The gash starts to close up and as the figure examines it’s now healed wound. The body in the bed suddenly sits up and turns its head to the figure robotically, his eyes glowing red.

"The path of destruction" the little boy says in a soft voice as he stands up.

The figure gleefully nods his head and starts to walk. The figure walks out of the room, down the stairs and through the back door of the house. The figure doesn’t look back once and the boy walks silently, lifelessly behind.

The boy listens to the figure as it gleefully mumbles incoherently to its self.

"Blood for the Blood God" it rambles over and over again more and more excitedly each time, sometimes jumping with joy.

Through the dark misty forest they walk together. The blood moon smiling at them as they arrive at an opening with a stone chair in the center, the boy walks over and sits down. The figure excitedly looks at the boy with anticipation. The boy stares off into the distance with a blank expression on his face.

The figure kneels and says "How may I serve you lord" as he removes his hood. Revealing a grotesque disease ridden face.

The boy with eyes glowing crimson red looks the figure in the eyes and utters "In death"

The figure now noticeably alarmed yells, "but, but, no, buu--t.."

He tried to flee, the space around them darkens and the black mist pulls him back and forces the man to kneel.

"Nooooooo!" he sobbingly screams.

A blood red circle surrounds the figure, markings form on its body and they too start to glow red. The figure is stretched out and across the circle without effort, left trapped and unable to move. The mist darkens further and engulfs the figure.

It wails "baahhh" as blood spurts out of the glowing markings in every direction.

It screams whilst its bones are being ripped out through its skin, they all snap and turn to dust, the remaining matter then explodes over and over again dispersing it over the vicinity. The cycle is repeated over and over again, the figure appears, it screams as it fades away only to come back again.

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Quench

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Every inch of me trembles.

I'd trade every breath I have left for the courage to chomp down and let his sweet blood pool in the back of my throat.

The heat and rolling gurgle would be enough satisfaction to offset the coughing – I'd need to dislodge the liquid out of my windpipe eventually.

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Randall's Clown

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Randall Jensen woke up very early today.  Today was his first day of school.  The five year old dressed himself in the clothes that were laid out for him, and then ran wildly down the stairs.  He quickly fixed himself a bowl of cereal and ate it down.  He then started playing with his toy truck to pass the time while his mother slowly awoke and prepared for her day.

While playing with the truck, a figure appeared before Randall.  The figure was adult in size, somewhat translucent, and looked like a clown.  He had a seriously silly smile on his face which seemed fixed in place.  His eyes locked onto Randall and didn't veer away.

“Randall...Randall...wanna have some fun?” asked the clown.

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Beyond the Elder Tree

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It had seemed like a great idea at first: Timmy and one of his fellow scouts doing a wildlife survey on the small Channel Island of Mere. Two nights away camping with no adult supervision - Awesome!

Timmy had read up on the uninhabited island prior to the crossing. Mere was made up of rugged heathland and undisturbed woodland. With over forty native species of trees and shrubs Mere was a private wildlife haven for dozens of species of birds, red squirrels and a host of insects. Timmy loved conservation work and this was going to be a great weekend. That was until Lucas Jones volunteered for the second of the two places.

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Cry of the Wendigo

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The Wendigio is a supernatural, cannibal creature of Native American folklore, said to prowl the deep Canadian and Alaskan forests. In the southern United States, its counterpart, the legendary Rougaroo, combs the swamps for victims. On the western plains, it is known as the Camp Eater, devouring whole villages and tribes. All three possess incredible strength and speed, and the hunger of a werewolf. There is no escape for those who run afoul of such a beast.

This tale takes place in the frozen Alaskan wasteland, where an Aleut tribe has always known such monsters exist. They stand ready to kill anyone tainted by the curse.

*

The unfortunate young girl’s name was Akkilokipok; in the Aleut language this meant soft snow. And when Soft Snow became pregnant, she swore she had been with no man.

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