Hi, welcome to the story, unfortunately I'm dying, but don't worry, the next narrator will take my place... hopefully they'll be the last of us.

That’s how I used to think mysteries started, but the one I’m living began on a clear spring morning when I opened a drawer in the kitchen looking for a match and found a diary in my own hand writing that I had no recollection of whatsoever.

As my bones snapped & extended, my jaws began to stretch~becoming longer ‘n’ wider— she raised a piercing cry, but my howl was much louder-

#PANICUS.

The soft earth parts quietly beneath his feet as he approaches, his face wreathed in shadows.

Leslie methodically painted her toenails while she thought about the no good, lousy things her neighbor screeched at her this morning.

As the Romani woman turned to me, I focused on her blue eye while she told me I'd see everyone I love die — by my own hands. If only I believed in gypsy magic.

When she closed her eyes, they would beat their wings and bellow in ectasy; when she opened them, they would dissapear.

Sentence story starter:

Why is it so hard to get fresh, crimson stains out of carpet?

She stood in a sea of blood, but it had stopped phasing her a long time ago.