The glass frame shattered all over the grey and mundane carpet. Within the mangled mess of the shards of glass and the crimson frame, which had been shattered in two, was the grainy photo. It had a white picket fence and unfathomable lengths of green grass and in the middle, a red eyed family stood proud. A father, a mother, and two sisters; two very similar sisters. In fact, they were almost identical, both with green eyes, both with chestnut hair, and both with wide grins on their face. I did not realize how close she was with her sister; I also did not realize that your wife and her sister were both twins. In fact, the only thing keeping them both apart was the visible twitch her sister had during the photo.

"What was that?" A booming yet calm voice called. I immediately snapped out of my daze; her voice always seemed to do that to me recently. "Just dropped a photo sweetie." I replied. By that point I had convinced myself that the photo meant nothing. It WAS nothing. "Get a mop and clean it then." She spoke in a passive aggressive tone. I walked out of the bedroom, along the hallway with its paintings of Van Gogh and Munch and a bunch of flowers by the staircase. I went down the staircase, creaking with every step. Once I reached the bottom I walked straight to the kitchen.

Chop, chop, chop. The knife swung down onto the chopping board like a guillotine. She turned to me with an unfeeling yet loving smile. "The mop's just next to the larder." She explained. I nodded slowly whilst I pondered the photograph. I moved my hand towards the mop and grasped it, I then made my slow trip back up the stairs and passed the paintings and back into the bedroom. I pushed the glass away and took the photo, I couldn't stop staring at the twitch in the sister's eye. At first, I wanted to throw away the photo and never think about it again, but I couldn't; I couldn't even bring myself to touch it. So instead, I gently picked up the shards of glass and binned them, then I binned the photo frame. Finally, I slowly cradled the photo and stared at it again. I had gained a tiny cut on my finger from the glass and now the crimson fluid had blurted out onto the photo, covering my wife in blood. Somehow, this frightened me, and I threw the photo in the drawer.

I felt a chilling breath on my shoulder, and I turned around to see my wife behind me with the kitchen knife in her hand and a white apron covered in a damp liquid and a big smile on her face. "Are you done yet? She asks. "I need a hand in the kitchen". I stared at her for what felt like hours, until I plucked up the courage to ask the question that had been trapped in the back of my mind all day. "What happened to your sister?" I asked, whilst I hid my trembling hand behind my back. Her gleeful smile became wider. "She's dead sweetie." My wife said, her emerald, green eye twitching. Suddenly I had realized the truth, my wife's been dead the entire time, and I never noticed. "How did she die?" I asked, now my whole-body trembling. "She was stabbed four times in the chest." She said, her smile becoming wider and wider. I waited for a second, I wasn't sure if I should ask it, but I knew I had to. "Why did you do it?" I asked. "What do you mean?" She asks, her smile continued to widen but this time her eyes were engulfed in flames. I stared at her with a serious face, not flinching one bit. "You know, don't you?" She asked, her eye and hand twitching, with the knifes blade pointed towards me. "You can't make them take me back there! I don't belong in the hospital!" She shouted, pointing the kitchen knife at me. I was frozen in place like a statue, and she began moving closer and closer until she stopped and stared at me with her bulging green eyes in which tears began to form. She then stormed off with the knife in her hand as I stood there motionless. What the hell was I supposed to do now?

Came here from TikTok

Kyle's mental fortitude is impressive!

Thank you, much appreciated!

Thank you!

I stare at the once-forgotten piece of paper, tracing the wrinkles with my finger. So he found it. I knew this was futile, it's not like I ever loved the shithead. I place the photograph back into my sister's favourite book. I lay atop the bastard's bed, wondering what he thought of me. He probably thinks I'm infatuated. I gag at the thought.

​

What did he hope to achieve by staying silent? Was he playing detective? So childish.

​

Now came the big question. What do I do? I can kill him. I can run away. Burn the photograph. Pretend I was "reading my favourite book when I couldn't help but notice it." I could pretend I don't want to talk about myself or go the other way and come up with an excruciatingly elaborate lie.

​

I sigh, wearily getting up, as I do, the doorbell rings. Possibilities fill my mind as I walk towards the front door.

​

"Can I help you, officers?"

​

Again?

​

"Ma'am, you are under arrest for the mur-"

​

I snap my fingers, and a familiar piece of paper appears between them, a drawer in front of me.

​

A letter this time. A suicide note. This is going to be good.

This so why I never finished my science fiction story. I get so caught up in the science part I lose the fun.

Thanks 😊

There was a very similar thing on r/nosleep, but from the twin sister's viewpoint.

This is hilariously sweet.

Unexpectedly wholesome. Love it!

A meat-ior soup?

Here I’ll downvote for you 😊

>"ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS!? ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS ABOUT SOYLENT GREEN BEING PEOPLE!?"

As soon as I read this, Charlton Heston became Mega Muscles. 🤣🤣

Thanks for the visual and the laughs, it is greatly appreciated.

"What should I make for dinner?" mused Kyle as he idly surveyed the carnage surrounding him. Every separated limb, every slice, every stab was a clean one; Double Edge was rightly known as the sharpest of all the sentient blades.

"That took ten times longer than it had to you sheep-loving cretin," the sword said as it began its tirade. "You strike with the force of a small child and you waste your energy over pointless maneuvering," the sword continued, building on what would be today's theme: why Kyle's swordsmanship sucks. It was a common theme.

Kyle surveyed his surroundings as he began to walk. He hoped to make a village by tonight and sleep in a real bed. He grinned as he walked and listened to the sword's tirade, laughing at the more colorful and vulgar insults the sword hurled at him. "Dumber than mud f*cked by goblins is your best one," Kyle interrupted. Before the sword could respond to this, Kyle continued: "Anyway, you miss the point of my style completely."

"Your style? YOUR STYLE?!" exploded the sword. "I am the mightiest and keenest of all the sentient blades! I can cut through an ancient dragon's scales like parchment and no magic can ever break my blade!" Kyle was pretty sure Double Edge would be frothing at the mouth if it had one. His grin broadened as he listened to the sword rail on. "And yet despite all of my might, you insist on only striking weak points. You parry when you could just cleave through their blades. You strike too soft to break a shield I could cut through with ease!"

"Well, yeah, I do that on purpose," responded Kyle. "But there's no reason to is my point," snarled the sword. "There are, my friend! Three, in fact. One: I want to be a genuinely skilled swordsman without relying on a blade to be my strength. Two: The extended time it takes me to gain an opening to strike those weak points is good for my physical conditioning. Three,' here Kyle's eyes took on a mischievous gleam and he finished; "I know it insults your pride and bruises your ego to no end."

Kyle let out a roaring laugh as the sword renewed its tirade with a vitriol reserved only for the worst of enemies; or the best of friends. Kyle let the sword's invective fade into the background as he returned to his musing on tonight's meal. The sword's verbal rampage came to an end. "I guess you ARE skilled," the sword grumbled. Kyle chuckled. "But you're still dumber than mud f*cked by goblins!"

Thinly veiled dreamnoblade

“Hey hey hey, woah, buddy. Hold on a second!” Edgy implores me, afraid. For the first time in the year I’ve had him, he’s afraid.

“Why? Why should I? Why, after everything, do you expect me to value your opinion?”

“Just hold on a second there. Look; if you kill yourself with me, I’ll be distraught! I may never get over the trauma of–”

I pull him back to plunge him through my stomach, but freeze when he changes tack.

“Okay! Okay! Message received; no more flippantly narcissistic comments!”

“Well,” I say, breathing heavily, “we seem to be at a crossroads, Edge.”

“Yeah. We do.”

“So what should I do?”

“Well, you could start by putting me down…?”

“Why?”

“Well, because killing yourself isn’t really a great idea–”

“No. That’s not what I meant,” I interject. “Why do you care?”

Edgy’s grip ices just slightly, but I’ve wielded him long enough to notice when he’s been caught out. He doesn’t speak, though.

“Why do you care if I live or die?”

Still silence.

“WHY DO YOU CARE!?” I yell, spittle flying, at the motionless blade, still threatening to impale myself upon him.

There’s a long pause. A long, long pause. After enough time has passed, and I know his outlook, I steady my hand again, and–

“Because I do,” Edgy says, quietly. “Because I care about you.”

“What?” I breathe, stunned.

“I care about you, Toby. I always have.”

“Oh, you’re taking the piss now,” I say, but don’t make a move with my hands.

“Okay, maybe not always, I’ll admit,” he says, shakily, “but for a long time now. I don’t know why I treated you like I did for so long. I don’t know why I let you– I don’t know why I pushed you to where you are now. But I’m sorry.”

“You are?” I ask, and tears well in my eyes.

“Yes,” Edge says. “I am. I really am.”

I drop him, stumbling backwards on shaky legs, staring at his gleaming blade, and he clatters to the ground.

“Ow! Hey! Idiot, get back here! Pick me back up!”

I let out a loose chuckle, which grows into a shaky laugh, and then into a fit of elated giggles.

“Okay,” I say, in between breaths, “but only if you do one thing for me.”

“What?”

“Say please,” I say.

And for the first time in the last year, I feel… happy.

I have something.

I have a friend.

This feels like it could be either a really good horror story, or a post in r/relationship_advice

This is just the plot from Jojo's Part 4

I can't believe you'd out me like this OP. There will be a reckoning! Hot, savory, delicious reckoning!

[deleted]

You find someone else's shadowbox in a thrift store, full of ribbons, medals, and devices. While it has no name, you realize that whoever earned these must have had one hell of a service record. They should be comfortably retired or receiving full VA benefits, at the very least. So why did they feel the need to pawn their awarded honors?

"I'm going to be the best-regarded hero ever," he thought to himself, seconds before impact. What he didn't realize was that, when an asteroid impacts into the earth from outer space, it does so with such velocity that it creates a massive compressed bubble of crystallized air in front of it as it moves. The extra-terrestrial missile travels at thousands of miles per hour, and effectively has a force-field around it all the way to impact. It moves so quickly that it changes from bright-speck-in-the-sky to massive explosion in less than a second.

The impact site had been known for months. It was remotely being filmed in anticipation of the potentially world-ending event. And so it was, that when humanity watched on the screen in the final instants before impact, many of them shared a similar thought:

"What the hell is Souperman doing?" Followed by the utter obliteration of a man armed with a small bowl, and an even smaller grasp of planetary collisions on worlds with dense atmospheres.

RadMan, the hero who could manipulate all forms of radiation, turned up and transformed the bulk of the heat from the blast into a brilliant, harmless light. Teams of seismically-endowed "Earth Movers" led by the organization's leader, Terra, kept the dust and debris from entering the upper atmosphere, which prevented a nuclear winter. Even the compression waves were dulled thanks to Sonic Boom. The initial crater and the media footage were all that could be used as evidence of the impact.

The whole ordeal left the entire world united. Not because of the catastrophic circumstance that could have ended life as we know it, but because we all collectively thought at the same moment, "Did that idiot really think that that was going to work?"

I liked the choice of gazpacho, because it coincides with Souperior's revenge: best served cold

Headphones on and head down, I was doodling in my notebook in the farthest back corner of the classroom when a large crumpled piece of paper landed on my desk. My eyes shot up and interlocked with a curly-haired boy seated diagonal to me. He wore a dark hoodie and looked at me with the whisper of a smirk on his mouth and a discernible twinkle in his eye. I looked at him tight-lipped and wide-eyed. It was the first week of school and I had yet to talk to him, nor anyone else for that matter.

Heart racing, I quickly paused my music and opened the wad of paper as discreetly as possible, cringing at the obvious sounds of its unkinking. It took me some time to decipher the chicken scratch, but I finally read:

You are dead. As you hover on the intermediate plane of existence between life and
death,waiting for something to happen, a loud voice echoes from above, to inform
you of your options. "You may reincarnate as: a rock, a sheet of paper, or a pair of
scissors. Choose wisely."

I could feel an unauthorized smile stretch across my face in amusement and my eye brows furrow in contemplation. I glanced up, expecting to lock eyes with him again, however his head bopped up and down from the presentation at the front of the classroom to the notebook under his nose, while he vigorously scribbled notes. Suddenly remembering my surroundings, I recovered my uniform look of general disinterest and covertly reread his note.

I quickly decided on paper, living an eternity as an inanimate object with no power or control would ultimately be an infinite prison sentence. Rock and scissors were solid, strong. Paper could simply wash away in water. It could disappear like it never existed. It was delicate like that. Fragile. And no one would miss it either. Reams of paper came packed in hundreds, and boxes filled with reams turned hundreds into thousands. Across the world were truckloads of boxes filled with reams - millions of different pieces of paper, and yet all the same. I liked that paper felt anonymous in its masses of indistinguishability; but what I found most comforting was that no one would fret over the loss of a single paper because there were so many others to replace it.

The bell jolted me out of my thoughts and I gathered my things into my backpack slowly, as always, to ensure I’d be the last out of the classroom. Through heavy eyelashes, I sheepishly glanced towards the curly-haired boy's desk, wondering if he had waited to hear my response, but he had already made his exit; and I was alone.

Downcast and silent, I walked out of the classroom and into a crowded hallway filled with so many of the same types of people, and I realized that there really was nothing stopping me from becoming a piece of paper.