Will you write me a bed time story? I can't sleep

Will you write me a bed time story? I can't sleep.

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>once upon a time there was a parrot in the jungle
>the parrot was very bored
>he saw a rhino down beneath the trees
>he decided to have some fun
>the parrot flew down next to the rhino
>he tickled the rhino with his feathers
>the rhino got pissed off and flattened the parrot
>let this be a lesson
>night night

The night stalker is a long creature. With long arms and long legs and a long, long neck.

The night stalker doesn't have a home, so after the sun has set and all the families have gone to bed it stalks from house to house.

The night stalker is looking for a house with just one room that still has the lights on. The night stalker is drawn to the light like a moth to a flame.

It sneaks up to the window and knocks three times. If you ever hear the night stalker knock, be quick to turn out your lights. Otherwise the night stalker will open the window and climb through and steal your light.

once there was a rabbit that ate carrots...

Your words are as empty as your soul!

That'snot nice

Comfy thread pls

t. non-european
bedtime stories are supposed to be spoopy.

>Depressing short stories help me sleep. Help yourself to an original of mine

I am blessed with accurate recall by association. In other words, I am able to associate my memories with sensations. This gives me the ability to look back on life like a blurry photo album with scented, textured photos. It's great. I can remember things I saw so vividly. I see my father standing beside me on the riverbank, our poles cast in for bass, the smell of moss and damp leaves. My mother, hugging me and sending me off to school. My uncle, demonstrating the use of his new laptop.

But then I really see it. My father, leaving on another business trip. This one 2 years long. My mother, sending me off to school, then slipping back inside with a man I don't recognize. My uncle, shotgun against his chin, the scent of vodka and vomit and depression fresh on his shirt.

I see it all. Everything my mind twisted, everything the beast bit down on and shook. Every little detail of my suffering, eviscerating me anew with each repeated remembrance. Desecrated memories buried beneath pretty lies, like thorns under a dry leaf bed. The beast is inescapable. The beast is my mind and the beast is me. It does not love. It does not hate. It only hungers, its only sustenance my suffering. I don't want to live and I don't want to die. I only want to be free. But, how can you be free when the chains are you?

Why am I writing this? I do not truthfully know. Maybe my subconscious mind forces me to do so, manipulates my hand in some great Freudian scheme in order to fix my fragile psyche. Maybe I just want to break off the splinter of my suffering on some weary individual, before finally silencing the shaking of the chains. I am alone but I am never alone, for the beast is my constant companion. I don't really want to die.

I just want
to
be
free.

Good night.

once upon a time there was a young human who could not sleep but eventually did the end

I'm another user and I also wanna sleep.

There once was a boy who loved a girl. She would pass him at the same time walking home every day by the old oak tree. Her hair was golden like wheat and her eyes were bright green. She had an effervescent smile that would send you up to the clouds and come crashing down holding your heart. The boy wanted nothing more than her to notice him.
Years went by and the boy became a young man, the girl became a young (and very beautiful lady). Yet she still didn’t see him. So one day the boy did something terrible. He took 5 drops of candle wax and placed them on the floor, then slit his palm and pressed downward. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. A Rumbling from his closet, and out crept Old Scratch. The Devil himself.
“What is it you want, my child?” said the Fallen One
“Sir, I love the girl with golden hair and green eyes. I wish her to love me back” replied the young man
A grin, as long as a river, and wide as the ocean crept on Old Nick’s face
“But of course, little one. Love is the greatest gift of all. I was once loved and do so crave to be loved again”
The boy jumped for joy.
“So you can make her love me?”
“When it comes to love, anything is possible” The Beast let out a great and terrible laugh, but the boy was too excited to notice. “So how about you shake my hand and make her love you?”
The boy quickly nodded and shook.

And the girl loved him. She loved him more than sweets and make up and all manner of wonderful things. But the Devil is not a kind man.
Little did the boy know that love cannot be created through wishes or magic. So the devil took his love and gave it to the girl, and the boy felt nothing. He did not love her hair like gold wheat, her grass green eyes or her bubbly smile. He loved nothing. He felt only sadness.

One day, the girl passed the boy, hanging from the old oak tree.

There are so many universes!

For every universe you can imagine, there is a universe also for each person in that universe that you imagined, and you're imagining an unimaginable amount of possibilities right now, and even that is just a small, quantifiable detail to a sufficiently large intelligence. You can swim for what is safe to equate with eternity to a sphere of empirical data as limited as a single lifespan through any world or worldlessness that is within the merest shadows of your conception, and all of it will be contained within a single timeline of your perception as it relates to your corporeal being. You are limitless. You are the infinity, and you are free to explore this boundless depth of experience without fear of consequence or reprisal. You will emerge once again, renewed and ready to continue swimming, the waters that drip from your consciousness never completely evaporating, but soaking in a bit, imbuing you with what you must carry forward toward the next dive. All is connected.

All is one.

I want tumblr fanart of this

Good stuff, but the first one is more in the style of a children's bed story.

Once upon a time there was an implausibly gay homosexual, who went by the name of OP.

He was so very gay that his flatulence expelled little puffs of glitter that smelled like Abercromby and Fitch cologne, and left an arcing rainbow trailing from his quivering anus as it fluttered to the floor.

But one day, whilst watching his favorite TV show (Drag Race), he realized that Ru Paul was a 7' tall judeo-negroid who probably has AIDS and was definitely not kidding about having a colostomy bag that one time, and the thought of that great, gaunt, lecherous, colourless, hairless, sexless creature creeping, and skulking, and leaking half-digested Toblerones out of a hole in his shapeless abdomen caused the poor little homosexual to enter quite a state!

That night, when the sodomite tried desperately to fall asleep, he shivered and quailed beneath his pink comforter, twirling his immaculately coiffed and conditioned and extremely effeminate hair with his daintily manicured fingers nervously, biting his full, pouty lower lip, his big fruity eyes darting about his room, from the life-size Justin Bieber poster he'd bought at age 12, to his spotless Bad Dragon collection, arrayed atop his boudoir, lovingly maintained (due to constant heavy use) with fastidious attention, to the semen-soaked heap of dog-eared Japanese comic books written for young girls in the corner, which so titillated him when he was feeling blue.

The flamer shivered and shook and he shook and shivered and felt for certain that he could spy Ru Paul's spindly leg inching from the half-open closet, that he could hear the cold breath rasping from between Ru Paul's turtle-like lips beneath his bed, that the drip from the faucet in his adjoining bathroom was actually Ru Paul, gently slurping OP's edible Cumlube from one of the many bottles of that substance which he secreted about the place.

Mustering up every ounce of courage in his frail little body, the prancing nonce snatched something from the floor beside his bed, half-certain that Ru Paul's mummy-like claws had grazed his soft, soft hand as it passed the black beneath his bed. The thing he had grabbed was a nude G.I. Joe doll, a foot in height, with fully articulated limbs, and a cutout of Anderson Cooper's face, removed from a magazine, pasted upon its head.

"You'll keep me safe, wont you Anderson?" Whispered OP.

He scrunched up his faggy little bitch-boy face in a grin and hugged the awkwardly grimacing visage of Anderson Cooper tightly to his tiny, Applejack-t-shirt-enclosed chest, and at last, he drifted off to sleep, and to dreams of unspeakable acts inflicted upon him by every member of One Direction simultaneously.

As the fruitcake's boyish little ding-dong spurted the stuff of wet dreams into his pink sheets, something panted and rasped in his closet, its impossibly thin fingers slid between the slats of the door, its beady, soulless black eyes unblinking.

"Soon, my sweet," tittered Ru Paul. "Soon..."

Wasn't that the point of the thread?

That was what was implied by the construction of the sentence: "but" means that despite the esteemed content of the other replies, only the first one fulfills the request of OP.

In the not-too-distant future, humans invent cybernetic chairs that can fly, shoot lasers and provide 3D entertainment. People never sleep in their beds anymore, instead spending their entire life in their cyber-chairs, code-named MAGIA. Upon reaching 30 years old, humans are carried from this world by the MAGIA to a perfect paradise known only as Chairvana.

Into this world a man is thrown who cannot sit in chairs. Any time he sits in a chair, it breaks, hence his nickname One Sit Man. He travels the world, teaching people that they should not sit in chairs, but instead stand on their own two feet. The MAGIA, none too pleased with his heresy, send increasingly powerful Chair Assassinators against him which he must battle.

(to be continued)

A man went to a hotel and walked up to the front desk to check in. The woman at the desk gave him his key and told him that on the way to his room, there was a door with no number that was locked and no one was allowed in there. She explained that it was a storeroom, and that it was out of bounds. She reminded him of this several times before allowing him upstairs. So he followed the instructions of the woman at the front desk, going straight to his room, and going to bed.

However, the insistence of the woman had piqued his curiosity, so the next night he walked down the hall to the door and tried the handle. Sure enough it was locked. He bent down and looked through the wide keyhole. Cold air passed through it, chilling his eye. What he saw was a hotel bedroom, like his, and in the corner was a woman whose skin was incredibly pale. She was leaning her head against the wall, facing away from the door. He stared in confusion for a while. Was this a celebrity? The owner's daughter? He almost knocked on the door, out of curiosity but decided not to.

As he was still looking, the woman turned sharply and he jumped back from the door, hoping she would not suspect he had been spying on her. He crept away from the door and walked back to his room. The next day, he returned to the door and looked through the wide keyhole. This time, all he saw was redness. He couldn't make anything out besides a distinct red color, unmoving. Perhaps the inhabitants of the room knew he was spying the night before, and had blocked the keyhole with something red. He felt embarrassed that he had made the woman so uncomfortable, and hoped she had not made a complaint with the woman on the front desk.

At this point he decided to consult her for more information. She sighed and said, "Did you look through the keyhole?"

The man told her that he had and she said, "Well, I might as well tell you the story of what happened in that room. A long time ago, a man murdered his wife in there, and we find that even now, whoever stays there gets very uncomfortable. But these people were not ordinary. They were white all over, except for their eyes, which were red."

Get that reddit copypasta out of here

That copypasta is literally older than Reddit, have some respect you piece of shit.

After having been seduced and forsaken by Johannes, the young woman Cordelia wrote her former paramour a series of three letters, all of which were returned to her, unopened. In these letters, the reader finds a range of emotions from Cordelia in coming to terms with her abandonment: from desperate appeals for Johannes to love her again, to wild-eyed possessiveness, to parables that are half riddles. However much Kierkegaard may have drawn on his own failed relationship with Regine Olsen, I maintain that Cordelia’s reactions to Johannes’ silence reflect the crises of faith extant in the Christian tradition.
Of the Psalms attributed to David, many begin by lamenting God’s perceived absence and describe the torment of separation from God. The fear that God has truly abandoned David is tempered by David’s willingness to wait, even unto death. In Psalm 88, David asks, “Shall thy loving kindness be declared in the grave? or thy faithfulness in destruction? Shall thy wonders be known in the dark? and thy righteousness in the land of forgetfulness? … Lord, why castest thou off my soul? why hidest thou thy face from me?” (Ps. 88:11-12, 14). This temporary doubt is then ultimately transcended by faith in God’s deliverance, as in Psalm 17: “As for me, I will behold thy face in righteousness: I shall be satisfied, when I awake, with thy likeness” (Ps. 17:15).
Cordelia, like David, never assumed that a full separation between her and her tormentor was possible. In her third letter, she professes patience for Johannes: “I will wait, however long the time is for me… Then your love for me will rise again from its grave” (cite). In the parable of her second letter, she likens Johannes to a shepherd who possesses “great flocks and herds;” David proclaims the Lord as his shepherd in Psalm 23. In her first letter, Cordelia states the intensity of her possession by Johannes through a paraphrase of David’s Psalm 139, substituting God’s omnipresence with her own: “Flee where you will, I am still yours; go to the ends of the earth, I am still yours. Love a hundred others, I am still yours—indeed, in the hour of death, I am yours” (cite). In both Cordelia’s and David’s determination to reconcile with Johannes and God, respectively, the reader is presented with the recurrent imagery of death and sacrifice.
Like so much of Kierkegaard, the Seducer’s Diary can be read as a brilliant depiction of life as it appears to be. Unfortunately, I recognize Cordelia’s authentic grief in women whom I have wronged; the passion with which Johannes describes his pursuit of Cordelia is not unknown to me either. Given the striking realism of human romance presented here, I found it difficult to cast Johannes as God and Cordelia as those who struggle with their faith—but the pain of spiritual estrangement is also potently distilled in this diary. One might wish to be so resolute in their faith as David and young Cordelia.

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This is comfy user. I really like your style. Written anything else not about time travel?

thanks bruv
theres some other stuff on that account if you look but a lot is unfinished
they're mostly cheesy prompts tho

thanks I slept quite well