Edgar Burrman, 15, saved his eternal soul from hellfire and damnation Tuesday night when he "shared" an ominous Facebook status about headless little girls and steak cleavers at midnight.
"It was a little hard to believe at first," Burrman said. "I thought it was just a story, and I'd almost gotten bored and moved on when it started saying in all caps that I couldn't stop reading -- almost like it was there in the room with me -- watching me.
"Spooky, but peaceful at the same time," he said. "Thank God I kept reading; who knows how long I would've selfishly wandered through Facebook without any concern for the health of my spirit?"
The divinely inspired status threatened an anguished life of torment in Hell if it were not passed on, and Burrman decided it would be haughty to pass up such an excellent opportunity to absolve himself of his grievous bodily sins.
"The actual status said 'EMAIL THIS STORY TO 10 FRIENDS,' but I just attributed that to an outdated translation," he said. "With sacred texts like that, you've got to remember they've been around for a long time."
Burrman said he felt incredibly blessed to have encountered the good news so randomly. "What if I had gone to bed hours earlier, like my mom wanted me to? I really owe my salvation to George Takei -- if I hadn't been on his page right then, and if Joseph Cowell hadn't posted just before I got there -- it's terrifying to think how close I came to missing it."
The status promised Burrman an eternity of grace and happiness in the afterlife, as well as a kiss with his crush the following Tuesday. Burrman said he felt like he'd been born again. "I have so much to look forward to now!"
Burrman said his new mission is to spread the word to everyone he can. At press time, many of his peers had already passed on the status, and a vehement debate concerning the interpretation of the text was underway on Burrman's wall.
Showing posts with label Bounce. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bounce. Show all posts
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Stand-alone headline tickers (Bounce Magazine Vol. 13 Issue 4 May 2013)
Polar bears and beach houses finally speak out about global warming
In North Korea, human rights violate you!
Zero Dark Thirty cuts off halfway through, terrorists win
In North Korea, human rights violate you!
Zero Dark Thirty cuts off halfway through, terrorists win
Holden Thorp Must Be Traveling On Now (Bounce Magazine Vol.13 Issue 4 May 2013)
Holden climbs slowly out of bed, gently folding the Carolina blue sheets behind him and doing his best not to wake us. We were already awake, and now we look up to catch his gaze, questioning him with our eyes.
"I must be traveling on now," Holden says, breaking the eye contact; he looks away, ashamed, his eyes searching for something to fix on that won't make him so uncomfortable. They settle on the poster of the periodic table of elements that stretches across the wall behind the bed. "There's too many places I got to see," he says. A weak attempt at justification; he continues to stare plaintively at the atomic numbers on the walls. We search his eyes for tears.
He can tell we haven't accepted his reasoning -- our eyes don't let him leave. He gathers new strength and tries to look at us, pain showing in the attempt. "But if I stayed here with you, girl," he begins, faltering and looking away again, then again finding energy enough to continue. "Things just couldn't be the same."
We nod. It's been a struggle. We understand what he says and why he says it, but we know there's more. We sit up in bed, still glaring at him expectantly.
"Please don't take it so badly," Holden spills out nervously, anxious to escape and free himself from our demanding vision. "Cause the Lord knows I'm to blame," he says, admitting fault and slipping back into the southern drawl he tried so hard to hide in his interviews at Washington. He realizes what he just did -- he remembers his home, North Carolina, and he panics.
"I'm as free as a bird now," Holden says defensively, raising his voice a little, but leaving us unimpressed.
"And this bird," he says, gesturing aggressively, trying in vain to make it just another impersonal speech, detaching himself like a speaker before an auditorium full of incoming freshmen. "This bird -- you cannot change," he insists, thinking it'll be true if he says it with enough confidence.
"Lord knows I can't change," he whispers under his breath. He's lost -- he's been defeated. He knows he's wrong, and there's nothing left to be said. "Bye bye baby," he says lamely, looking up at us for one last time. "It's been a sweet love." We shut our eyes and wait for him to leave. He steps slowly toward the door, and we very carefully open our eyes a tiny bit, just enough to watch him as he sets down his Tar Heel baseball cap on the way out -- we knew he wouldn't keep it.
We roll over, secretly hoping he's left his electric bass so we can wreck it. Sad for one moment, then angry, then the emotion passes. We'll be all right, but we''ll be damned if he gets off scot-free. He better pay child support for this scandal baby he's stuck in our collective collegiate womb.
"I must be traveling on now," Holden says, breaking the eye contact; he looks away, ashamed, his eyes searching for something to fix on that won't make him so uncomfortable. They settle on the poster of the periodic table of elements that stretches across the wall behind the bed. "There's too many places I got to see," he says. A weak attempt at justification; he continues to stare plaintively at the atomic numbers on the walls. We search his eyes for tears.
He can tell we haven't accepted his reasoning -- our eyes don't let him leave. He gathers new strength and tries to look at us, pain showing in the attempt. "But if I stayed here with you, girl," he begins, faltering and looking away again, then again finding energy enough to continue. "Things just couldn't be the same."
We nod. It's been a struggle. We understand what he says and why he says it, but we know there's more. We sit up in bed, still glaring at him expectantly.
"Please don't take it so badly," Holden spills out nervously, anxious to escape and free himself from our demanding vision. "Cause the Lord knows I'm to blame," he says, admitting fault and slipping back into the southern drawl he tried so hard to hide in his interviews at Washington. He realizes what he just did -- he remembers his home, North Carolina, and he panics.
"I'm as free as a bird now," Holden says defensively, raising his voice a little, but leaving us unimpressed.
"And this bird," he says, gesturing aggressively, trying in vain to make it just another impersonal speech, detaching himself like a speaker before an auditorium full of incoming freshmen. "This bird -- you cannot change," he insists, thinking it'll be true if he says it with enough confidence.
"Lord knows I can't change," he whispers under his breath. He's lost -- he's been defeated. He knows he's wrong, and there's nothing left to be said. "Bye bye baby," he says lamely, looking up at us for one last time. "It's been a sweet love." We shut our eyes and wait for him to leave. He steps slowly toward the door, and we very carefully open our eyes a tiny bit, just enough to watch him as he sets down his Tar Heel baseball cap on the way out -- we knew he wouldn't keep it.
We roll over, secretly hoping he's left his electric bass so we can wreck it. Sad for one moment, then angry, then the emotion passes. We'll be all right, but we''ll be damned if he gets off scot-free. He better pay child support for this scandal baby he's stuck in our collective collegiate womb.
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