As a kid, I loved making flip books. They were all I did in art class, whenever I had it. I worked really hard on one particular flip book. It was around 50 pages long, I guess. It had a simple stick figure walking into the page, waving at me, and then walking off. I would look at it at least a dozen times the day that I made it. Then it got boring. You know how kids are, not entertained by one thing for very long. I tossed it under my bed and never gave it a second thought.
A few months later, I was cleaning up my room and swept the stack of paper out from under my bed. I couldn’t quite remember what it was. I flipped through it once and got a sweet taste of nostalgia. I flipped through it once more and noticed the pages hadn’t aged or gained dirty at all. I flipped through a third time. The little stick man walked onto the page, waved at me, but didn’t walk off.
Instead, a second stick man joined him. It waltzed up, having either an item in its hand or a severely disfigured arm; its not like anyone could tell the difference. The second stick man walked next to the first stick figure, stood there for a moment, then whacked the poor fellow upside the head. The stick figure fell, and the second stick man swung his stick at the other man. Again. And again. And again.
What I assume was its blood ran from the stick figure’s rather jagged body. It looked like nothing more than smeared pencil stains. The killer stick man proceeded to bend down, and tear apart the first stick man’s body, limb by thin limb. Once he was done, he bent each one into characters and letters. He set them upon the page to form a single word. He grabbed the base of his own round head and tore it off. Then he tore off his legs, and then one of his arms. His zig-zagged body parts formed themselves into a second word. What I read made me burn the flip book.