It started as all bad days due at the worlds most haunted hotel, and that was with yet another so called skeptic - whom swore up and down that he would be able to spend the entire night in the worlds most haunted hotel suite without experiencing a single paranormal event – having a psychotic break; thereby forcing the worlds most overworked hotel manager into having to call emergency services yet again. Which would mean another call to their families. families who would want monetary compensation. which was really starting to get on the manager’s nerves. after all, what did they expect? it wasn’t like they didn’t know what they were getting into. The fact that the suite had demons wasn’t once hidden, in fact, it was promoted, it wasn’t their fault that the skeptics didn’t believe them. Hell, everyone who requested that room was forced to sign a waiver, a aiver that laid everything out in black-and-white. They were literally told that the chances of them having a mental breakdown was near guaranteed and still they came.

Idiots.

Jolene Howard, a woman of slim build and red hair, stormed into her managerial office once she had seen the latest ambulance off. Immediately going towards her complementary liquor cabinet. It had come with the job. And grab the first bottle her gaze landed upon. it was whiskey. Forgoing the glass, she turned to her desk and pulled out the overly comfortable computer chair,and heavily sat down upon it with an equally as heavy sigh. Opening the bottle, she took a swig before addressing the empty room.

“ OK you little bastards, you can come out now.”

Nothing happened.

Jolene took another swig, her fingers tapping against the desk as she waited patiently. Not so patiently. Only managing another 20 seconds of silence before slamming her bottle down and getting to her feet once more. Resting her hands a top of the desk, she leaned forward and repeated in a stern voice boardering on a growl.

“ Get. Out. Here. Now.” another moment past.

Then, almost sheepishly - if you could call puffs of smoke sheepish - approximately a dozen puffs of said smoke began to manifest in a small cluster before her desk. The smoke quickly vanishing after it appeared, revealing in its wake, approximately a dozen bashful looking imps. Each of the little hell spawns either holding a pitchfork or a skull maraca- since when did they have musical instruments? - and wearing clothes. that ranged from tattered Togas to equally as tattered loincloths. All except for one, the leader, whom wore a sensible pair of khakis and a blood red polo shirt.

it was him that Jolene focused on.

“ What happened, Reginald?”

Reginald’s gaze darted away, yellow eyes focused on anything and everything that wasn’t the angry redhead in front of him. Tapping his fingers together nervously, his jaw worked in silent contemplation before his mouth opened and he attempted to answer.

jolene cut him off with a raised hand.

“ Wait, wait, wait. There’s meant to be 13 of you and I’m only counting 12…”

Reginald gave an anxious squeak, his hands wringing together even more furiously as he shifted from foot to foot. Taking another deep breath, he tried to speak again.

And again, the redhead cut him off.

“ Stephen! That’s whose missing! Where is Steven?”

It was with those words that the world’s most overworked hotel manager Came to an abrupt realization and froze. Taking a cleansing breath, jolene barely managed to grit out through clenched teeth.

“ Please tell me, that Stephen isn’t possessing that poor man.“

Reginald looked away.

Fuck! She had to call the local exorcists now too.

Today sucked.

It began as all bad days do: Blood on the pillow and my head ran through.

It looked like a bad day to: Red night before and sex being a bore.

It continued like all bad days did: Right place, wrong time peace is all I bid.

It ended like all bad days should: Emotional damage and undercooked food.

It died like all bad days will: Massive argument and you going for the kill.

(It began as all bad days do: Anxiety, and nothing to do)

It’s been a bad day. A really bad night.

And I just don’t know how I’m going to tell her after this. How I can share that, Even though at times I scare myself with it. She should be able to tell I need more help, But I don’t think I’m her priority right now. And I don’t blame her. Bad stuff with my grandparents. Moving my brother into the house he’s rooming, Why would she see life’s a game that I’m losing?

It began as all bad days do: I woke up to the sound of breaking glass. Snoring, Denny was sleeping the sleep of the just. I let him rest and reached for the Louisville Slugger I kept next to our bed. Quiet as a church mouse, I lowered my feet to the bedroom floor. My ears strain for another sound. Quiet. I scrolled through my phone checking my cameras. I calmed my racing heart. I know if the sound had come from our house the alarms would have already sounded. Our security service would be ringing our phones; the police would be on their way. No I know the source of the sound of broken glass. Evergreen Terrace was a quiet street, so so we thought. Deliciously boring Denny called it during our first walk-through. After years in Center City, boring was what we desperately craved. When we moved in six years ago we were nervous the neighbors might be standoffish to us, the new neighbors, the new gay couple neighbors, the new gay interracial couple neighbors. I chuckled remembering how Denny was worried that the neighborhood would be pissy about his plans for a native plant garden instead of a lawn. That was before we knew we had moved next-door to chaos. In bare feet, I walked over to the window overlooking the Sanders’ house. I can remember when it started. It was Fourth of July weekend. We had spent half the day painting and then went over to Angel and Marisol’s for a cookout. Once back home we crawled into bed achy and full-bellied. Denny had green paint in his hair that I didn’t bother to tell him about. We noticed a lot of cars parked on the street and in the nextdoor neighbor’s driveway. Hard Rock and hard partying blared out into the street. We figured well it was a holiday. The fighting started around 3 am. That became the pattern. Every holiday from Christmas to Arbor Day, the next-door neighbors partied, drank, and fought. Over that first year we learned from the normal neighbors that Mr. Sanders had a drinking problem and a wandering eye and that Mrs. Sanders had a lot of trust issues and a mean left hook. Apparently the only thing the Sanders agreed on was throwing furniture as an emotional release. Denny insisted we talk to them. We talked to them. We brought over homemade snickerdoodles. They were terse. The next day they hung up a Confederate flag and all of our trash cans were tipped over. We never got back our good cookie plate. We never spoke again. Looking down I detected movement. It looked like flashlights moving inside the house. That’s new. Over the years the normal neighbors and I took turns calling the police. We hoped things would quiet down when SWAT arrested Mr. Sanders as part of a car theft ring. Things only got worse. The Sanders’ kids grew up. The music switched to skinhead punk and Ke$ha. Natural entrepreneurs, the Sanders teens peddled drugs and pit bull puppies. Nancy and Keith, the neighbors on the other side of the Sanders were convinced there was an underground dog fighting ring in the Sanders’ basement, but Denny and I think the basement is a grow house. Below I watched as a couple of guys try to maneuver a flatscreen out of the Sanders’ front door. The thieves’ Corolla is already loaded with what looks like bags of weed and dog food. The Sanders’ dogs are barking to beat the band in the backyard. Denny snorted in his sleep and rolls deeper into sleep. I set down my bat and pull edover an ottoman. My phone vibrated. It was a text from Brad from across the street: What a couple of yahoos! Suze is calling 911. Next Nancy sent the group text a gif of McGruff the Crime Dog. I sent a laughing emoji as the bandits tried to fit the tv into their car trunk.

It begins as all bad days do; you never see it coming. You wake up bright-eyed and ready to tackle the day and BOOM, you stub your toe walking to the bathroom. Your new pedicure is ruined; and that instantaneous purple blob is throbbing and growing larger by the second. After working through that sick nauseous pit in your stomach, a freshly brewed cup of coffee is the only thing that will right the morning. That is until you realize the Dead Sea is slowly trickling its way down your throat instead of the freshly brewed cup of coffee from the Folger's Christmas commercial. How the day unfolds is unknown, but if the first thirty minutes are any indication, prepare for the disaster of a F5 tornado on humid summer afternoon. Or better yet, go back to bed for a long nap.

It began as all bad days do: Spilling a cup of coffee? Getting arrested by the armed cops? Threatened by your mom? Well, my one began as the alarm started ringing. I honestly hate the alarm, but in the other hand, I can’t live without it. I was sleeping peacefully in my bed, and cradling a pillow to my chest. The sun was beaming through my blinds causing me to stir. Usually, waking up was a simple task for me. However, it seems like a hard time for me to get up this morning. I regretted of the overused phone time last night which made me sleep at one.

I walked to the kitchen, and took a small sip of coffee. Per usual, I took the bus for my work. The bus was crowded, I can barely move my foot. After thirty minutes of pain, I arrived a bank, I’m a bank teller. All I do is swiping cards, counting cash and its super boring. I walked in the bank and started working. After I finish counting one more stack of 1 bill, an obese lady approached me. Is she a waitress? Actress? No way to know. She handed me ton of bills with some odd stains on it…disgusting. The coins are dry and rough on my hand, but as she leave, I remembered to say: “Bye, have a nice day.” A few minutes later, a muscular man came to me and shouted: “Take out all the money and prepare it in bags.” He’s masked, I did not see him but I know he have something hidden under his pocket. He took out a gun under his pocket, and killed a random guy in the bank. 

Thankfully, I watched some crime movie in the past. I standed out and said: “ You cannot rob the bank until you kill me, I know you have a fake gun.” 

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

I never had a chance to prove him wrong.

-Wallace

It began as all bad days do:I woke up and start brushing my teeth but I think something is wrong,where am I? I am in a disgusting room full of rubbish and smelly food.I was about to ill but suddenly I saw a window behind me I quickly ran to it and peek out,I am in a rubbish hotel and rubbish all surround it.

I know i need to go out of here quickly but I got no clothes to wear that disgusting to see,my mom will be so angry at me but suddenly a nice clothes appeared,I quickly wear it and rush down the stair,finally I went out the door ‘’wow’’ I said quietly there was hundred of robot was working at a big robot.I said to my self ‘you need to find the way back to your house or you gonna survive here for ever and your mom will be very nervous when you are gone’’ but how i got to this space no one carried me to here?I saw a road that full of people I ran to it and finally I made it ‘’I’m free’’ I yelled.

I went on a bus but I got no money but I secretly just went on it and had a nap,after one hour of bus I finally made to it my house I knock the door and my mom was crying just right after she saw me she said ‘’ where have you been every people was finding you everywhere and can’t find you’’ I tell my mom my the story and she suddenly remember something she tell me she has a friend had die been their.

But after that it all normal we ate lunch has a dinner and slept what a day was today.

 By Lucas:

It began as all bad days do. You drop your coffee on yourself. You stub your toe on the leg of the kitchen table. Or just fall out of bed all together. I wish mine had just been falling out of bed. Nope. Mine started with my alarm clock not going off when it was supposed to. I woke up to being an hour late for work. I jumped out of bed and took the fastest shower probably in human history. I stopped at the local café and got a latte to go. I made it to work before the boss realized I wasn't at my desk but that was the saving grace for me. As I was going through my emails. I saw that an article that submitted to be in the next days paper was rejected and now I have to come up with a new idea for an eye catching article for the community section. I didn't think my article on the local supermarket celebrating its 50th anniversary of being open was that bad, but my boss thought differently. So here I am at my computer surfing the net for anything local that would make a good article. As I am doing this I reach for my coffee and miss. If you think I end up spilling it on myself you would be wrong. I ended up launching it right into the pants of my boss who happened to be walking by my desk.
"I am so sorry," I say opening a desk drawer that I keep all the extra napkins in from takeout. I hand them to him with shaking hands. "I know that you are and accidents happen," he says with a chuckle. This was not the reaction that I was expecting. "We all have off days." He walks away and leaves me confused. I heard that he was a strict boss when it came to writing but didn't expect him to be so nice about having coffee spilled on him. I guess because I never really had any interactions with him I didn't really know much about his personality. I get through the rest of the day with no luck on a story for my section tomorrow. As I am leaving out the front door my skirt gets caught in the door. As I'm trying to get the door open to get my skirt out. The door flies open and I end up tumbling down the stairs. "Are you okay?" says a familiar voice. I look up and it is my boss staring down at me. I am so mortified that I can't even talk. He extends his hand to me and I take it. He helps me to my feet. "I guess your having what is called a bad day," he says with a chuckle and a smile. "You could say that, " I say with an embarrassed smile back. "You be careful getting home. Don't want anything to happen to you. Also I'm glad I caught you. I changed my mind about the article you submitted. It will be in the community section of the paper tomorrow. So, you don't have to worry about pulling an all-nighter for an article. You take care and see you tomorrow," he says walking away and waving at me. "Thank you," I say waving back at him. I get back home and make dinner. At that moment an idea of a story hits me light a lightning bolt. I go to my computer and type up the article. Once done I send it to my editor. I get a positive response back. What is my article about you ask. It's about having a bad day.

it began as all bad days do: i roll out of bed, hastily put on my clothes, and refuse to eat any breakfast suggestions. i hastily get on the bus and hastily hug an old friend. i hastily pick at a cold bagel and hastily drag myself into the classroom. everything i do, i do hastily. i have to hesitate. i have to resist.

but i didn't. i didn't hesitate or resist to call out an answer. i didn't hesitate or resist to rip my poster off the wall, that was on display without my permission. i didn't hesitate or resist when i screamed at my lover to shut up. and i don't regret a thing.

i walked away. she made a pout, and hastily cleaned up her mess i yelled at her many times to clean. she hastily threw away the papers she used to clean it. she hastily walked in to mobil and bought a drink. she hastily texted me "i want to break up." she hastily broke down and cried in front of everyone.

and i was merrily eating my lunch and drinking an energy drink, merrily chatting with my friends. and i merrily checked my phone and merrily responded "i already did, were you not aware?" i had hastily broken up with her a few days before, but i suppose she didn't listen.

well as i merrily walked to the park, enjoying my ice cream with my friends, my ex lover was hastily walking to the food shop and hastily bringing her friends along.

and that, was the best day i've ever lived.

It began as all bad days do. I woke up late for work. My car wouldn't start. The guys I had to sit next to on the bus smelled like smoke. And then a bus came crashing through the windows of our offices on the 12th floor, because of course it did. When the dust settled and the screaming stopped, we saw them. Crimson Sheene and Gravity, fighting here in our offices. "Isnt this just wonderful?" Crimson asks, her voice filled with sadistic glee. Her bright red hair reflects the flickering florescents, her black mask covering the area around her bright green eyes. She wears her trademark villain suit: a red and black armor-like ensemble. "Just like old times!" Gravity sends a desk flying her way with his powers. Ha! Where's your fancy desk now, Cindy? "I terrorize the city, you fight me, we end up destroying a whole block while fighting, and then you get off scot free, just because you managed to stop me. Not very heroic, is it?" Crimson asked, dodging the desk and dancing around without touching the ground, her blood red disks moving under her feet with every step and keeping her from falling. Her power. It has to do with matter manipulation. She can turn anything into a blood red substance whose form she can shift however she wants. "You'd think you'd learn a bit about damage control by now, wouldn't you?" Gravity yelled at her. No particular reason. Just a shout of anger. His stupid, cliche, light blue, spandex suit glowing as he charges up his power. Our heroes at work, ladies and gentlemen. He throws a stapler her way like it's going to do something. My eyes widen. Not my brand new stapler! It was pretty! And my favorite color green! And it had a bottle opened on the end. The stapler misses and goes tumbling out the window. I sigh, mourning my destroyed stapler. He launched himself forwards and straight into her. They both go tumbling our the window. The entire office is silent. All my coworkers gather around and look out the window, watching them leave. "Well, everyone go home!" My boss shouts. "We'll be working from home till we get the repairs made," he tells us. Then I hear, "Now I have to talk to the condescending insurance company. Thanks for that." I shake my head. Heroes. Causing damage and ruining lives. Well, ruining my day. And that's just as bad.

Hi. My name is Rebecca Drage. I live in Parctel, one of the most hero\villain attracted places in the world. We have heroes like Gravity, Tarmus, Siren, Cecily Grace and more. Then there's villains like Crimson Sheene, Minotaur, Ace, God's Eye and others. The heroes protected us from the villains. But I like to wonder: what's gonna protect us from the heroes? I live in an apartment in the downtown area. I've got a roomate. Well, I will have a roommate. She's moving in today. She responded to my ad and she fit the necessary requirements so, you know. Let's hope she's not a serial killer. Later that day I was in my living room, on my computer, pulling up the website for the company I work for. I hate working from home. It's boring and it gets rid of one of the few excuses I have to leave my apartment. I'm a boring person. I know I am. I wake up, go to work, come home, eat, sleep, repeat. I only have a few friends. I don't have a lot of hobbies. I'm not dating anyone. I'm boring. But so far, nothing's given me a reason to be not boring so, really it's fine with me. I'm perfectly content living out the rest of my life with work, writing, scrolling the internet for random fandom posts and the occasional get together with my friends. It doesn't bother me. When I finally get to he page I need, I hear a knock at the door. That must be her, I think, standing up and walking to the door. I fling it open to reveal the girl. Her bright red hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and her dark green eyes are framed with black glasses. She wears a black leather jacket and jeans, along with a tanktop with the American Idiot album cover on it. In her right hand, she holds the handle of a suitcase and on her left should sits a backpack. "Rebecca Drage?" She asks me. I nod and smile as she sticks out her only free hand. "Scarlett Shane. Nice to meet you."