The sunrise crept along the dusty window sill inch by inch, a hint at the pace with which time slithered by on that otherwise quite ordinary morning. The ugly kitchen clock sneered at me as the minute hand struck mercilessly with a furious thud on each passing second. The imposing, statuesque giver-of-refreshment (my fridge) appeared spectrally, as if an oasis, miles away. My knees groaned as I struggled from my chair to an upright position with an audible "oomph".

The seemingly endless voyage across the landscape of tiles towards the fridge worried my grumbling stomach. Using a wonderful variety of interesting burps and gurgles, it continually warned me that the consumption of food at that time screamed for a careful touch. The ice box door creaked open as I targeted the bottom shelf full of Gatorade and snatched one. I drained it as voraciously as a starving tick sucking the blood from the last human on earth.

A quiet breeze skulked furtively through a crack in the side door, sneaking with it smells of fresh cut grass and an early spring. The pleasant aromas died tragically, but suddenly, after battling futilely against the pungent odors of my greasy, alcohol-filled pores.

"Yes sir, I monstrously tore it up last night," I whimpered to nobody.

Timorously, my hand grabbed the last box of Alka-Seltzer from the shelf above the stove and vehemently crushed it upon spying it empty.

"Son of a three-legged bitch," I cursed.

I spied another glance upward in hopes of an antacid resurrection and fearfully descried a lonely bottle of Tylenol lurking in the shadows. I shook that bottle forcefully then cackled joyously like a madman at the accompanying din of pills colliding with plastic. Without mercy, my hands edaciously captured and hungrily devoured several of the unlucky little devils, including one which plunged wretchedly to the floor.

As the acidic trails of aspirin residue oozed contentiously down my throat, my tumultuous stomach shuddered with a renewed chorus of gastronomical voices, each as incoherent as the next. The first big decision of the day whispered defiantly; ignore me at your own peril.

I stared with impunity at nothing, frozen with inaction.

The shrill sound of the telephone ringing sliced malevolently through my brain, like a weed-eater slashing violently through a field of innocent, but suspect, dandelions.

"Why torture myself," I moaned.

The phone shivered away in anything but peace, maniacally relishing my discomfort.

"Who frivolously endangers their life by pestering me this freaking early?"

I anxiously glanced back towards the clock again with thoughts of murder and mayhem. Eleven-thirty-seven glared back at me defiantly, mockingly.

"No Mickey D's breakfast today," I growled.

Suddenly, the cold sweats ganged up with my thickening throat and nauseous stomach. Collectively they captured a vote, 3-0 in favor, then roared in unison... toilet! My stomach insanely muttered, 'I warned you, I warned you...' all the way down the hall.

A few minutes later, as my eyes bored into their own reflection in the pristine toilet water below, I begged for mercy from above with my usual promise, "I swear on all that's holy, no more booze."

My stomach morosely snickered and shook its figurative head.

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submitted via fanstory.com in the 'Sixth-grade Writing' contest for May 2008. Rules were supplied as follows:

1. Word count between 500-7000
2. ALL your verbs and adverbs have to be "scary"
3. There are no actual acts of horror or violence.
4. This is an ordinary everyday scenario
5. Technical writing ability

The general instructions said to write the story first, then replace all the verbs/adverbs with 'scary' ones. I didn't do that. I wrote it while trying to use verbs/adverbs that I thought might qualify as scary -- in some context (some quite loosely)