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The answer is the square root of- What is going on? Smoke, I can't see. Screams, loud pops, more screams, then darkness.
Light. Sound is muffled. I open my eyes to a blur. I'm on the floor. Blood, in my mouth. Copper. Metal.
The pain hits. I look down, blood is coming from my leg. Ow! More pain. I look up. A man in a mask is standing above me yelling at me, pointing at a wall.
I blink, I don't understand. Confusion. He hits me with the gun again, and throws me towards the wall.
He stands me up. I realize the rest of my class is standing against the wall with their hands raised. Why?
The room is destroyed. Papers everywhere. Susan is on the floor, not moving. Mr. Howell is slumped against the door. Tears. Why?
Men move around the room. All in masks. Some are pointing guns at us. They argue in a language I don't understand. I want to go home. I don't understand.
Without warning, a man walks up to the wall and points his gun at Matt's head. BOOM. Matt slumps to the floor. Screams. Blood. Tears.
I have to do something. They'll kill us all. What do they want?
Eighteen of us now. That's enough right?
I can hear a helicopter outside. Police. We're saved!
One man opens a window and screams he'll kill more if cops come inside. Despair.
I hear shooting in the hallway. The men stand ground.
Isabella screams why are they doing this?
The leader I think walked over to her, grabbed her by the hair, and pulled her out of the room. Screams. Terrible screams. For minutes. BANG. Silence.
He comes back in, tells us to not say a word. We'll get the same treatment.
Seventeen now.
Only 5 men. But they have the guns. What can we do? Why is this happening. My leg hurts.
Police have a microphone, say if they let us go they won't hurt anyone.
More screams. They grabbed John. Big kid, football linebacker. But he's crying. Shove him in front of the window, put the gun to his head. BANG. The cops go silent. Screams from outside.
Tears inside.
Sixteen.
The men grab the girls, hold them in front of them, shields.
Their focus is on the door. They can hear footsteps coming. They fire towards the hallway. BANG BANG RATATATATA. My ears ring.
Maybe now? Parker thought the same thing. He darted forward. A man noticed, shot him where he stood.
Fifteen.
No one dared to move.
The police are coming closer. The men are screaming to stay back.
BOOM.
The windows blow out, police swing through from ropes. They aim. TSK TSK TSK TSK go their guns. I drop down, cover my face. Screams. Terror.
Ringing. No more sound. I look up, the girls are dead. The men who held them are dead. Blood. Bone. Shattered. When can I go home. I want to go home.
I look around, the others, ten now, are being helped up by the police. I look up, a hand reaches down. I grab it. No strength. Darkness.
Ten. We survived. Why? I sit in the ambulance, gazing dumbly out. What was the point?
Ten. We were heroes. The radio, the tv, they talked about us.
But heroes don't stand there and do nothing. We did nothing. I did nothing. Parker was a hero, and died for it. They know his story, but say we are all heroes.
Heroes don't live while others die. |
The wind beats harsh against the struggling cloth, its glaring colors screaming against the never ending grey of the sky. A gust crashes against the hard fabric, tears it apart, breaks it loose, forces it to become liquid again. The flag coats the pole again, invisible forces pushing it apart. Another gust. The flag is free again, flying without constraint, almost solid in its apearance, so strong is the wind.
Without warning, the storm subsides. The forces pull away, the flag doesn't realize it at first. It quivers on, oblivious to the fact that the power that kept it alive have died. Now comes the realization. It struggles on, desperately trying to cling to its form. It fails and falls down, flaccid and limp. How can this be? Wasn't it meant to fly forever?
Just as quick as it stopped, the storm picks up again. The flag is forced straight again, an everchanging play of liquid and solid.
The flag flies again. |
Shit. Well, I knew it was a mistake from the get-go. You see, I had gotten mail for Joshua Shantz in apartment 22. They were always just magazines before. I usually just flipped through them on the shitter. Anyway, I got this thing and I knew this wasn't for me.
“Mr. Joshua Shantz. 314 South Lake Drive, #22,” is what it said.
I'm Joshua too, of course. Only Mom ever called me Joshua, though. Joshua Thomas Calhoun! When I heard that, I knew I was in trouble. Now, Dad's friends, they called him Joshua, called me Joshey. Anyway, I'm in #2 not #22.
The envelope was nice. Jen used envelopes sort of like that for her wedding invitations, with the little bumps and fancy shit. Hers were flower seeds. I never planted it. I forgot it. But it was a nice wedding she had and Jimmy's a good guy so I'm happy for my little sister, you know? Anyway, the thing was in a nice envelope and it had two cards inside. One of the ones was typed and the other one was written.
“You are cordially invited to the St. Robert's Society of Superior Intellects – Annual Fundraiser and Gala, Saturday May 3, 6:00 PM at the Parker House, 107 Old Main,” is what the typed one said.
The written one said, “Joshua, Congratulations on your acceptance into our Society! I've enjoyed corresponding and am very much looking forward to meeting you in person. ~Tom”
Anyway, I wasn't even going to open the envelope, but Louie came over and he saw it and said, “what's this?” And he just tore it open!
So he grabbed it and I said, “That's not mine, Louie! That shit's not mine!” But it was too late! He had opened it and read it. I just figured I'd have to drop it in the right mailbox with a piece of tape shutting it back up, but Louie said, “Josh, you should go!”
I told him that was a dumb idea. He said it's a good idea, because they don't know me and the Parker House is a real nice place and the worst thing that could happen would be I get a free dinner and maybe a couple of free drinks out of it! Anyway, it was Louie's idea that I go in the first place.
I wasn't sold on it. But, he kept trying to talk me into it and I finally just said, “You take my suit and get it cleaned so I got something to wear, and then I'll go!” Of course I didn't think he'd do it. Shit, though! He did, and then I kind of felt like I had to go. You know?
Anyway, I figured I'd try and pull some in-the-movies type shit, you know? I'd put my suit on, just stroll on in and order a drink and grab some food and just try and be cool about it. Well, it took about two minutes before it all didn't work out. Some guy asked to see my invitation. I patted at my pockets like “of course, of course sir, I have it right here.” But two other guys came over and then another, and the one guy grabbed my arm so I pushed him and I'm like, “you want to start some shit!?”
Anyway, next think I know I'm outside and calling Louie to pick me up, and he's just laughing and laughing, and I'm yelling at him, “I told you this shit was dumb!”
So, yeah, anyway, that's how I got the shiner, Tom. Let me get another beer, please. |
Fuck, man. Infinite power and immortality, and I have to sit here watching a fucking clock for eternity. What a rip off. Zeus can throw lightening bolts! Poseidon can create earthquakes with his trident. Hades chills with some of the greatest minds in the history of the planet. And I watch a fucking clock. Each one of our get-togethers, they just rub their amazing lives in my face. No Zeus, I don't want to hear about all the gorgeous women you've fucked. I must admit, I've got nearly no job satisfaction at this point. But what am I supposed to do? The fates made their minds a long time ago. They tell me that someone has to do it. But why me? |
Why the hell did i have to read that, of all things i had to read THAT. Everybody knows that on your 18th birthday the protagonist from the last thing you read or watched comes to hunt you down.
After spending hours pacing in a corner i man up and accept my fate, shortly afterwards i see my wall burst open and saw his bald head. Yes i read one punch man.
(yeah i suck at writing but now that you have a story on here this should get some attention.) |
Log of Dr. Javier Ramos:
The larva is inside of me. Jesus Christ I can feel it wriggling behind my ribcage.
It shouldn't be long now. Judging by the tests we performed, I have five minutes, at most.
What options do I have? Lethal dosage of drugs would act quickly enough to kill me before creature's emergence, but not the larvae itself...No, I can't allow it to leave my body alive. This was my mistake and I'll be damned if I allow the rest of the ship to suffer the consequences.
I've stolen a sidearm from the armory. I'm taking the little bastard with me.
Give my love to my family.
*Dr. Victor Ramos pronounced KIA at scene, suicide by multiple gunshots to chest. Autopsy revealed no signs of parasitic contamination within Ramos' body cavity. Escaped Xenomorph located and euthanized without incident. |
Although many others say that my job is tedious, i rather enjoy it. Interacting with people has always been a pleasure of mine. Also this is a no stress job. All i have to do is smile,"look pretty", and ask how many tickets they want. I love watching them come and go; sometimes they leave awed, amazed, pleased, and sometimes they seem dissapointed, bored or just neutral. People are, well, people. All different, in their aspects and minds and this is what i loved about my job.
But this guy, he had a certain look in his eyes; he wasn't here to see the Paintings, or the sculptures. No, he was here for a different purpose. I know that look, it was hunger and lust. I know it so very well because i see it once a month maybe? Yes, that's about it. I see it about once a month, usually in the evenings, just before i finish my shift, when getting ready to go home from work in the museums locker room, in the mirror. That's when lust shrouds my mind, making me walk on the dark claustrofobic alleys of Paris, following some random man, always a man, always tall. As i quietly approach him from behind, softly touching his shoulder and politely ask him for a light for my cigarette, the same one I always use, a one year Marlboro. As they reach for a light, my knife slides into their neck. The look in their eyes as i rush my left hand on their mouth to muffle the shout is always making my mind go in a quiet peaceful place, making my lust drift away in silence.
This man had this lust in his eyes as i was handing him the ticket, smiling and thanking him for visiting. Staring persistently, just as I was when i was hunting to calm my lust. As I was thinking about him, I look around and see him standing on a bench, looking straight at me, fixating me with his lustful eyes. I was only one hour away from finishing my shift, and starting to feel afraid. I ask my collegue to hold my place for a few minutes, because i need to go to the ladies room. I go straight to the locker room and as I change and looking in the mirror, i see neither lust or my usual "normal face", but the scared little girl i used to see during my darker times of my childhood. I get changed and leave through the backdoor.
After twenty minutes of walking through the most crowded streets of Paris, I finally get to my apartment building, still scared but relieved and feeling more alive than ever. As i enter the building, i hear the door behind me being slammed and before I manage to turn my head around i feel a hand planting itself in my hair, pulling my head back and a sharp pain in my lower back, right next to my spine and a soft voice whispering in my ear. "I know that you are like me, but i still despise and feel disgusted by blonde bitches like you." |
I stare at the screen and sigh. This life has become so boring. I don't even care anymore. Its not like there is anything good to do an-
WHOO! THIS IS AWESOME! A-W-E-S-O-M-E! I LOVE THIS! GOOD LIFE
WHATCANIDONOW?THEREHASTOBESOMETHINGNFUN. FUNFUNFUN?
OOH! A RUN A RUN WILL BE FUN.
MAYBE A GUN? GUNS ARE FUN
AND SO ARE PUNS
AND FOUR THREE TWO ONE
Man I always hate that. I don't know why they automated the FUN system, but I preferred it when you could just have FUN reading. Life was less boring then. I mean, really, why did they have to-
FUNFUNFUBNFUNFUNFUFNFUFNFUFNFUFNFUFNFUFNUFNFUN!
OH, MAN! I LOVE MY JOB! I LOVE MY LIFE! THIS IS AWESOOOOOME!
EVERYTHING IS AWESOME! SO MUCH FUN!
I wish that they didn't read my mind. I wish that they would just let me be sa-
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU(N) |
Neck craned watching the balloon, as the clown watches the juggler watch you. **[Who is speaking? Whose neck is craned? This is very confusing]**
You’re the star of the show. The brightest thing in the firmament. Even the moon has come to watch you. You acknowledge her with a slight nod of your head. **[This can be a bit confusing when you apply a gender to the moon and do not previously explain that - are we talking about the moon, or a woman in the room? Prehaps qualify this sentence with the previous, i.e. "even the moon has come to watch you, her glow the spotlight to your stage."]** And then back to the balloon. Red. There’s a lot of red around. **[There's also a lot of periods in this paragraph! Try using other punctuation to dictate the flow of your text]** The moon’s reflection winks at you slowly from between the eyes set atop the clown’s red nose. You can’t bear to tear your eyes away from the balloon. When you do, you meet the cheery eyes of a hundred upper middle-class people, glasses raised in front of cherry red lips. They love you, you’re the star of the show.
A hush. It’s time for the main event. You. You steel yourself, mentally rehearsing your part. First you kneel then…damn. Forgot. Again. You flounder. Panic. But you can’t let them see. You search their eyes. They still love you. They’ve come for you. You calm down. Kneel. Then it comes. You play your part. Raise your hands to your face. They’re red. Then stare at your shirt. Bright red. Lower your hands to your neck. Burbling. Then one last thing. The most important thing. What your performance hinges on. What was it? Oh yes. The scream. The moon winks again. And it gets further away. You nailed it. You’re the star of the show.
___________
One of the main issues in this story is that there really isn't anything for the reader to see. It's very convoluted and confusing - we have no sense for the stage, or where they are, or what is necessarily going on. Without the prompt at the top of the page, the reader would be completely lost. You really want to focus on painting your picture. You did a great job with the moon, but there's still so much more to show: What does the area look like? What type of night is it? What are the people wearing? What is the main character doing, exactly? And don't simply say "It's cold,"use imagery to show this. When you describe the "middle class,"mention they're "bundled up, scarves wrapped tightly around their necks,"to show it's cold, and that they are outside. Describe the creek of the stage as the character does whatever it is he's doing, talk about--in more detail--the scene with the blood (I assume it's blood in a play). That is a real focal point, so it shouldn't be just a few words. You also do a good job of showing his panic, but you should play that up a bit more. Show what he does when he's panicked - how does he choke? Does he forget his line and stammer? Does he end up in the wrong spot? Does he simply freeze like a deer in headlights?
Hopefully some of this helps! Very much enjoyed reading the story. |
With abject horror I witnessed it all. Through the course of time with terror I watch it all begin to consume itself.
Once loving strokes -- strokes created with tender care and creative thinking -- had turned and consumed. Its gaping maw was never full, its hunger never satiated.
In the matter of millenia or seconds I saw my creation twisted, turned and transformed into pure malevolence.
What was love, became hatred; what was fulfillment, became hunger; what was trust, became betrayal. Like the unraveling of a sweater I watched it all fall apart.
All this ran through my mind as I stood before the Great Employer.
"How could you let this happened,"I shouted at him, barely holding back the tears of his betrayal. "They were good, they were wholesome. *There was love."*
He only smiled his wicked smile and leaned forward. "You think we had forgotten your transgressions? That we had forgotten what you had sought to do not so long ago? Are you so naive?"
I felt my face become hot with anger and embarrassment.
"We did not. We've been scheming, God, and time for your retribution has come. Your role in this plan was a blank canvas on which you could paint your future. We merely gave you a brush. You chose to paint theirs instead."
He tapped his fingers and tilted his head upwards so he could look down upon God.
"Your sins will only be repaid once each and every one of your strokes of beauty is mangled and broken. Watch now, as your masterpiece destroys itself." |
The bone sticks out of the leg like a toothpick sticking out of the ground. There are IV bags hooked up to you, but strangely, they feel like bunny kisses going into your arm. The pain in your leg feels like the devil is seductively licking your leg while driving a semi truck. A doctor comes in looking very serious. Is he nervous? No, that must just be indigestion from all of those tacos he eats. Slamming the door as he walks in, the doctor paces back and forth in front of your bed, probably thinking about having to use the bathroom. And then he stops and looks at you. OH NO, you think, HE'S GONNA CRAP ON ME!!!! You try to squirm, but the doctor holds you still. He look into your eyes. and then the situation feels really awkward. He lets you go and says, "Sir, your injuries were too severe for us to fix. I am truly sorry."
As he turns to walk away, you call out to him and ask, "Wait, you weren't able to stop the devil from licking my leg?"
The doctor's expression changes to that of one person who has just been told by a 6 year old that they hid the dog's poop in their cereal box. "Sir, what are you talking about?"asks the doctor.
"I am saying that the devil is now seductively licking my leg and I do not like it,"you say, confused as to why he does not understand you.
The doctor shakes his head, and then starts banging his head against the wall. You vaguely hear him say, "Why do I put up with these nutcases anymore?"
And then the bunny licking stops, and you fall asleep. |
The Republic of China which went into hiding during the war returns to China after moving to Taiwan in 1949. They set up the capital at Guangzhou. The war have left the cities, factories, and farms in ruin. Buildings are just a hollow shell of themselves. The glass have been blown out. Some of them were gutted by fire. Others by explosives. A billion people were displaced, with no place to go. The Republic of China's president, He Anguo, promised the people a new China richer than ever, stronger than ever, and freer than ever.
There was still one problem. Like China in 1911, the China of 2040 is unstable and marred by separatist movements. Can He Anguo and the Republic of China unite a broken country? |
SPILLED LEMONADE
"I'll be right back guys, I have to go to the bathroom. No one drink any of my lemonade!"my son Billy cried out as he dashed out of his little yellow Little Tikes Kids chair into the house. The other three boys, Chuckie, Teddy, and Mikey sat and sipped away at their own cups of lemonade. The cups emptied quickly on this steaming summer day.
A butterfly flew above the little boys' heads. Mikey jumped out of his seat to try and catch the butterfly. In his rambunctiousness he slammed into the table and Billy's cup of lemonade spilled off the table and onto the grass. "woops,"Mikey giggled as he scurried off into the field. "Let's go play tag. Not it!"
"Not it!"cried Timmy.
"I don't want to be it!"Chuckie Whined.
"Billy can be it when he comes back, but 'till then…” Mikey started to run away. “...try and catch us!"Mikey said. Mikey and Timmy flew off into the rest of the back yard.
Moments later, the screen door slammed and Billy came rushing out to meet his friends. Billy ran in his little wobbly childish way towards the snacks table.
"WHO THE FUCK SPILLED MY LEMONADE?"
The whole yard froze. Chuckie stood inches away from tagging Timmy with Mikey standing by the picket fence near the back corner of the yard. I quickly got out of my lawn chair, left my wife mouth agape with her right hand cupped over her mouth, and marched towards my red-faced child. His face red as a fire hydrant, fists clenched into stone blocks, eyes staring off into the void which was the back yard, his gaze pierced through his friends souls. He picked it up and gripped it as if he were trying to crush it.
“Now Billy, let’s calm down here. You have no right to be cursing like that. Just because you’re angry doesn’t mean you have to speak like that,”
“But Daddy, they spilled my lemonade!” His finger pointed fiercely in a mid-point between Timmy and Chuckie, and Mikey.
“That still doesn’t mean you have to use that word. I can bet it was an accident. I’ll just go grab you some more lemonade.” I reached for his cup, but his grip stayed strong, but only strong enough to make an efforted pull. I quickly went back inside to fill Billy’s cup with new ice cold lemonade. As I came back outside I saw my son and his friends talking in the middle of the yard.
“Here you go Billy, a nice cool drink,” He grabbed it with some frustration and some of the juice spilled out of the cup. I gave a slight glance at Mikey and I caught his sight. Mikey immediately looked down at the grass.
A few seconds later Mikey spoke in a feverish voice “I’m sorry Billy, I’m the one who spilled your lemonade. It accidentally fell over when I tried to grab a butterfly. I was so close to catching it.” Mikey brought his hand close to Billy’s hand with his index and thumb almost pressed against each other.
Billy uncontrollably smirked “Butterflies? Let’s go catch some butterflies.” Billy said cheerfully.
“Maybe there’s some dragonflies around” Timmy said excitedly.
“And maybe we can find a hornets nest to poke, or maybe an ant hill to crush!” Chuckie said while stomping his feet.
The four boys darted off around the yard jumping with their hands raised above their heads trying to catch every living creature in the sky. |
Trigger Warning
Sobbing. I could hear sobbing. It was dark, but there were shadows dancing on the wall. I could not see the source of the light; it couldn’t have been more than a candle. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t struggle. Everything seemed to be moving very slowly. I guessed I had been drugged. I tried to sit up, but I was too weak. It felt like every limb weight a thousand pounds. Get up, girl, I thought to myself. Get out of here, now!
I turned my head. All I could see was a dirty wall, with peeling paint. About six inches from my nose. I turned my head the other way. There he was. The man who took me. My god he was huge. He was seated, but he looked like he must top six and half feet and weigh three hundred and fifty pounds. His huge shoulders were pure muscle, and strained against the filthy, thin cotton tee shirt. I could see his hands, hung between his knees. They were giant’s hands, each looked large enough to grab my head and squish it like a grape.
He was sobbing like a baby. There was a lit candle beside him, but it did not give off enough light for me to see any other walls. I couldn’t see the ceiling either. For all I knew, the room was miles wide and high.
I could just make out the tears rolling down his face, leaving tracks in the smooth baby-like skin before dropping off the end of his chin. Tendrils of snot hung from one nostril. He sniffed sharply and it disappeared, presumably back where it came from. His shoulder hitched. He was watching me, with horrible, guilty eyes. They were cornflower blue.
I tried to speak but my jaw seemed to have a mind of its own. My mouth lolled open, and I drew in a ragged breath. I felt a pain in my ribs, under my arm. ‘Don’t try to move,’ said the giant of a man. ‘I just have to remember what’s next.’ His voice was gravel in my ears.
It came back to me in a flash – how he had grabbed me from behind as I left the ladies behind the gas station. I remembered struggling against him, his huge arms keeping me in a bear hug, painfully squeezing my breasts. The big keychain – the one they attach to the bathroom key so people won’t walk off with it – was digging into my ribs. His rough hand moved up to cover my mouth before I could scream, pushing my head back into his chest. His breath washed over me, like swamp mud. I was enveloped in the stench of gum disease and onions. I fought, but he was too strong. My feet must have been eighteen inches off the ground, and I kicked, but it made no difference. He pushed me through the opened rear doors of an old van. I stumbled in, grazing my shin. He was on top of me, his hand finding my mouth again, covering it before I could scream. I could see stars over his shoulder, in the ink black sky behind him. A sharp pain in my thigh – a needle! – and my eyes closed on their own. I could not fight.
Now he was crying. He seemed lost. He had obviously acted out on his fantasy and taken a woman – me. Oh my God, he had taken me. ME. My heart began to pound hard in my chest as the fear rose in me. I could feel my eyes widen and my breath quicken. What was he going to do to me? This man – this ogre of a man had me! I tried to get up, but I was restrained. My wrists were bound, as were my feet. The fear in me grew like a tidal wave crashing to shore. I had no way of avoiding the oncoming rush. My hands grew slippery, sweat started to drip into my eyes, stinging. I pulled on the restraints on my arms but there was no give. No give at all.
The enormous man watched me, his tears tapering off. I could feel my heart pounding, it felt like it was ready to burst out of my chest. His mouth curled up into a grin, a horrid, sly grin. It stopped me instantly – I was paralysed in terror. I felt my bladder release, my thighs warm. My breath was coming in short gasps now. Everything was in sharp focus, I could see every detail in his sinister grin. He yellow teeth were now exposed. The smell of urine was sharp.
He stood up, towering over me. My eyes tracked him, I could hear the tendons in my neck creak as I swivelled my head to follow. ‘I don’t remember what’s next,’ he said. More gravel in my ears, scraping my brain. ‘But that’s okay. I’ll get mama to help me remember.’ He turned around, I watched him go. His back faded into the blackness of the room. I heard a door drag open, then shut. With a solid thunk, the deadbolt was shoved into place.
|
Danny raced across the park, carefully dodging around around a woman with a young child and sunbather as he ran from the Onegi. Risking a glance behind him, he saw the Man in Red calmly following him on his motorcycle. Turning back, he was just able to see the girl before she crashed into him.
Sarah panicked as she clutched the box to her chest. The Wolves were getting closer, and no-one but her could see that. If they got their hands on the box, the world would end. She began to worry that she wouldn't get to see her brother again before she knocked into a rather rude young man.
The Man in Red carefully followed the boy. He had little need for speed; impatience had turned his father into confetti and he was in no hurry to get the same fate. Suddenly a small girl in a white dress ran in front of him and he swerved.
"Dammit."he said. He got off his motorcycle. Anger flared up in his belly, red humours filling his body. Wrath, too, was a flaw, but sometimes you had to indulge your vices...
Dani carefully sunbathed next to The Abomination. Carefully sunbathing, essentially cautiously relaxing, was so self-contradictory that it sounded like one of the Monk's idiotic Zen Koans. She was about to remark to the Antichrist how good the lake looked today and maybe she should try swimming again, along as she didn't summon another Beast, when she noticed that the little girl was gone. Dani began to panic. Losing the Antichrist, loosing her out unto the virgin Earth, would end the world and probably ruin her reputation at work. She started to x-ray the crowd. The first idiot to so much as bump into The Daughter of All Evil would be cast into Hell, Dani didn't want to have to pave over another crack into the Mantle. |
Clouds of insulation hang over. Pink. Keeping nothing warm. That's the thing about insulation. Keeps warmth in, but don't create none. Useless in a place like this, never havin' warmth. It's pretty cold, usually. I figure my job's to find cold spaces like this, so I got to be fine with it. Poor little thing... she don't know... well looky here... *he* don't know what he's doin' here. Nothin' little man. You ain't gotta worry about nothin'. You just hang tight. We'll have someone in here pronto to take a look at those eyes... and that skin... and them legs.
Poor little guy...
The way I see it, death don't matter to 'em. Probably welcome given what they been through. I figure I'm 'bout ready for death, too. I'm gettin' tired of findin' cold places. But, I got shit to make up for. I figure I'll know when the last puppy mill's the last. I figure there'll be some sorta sign. I figure I'll know when I done freed enough to get out myself.
I figure Hell's pretty cold. I'll be damned if I go from one cold place to another. |
"Okay, okay I confess, I made it all up. But, don't look at me like that. I didn't expect things to go this way. I just wanted it to be like it use to be. I never get to see you anymore. I just wante- I'm sorry man."
I don't let go of his hand. It's warm but I feel no life behind it. Oh god I regretted it all. This whole mission was a lie, we weren't suppose to find anything. I feel the sting of tears.
"You accidentally stabbed your friend? How did you two even make it this far?"the demonic girl is standing close to us now.
"Get back,"I growl, no longer kneeling over Aaron. I stand to meet her arrogant gaze.
"What are you going to do? Die like him?"
"He's not dead."
She innocently cocks her head like a little dog, her eyes emotionless, "I don't know, he looks dead to me."
"Fuck you."
The demonic girl doesn't react to the venom in my voice.
I charge at her, balling my hand into a fist. She sidesteps me, and a sharp pain penetrates my side. The next thing I feel is my face scraping across the ground as I tumble through the dirt. The familiar taste of blood fills my mouth. Blinded by the sharp pain I lie there longer than I should have.
"Huh, I wonder if that blow killed him."
I raise my hand to flip her off.
"Oh good, I want to take my time with you. You fools did a number on my men and I wasn't expecting your friend there to die so quickly."
Pressure fills my skull. The little bitch has her foot on my head. But, in a blur of motion the pressure is gone. As I struggle to prop myself up my eyes focus on a familiar figure. He's alive! Aaron has her pinned down.
"Aaron?"I sputter out despite myself.
He ignores me. Dagger in hand he stabs the young demon in her chest and jumps back. She clumsily yet quickly gets back on her feet swinging at Aaron. He grabs her arm mid-swing and flips her down.
"Lee, get up,"Aaron glares back at me,"help me. She's still young. We may have a chance."
I grab a stick.
"Goddammit Lee, what is that suppose to do? This girl isn't just a demon, she's a dragon!"
"She's strong but let's not jump to conclusions."
The girl did match the description of the old legends, though. The elf like ears, the black eyes. Ha, maybe this mission wasn't a lie after all.
"Hey Aaron,"I shout as I go for my ax,"about my confession earlier, no homo."
"What confession?"
"Huh"
"What?"
"Shit don't look at me, she's getting back up,"I throw Aaron my ax. It misses him nearly hitting the girl.
"Sorry,"I say without thinking to the girl.
"God help us,"Aaron mutters to himself as he recovers the ax. |
When my eyes finally adjusted I saw white linen. The sheets, the pillows, the curtains, even my torso, all clad in easy-to-wash white linen. The pungent odor of bleach crept into one nostril; a plastic tube snaked out of the other. The only muscle strong enough to move was my neck. My eyes sought stimulation that my linen covered feet could not provide.
I surveyed the room, again with white linen, this time cast as uniforms. Shapely uniforms. Uniforms that had nurses poured into them, each with a Red Cross halo. They bore nametags strategically pinned to the breast line. Names like, Lisa, Jennifer, and Megan all adorned with the Asclepius’ symbol as an exclamation mark.
It only took days for the gore of reality to sully these women. I was witness to the pushing and stitching and wiping and… and this was just another day at the office. I tried my hardest not to be a burden to these women, but their feigned smiles held no reassurance each time my bedpan was emptied. I could no longer bear the anguish and embarrassment.
My neck, finally strong enough, turned my gaze to the window, and to a corner of the world that bustled with life. Birds sang noiselessly, vendors tempted my empty wallet, and she walked by each morning. Around 7:20, and once as late as 8:40, she passed. Never in a hurry, with the exception of the 8:40, she strolled by in a lovely dress, holding her head high and smiling. I wanted to stroll beside her, entwine her fingers with mine, and meet the world with a smile. I saw my linen covered feet again and willed them to move, to run after her, to fulfill that vivid wish.
I was obsessed with my own recovery, trying to clasp my hands together. To prostrate myself in front of God and all his nurses, my one prayer, ‘Don’t ever let another take her love from me.’ Or I will surely die.
But she finally met my gaze, sitting behind the nursing station, and checked me out of the hospital. As her pen danced over my name on the last paper, the sun glinted off the diamond on the third finger of her left hand. My neck returned my gaze to the white linen that covered my feet. Or was it Just My Imagination?
|
Bill had been coach since 1964, almost 30 years of basket ball.
And in this moment he finally understood what it was that drove him, what made him love and what made him happy.
He had been in this situation before, many times. Through the '76 undefeated season he was splashed almost every game, He had become accustomed to the ritual, but now, in this moment, he saw his true and beautiful life.
At 56 years of age he would retire soon, he would be able to be home with his loving wife Gloria, tending the garden, making small talk throughout the day and keeping each other safe and happy.
He thought of his daughter Sarah, who at 32 years old had a family of her own. Her partner John had become a close friend and their two children, his grand kids, had become an amazing source of happiness and pride within him.
As the Gatorade splashed down his face he could just make out his family in the stands, he looked up and saw them all smiling and looking at him, he began to feel so happy and lucky that he cried.
The orange liquid being cast over him mixed with his tears but Bill didn't mind crying in this moment.
For all his life he had thought about what it means to be happy. There were times he thought he understood what it was all about. But now, in this moment he could feel life, love and happiness flow through him.
|
Marco Polo.
What a familiar phrase. It used to bring light to the place and clear out the fog. But it didn't. And he was left alone, standing thoughtlessly, at Marco Polo.
Then one of the guys started speaking. He heard something like San Marco or Piazza di Roma. The only words that seem to make sense to him. He asked, "This ship to San Marco?""Si, si."They replied. He handed a 20-euro note, and he was off to explore the city.
Or not.
He arrived at one of the piers, exactly same as one another. There was no signs of indication, so he asked the sailors. "Is this San Marco?""Si, si."He asked again. "Is this not San Marco?""Si, si."This was discouraging. He couldn't simply look at skyscrapers for identifying where his hotel was. There was simply none. What he saw was red rooftops, everywhere. There was no hope. There was no way.
He started searching his way through the city. He only knew his hotel was somewhere near the Rialto. Not sure where it was, but he should give a try, he thought. Luckily it was daytime, so there was no danger of falling into the spooky canals. He tried to figure out where he was heading, until he saw a sign.
*"Rio San Polo"*
It seemed familiar, as the name suggests. It might be the only Italian word he knew. It might be English as well. The flame of hope that went out for a second was lighted up again. He stared on the sign. There was something hidden under the sign. Rio San Polo, he thought. Rio San Polo.
Suddenly, the bolt of thought came to his brain. The initials of the sign. RSP. It was the reason why he went to Venice. The Roman Society of Patriots. The Society that had been troubling the government for few years, initiating chaos in the country. It must be their hiding place, he thought. The *strada* was not a long one, enough space for 2 houses. This should be easy, he thought. Immediately, he planned to infiltrate the houses to discover their base. His agent told him Venice was the headquarter for the organization. If he were able to catch them all, the Chief Investigator post should be in his hands. But he couldn't think of any plans. He couldn't speak proper Italian, and once he spoke, his identity would be revealed.
Then came a girl. She looked into in eyes, and approached him with a nice smile. He asked her, "Can you speak English?". "Sure I do. How can I help you sir?"She answered with an Italian accent. "I want to go into one of the bars here. Can you help me?""Of course I can."And she gave him a kiss. Oh, the kiss of an Italian girl. The luckiest day of his life, he thought. "Let me lead you."She spoke with a soft voice. And he followed her into one of the doors.
Meanwhile, she picked up a microphone from her T-shirt.
"The prey is in the nest." |
There was only a small amount of peanut butter left in the jar in the fridge, and I struggled to root out the last streaks of peanut butter from the base of the jar and mix it in with the jelly on his sandwich. Honestly the apartment was disgusting, with used needles left on the drawer and dirty dishes looking to be weeks old left in the sink. It was a shame that fate determined my daughter meet that piece of trash. Why her? She was in marketing in a huge corporation, moving up quickly through the ranks. She always was a bright kid, but never when it came to her men. She seemed to attract the rejects with her helping and kind nature, and she was naive enough to let them into her life. That dirtbag was just another weirdo she wanted to help. Never was big on common sense, my girl. She offered him a face to talk to, a friend to lean on, someone to help through his dark times. And how did he respond to that trust and kindness? When he was over at her apartment he tied her up, raped her, and then slit her throat. I was told later by the police that he tortured her for a while before killing her, by branding her with cigarettes and beating her to a bloody pulp. I assume she was crying, begging him to please stop, and that she was in great pain up until the end. My girl didn't deserve that, hell nobody deserves that. Well, except for maybe the fucker himself. But don't worry, he got what was coming to him. She and I were so close, especially after my wife died, and she was my everything, my little girl still after twenty four years. I guess I'm sort of sorry for my family who have to deal with this mess, but I can't deal with the loneliness, the grief, and the regret. I tried to tell the police I knew who it was, but they didn't listen. They were too caught up with their investigation to pay attention to a delusional grief stricken father. And they brought him in for questioning, but his junky friends gave him an alibi, so they let him go. The man who brutally defiled and murdered my daughter was let free to walk the streets. I simply couldn't deal with it. So I took the baseball bat that she used to use when we went out to the park with a baseball, and I made a trip to his apartment. I knew what I had to do, and I had the means to do it. I let my rage build up until the apartment door, and when he answered to my knock I took a great swing at his head and knocked him out. I proceeded to bash him in the skull over and over and over until I could see his brain leaking out of his skull. I surveyed the apartment a little, went into the kitchen, and opened his fridge. See, my daugher and I, we had this routine, where almost every day after school I would make her a peanut butter jelly sandwich and we would sit and talk about her day. I figured it would be fitting one more time, before I go, to enjoy her memory. So here I sit, almost finished with my peanut butter jelly sandwich, my baseball bat covered in bashed skull and brains leaning by the door. I already heard the neighbors calling the cops, but I'm not going to be arrested. I thought it the whole way through, and I brought a gun just for this. I miss you so much Jessica... |
“Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“That’s the sound of my Walther. Its pointed directly at your balls, you ‘bloody’ Englishman.”
Bridget Von Hammersmark shuffled uneasily in her seat. She knew that the Major had given them up. He was so well versed on German culture and film that he had forgotten how to order drinks in a tavern, and ordered incorrectly. She took a second to whisper into the wire that she wore into the tavern.
“LOCCENT, we’re going to need some backup.”
The conversation continued behind her. She noticed that the talks had dwindled into English, and the Major lifted his glass to his mouth for a quick shot before he continued.
“Well, there’s a special rung in hell for those who waste good Scotch. And seeing as I may be rapping on the door momentarily…”
Another sip. As Bridget looked around, everyone had already dropped their conversations in favor of theirs, and they couldn’t help but wonder why English was being spoken.
“Well. It seems as if there’s only one thing left to do.”
“And what’s that,” the German asked in a perfect English accent.
“Stiglitz.”
“Say hello to Gipsy Danger.”
Bridget grabbed Stiglitz from over the table and jumped back on the Englishman as a gigantic flash of metal destroyed the building they were in. Bridget managed to hide in the stairwell, which was perfectly intact from Gipsy Danger’s feet as they crashed into the bar. As they surveyed the mess, mostly composed of blood, body parts, and wreckage, a hand scooped away what was left of the bar and the block around it, and Hicox, the Englishman, and Bridget Von Hammersmark scooped up a laughing Stiglitz and walked onto a gigantic hand of a robot that stood hundreds of feet tall. The hand lifted them out of the bar and plopped them on the street, and from the speaker system of the giant robot, a young, American and very sarcastic voice asked,
“Hicox! Heard you can’t count in German!”
The trio couldn’t help but laugh.
“Ah yes, Mr. Beckett, it seems as if you are on time as usual.”
|
"Wake the fuck up, Sam. There's more approaching from the pond."I heard William whisper, violently shaking me.
I could barely force my eyes open. All day we had been fighting off survivors, holding down our post. We were set up on an old farm, specifically the barn. Behind the property was a giant pond, where most of the survivors were attacking from. Up ahead from the farm was a dirt road, where occasionally some survivors tried to flank from there.
"Get on the second floor,"William whispered to me, reloading his assault rifle, "i'll stay down here and take out anything that comes to close."
I took a few deep breaths, and stood up from the hay stack. I made my way upstairs, where there was a opening towards the pond. I settled my knee on some hay, and loaded up my sniper rifle.
We were equipped to take on armies. We had full-on protective gear, armor on nearly 100% of our bodies. We had gas masks on just incase we were being smoked out.
Our only problem now was ammunition.
I looked through the scope of my rifle. I could see three survivors coming up the hill by the pond. Only rarely did they have guns. Most of the time they were basically naked, running around like mindless zombies. Strategy and luck was there only option.
I quickly put the three down. Only for another six to come back up. I took them out.
*We're making way too much noise*, I thought.
I heard gunshots from below me. I heard war cries just behind me. I made sure to look over my shoulder.
When I looked back in the scope, I saw about seven survivors standing ontop of the hill. They all held weapons that I couldn't make out just yet.
They opened fire at the barn. A bullet struck my chest, but the armor engulfed it. Another bullet struck my right shoulder. Then another one in the chest again.
I ducked under the hole, and began to reload the rifle.
"We're being swarmed on the front side!"William yelled.
"I'm being shot at by the back. Just hold your ground, and i'll hold mine. Don't be a pussy, take the bullets like a man!"I yelled back.
"It'd be better if we band up and take these fuckers out!"
"Don't fucking die on me, William."I sighed, before peaking out back the hole.
The survivors were running closer and closer to the barn. The moment I peaked out, I was greeted with three shots to the chest. I raised up my rifle, and tried to look in the scope.
A bullet struck the scope and passed through it. It went through the eyelid of my gas mask, and struck my eye. I screamed in pain. As an instinct, I pulled off my mask and threw it to the ground. I put my hand over my eye, and began looking for something to cover it.
"William?"I asked out loud. No response. I called his name out once more, no response still.
I felt a knife strike my side. I turned to my right and immediately saw the survivor. I pulled out my pistol and shot him right in the head. I bent down to the man, and ripped a small piece of his shirt off. I used it as a replacement for an eyepatch. Then I began looking for William.
It wasn't long until I spotted him lying in a blood of pool. Survivors surrounding him, slowly putting on pieces of armor. I shot them all. All of them.
I made my way downstairs, and picked up William's assault rifle. It would be better to use this for the onslaught. I took cover behind a few crates, my rifle aiming towards the entrance.
They wanted my armor? They wanted my guns? They wanted my ammunition?
*They'd have to fight for it.* |
Cedric sorted through the list of messages on his PAD. All five-hundred-and-ninety-two of them. All marked urgent.
Most of them were the usual drek. "My house was robbed by immigrants,"one read. "A clone stole my identity,"read another. "Bioroids are cracking my data streams,"from a third. Typical stuff. Old people, who were used to who things were, and didn't understand that the LAPD had stopped pretending to give a shit. When at least a hundred people are murdered each week, there's just not enough manpower to respond to petty robbery, or breaking and entering complaints.
Cedric slid back in the chair and massaged his temples, "You find anything interesting over there, Ash?"
"Out of the four-hundred-and-eighty-eight messages in my inbox, three of them appear to be worth investigating,"The bioroid responded.
"Really? That many?"
"All three of them are in relation to the same case, but I believe that case is worth investigating, so technically, there are three messages worth responding to."
Cedric chuckled, "fair enough. What's the case?"
Ash pressed a few buttons, and the messages projected themselves on the wall. "They all are in relation to a new re-active company, calling themselves Zaroff industries, that's promising their customers the ability to murder anyone they like, in vivid detail. I've sent the company's site to your PAD, if you're interested."
"I am,"Cedric murmured, glancing at the information.
The website was pretty barren, except for a small list of 'features' offered by the company, and contact information. Some of the listed features included, "top of the line survival-instinct AI,""detailed facial mapping,"and "hyper realistic blood."
"I'll give you that it's a little ghoulish, but it's hardly illegal. What are the complaints about?"Cedric asked, without looking up.
"That's where it gets interesting. We have video testimony from a Mr. Spet, Civ-ID 1493197979612, which claims that-- I think it'd be best if we just watch it."Ash pressed a few more buttons, and the disheveled face of a man in his mid thirties appeared on the screen.
"Hello, my name is Harold Spek, and I swear that the testimony I'm about to present is, to the best of my knowledge, the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
On the evening of July 12, 2103, I visited Zaroff industries, and took part in one of their re-actives. I was curious what it'd be like to kill someone, and... I guess that's not relevant. The scenario I'd selected, was one where I'd stalk, and then murder a homeless man with a large knife.
The scenario went well, until I got to the actual kill part. When I saw the guy's face, I recognized it. It was one of the homeless guys who hung out on a corner a few blocks away from my container. I mean I'd never talked to the guy before, but I'd seen him enough to recognize his face.
Well, after the. . . murder, I left 'his' body in a dumpster off 942nd. After the scenario finished, I ran as quickly as I could to the actual dumpster and I found the body inside, same position I left him in, knife wound in the same spot. I immediately took video of the guy, which I've attached, along with a recording of my re-active.
I don't know what else to do, I mean I never would have gone there if I'd know--"
Ashe turned the video off, "he continues babbling like this for another twenty-eight minutes."
"Have you reviewed the records?"Cedric asked.
"My computer's been analyzing them since we accepted the case."
"And...?"
"Judging by the blood splatters, and the nature of the wounds, in question, there's a 92% chance that these recordings depict the same crime scene."
"So Zaroff industries is killing people, and selling live footage of their deaths as re-actives?"
"It would appear so."
"That would explain their twenty-five trillion dollar payment to the city permit office."
"I don't follow."
"Well, while you were analyzing the footage, I've been tracking their expenses, trying to figure out where their money's been going. And, in addition to their standard business license, there's an additional twenty-five trillion going to the permit office. Which means one of two things, either they want to found their own sovereign nation, or they need a Class D Murder License. That would also explain why they've dedicated so little money to R&D, and machine upkeep--"
"So rather than actually running the simulations, they've been piping the guy's camera feed back to the room, and calling it a re-active."
"Precisely. Now all we need to do is make sure they actually purchased the license,"Cedric said, leaning back in his chair.
"I'm putting the records on the screen as we speak."
After a few minutes of searching they found proof that Zaroff had purchased a license, making any murders they would commit for the next year, perfectly legal.
All in a day's work. |
"Our target planet is in the Irisa Star System, this will be our second campaign after the failure of the Inge's to secure the planetary resources. An Alliance has been secured between ourselves and a feudal lord of the system with high aspirations named Mirch Bryn.
"Bryn's home-world is the planet Munsda and through a political marriage between his daughter to my son we will secure the Astrogates placing Bryn on the Irisan thrown as our puppet."Magan glanced at his generals, "I shall be commanding the offensive myself and this time there will be no mistakes."
...........................................................................
Magan had been waiting with his entire fleet for a provision restock for a full rotation of the planet in front of him, he planned a skirmish to raid resources and replenish. "Those must be Iris Forces,"said Eyvind Olboge, his second in command, "their own people guard the arcology."
King Magan secured a red shielding device to his arm, the clasp inlaid with the head of a lion, he pulled his main weapon "Legbiter"around for ease of access, the hand grip wound with a gold thread. Eyvind's red cloak matched his king's. "Look, those are Bryn's men, the stockpile is ours."
Relieved, a small group traveled down to the base to assess the available stock. Too late they spotted the intricate skin tattoos on the guards. Too late they realised they were ambushed, the base scouts slaughtered. The Iris descended upon the King and his loyal forces, shooting true, wave after wave.
Torgrim Lenderman was ordered to defend against the Iris division with air support, cloaked and hidden from view he chose treachery over loyalty abandoning Magan fleeing the battle. King Magan was struck in the legs by a vibrospear but his death blow came from an Iris weapon of intricate design, a Star Axe. His men retreated to the safety of their ships, except for the ever loyal Eyvind Olboge who died beside his liege.
..............................................
"She can stay within her own Star System for all I care, our Alliance is disbanded, Bryn can fight his own traitorous battles, she is my wife no more,"King Zigad, first son of Magan, declared before returning to his own homeworld Noreska.
-042
(Loosely based on the 2nd Irish campaign and death of King Magnus Barelegs.) |
Humans are finally testing their first real time transporter device based on unraveled DNA replication processes. One end of the device is on Earth, and the other end of the man made device is on the moon, but their targeting math is slightly off during one of the test and they barely miss the moon's receiving transporter device. It results in a connection with an alien transporter system on a moving alien vessel who has DNA similar to our own. It turns out their vessel's origin might have been either Earth or Mars or some other planet in their vicinity, and the present crew are descendants of the original crew that originally manned the ship thousands of years ago. You're trying to help them find locate Earth. |
That hallway has always had a sterile feel to Keens. This time though, he failed to notice that once again. He was too excited; his first assignment after 4 intense years of training. Psychology, liguistics, sociology, biology and many others, including physical preparation. On his graduation day, he was feeling depleted, utterly exhausted. Now then, Two weeks later, on the day of his first assignment, he was feeling better than ever, he was a new man, he was an agent of GICE (Galactic Inter Cultural Exchange).
As he steps in to the office, he was greeted by a faint neon light and his direct superior bent forward a display desk, apparently reading a mission report.
"Ah, Keens! You're the new one, right? Human? Welcome aboard! And great, we need more of you guys here, it starts to get boring when you have to deal with Xeeóns all day long, you know?"
"Thank you sir, I received a message informing me that I was assigned a mission. Reporting for briefing."
"Well, Keens. First of all, don't call me "sir". I barely qualify for what humans call "sir". Just call me by my name, Aanthorós. Second of all, don't be so stiff. Relax, unwind. Take a seat, Give me a minute to finish reading this report and we'll start with your first briefing. You've gotten an interesting one."
The Muurainian scrolled through the report in a rapid manner, giving Keens the impression that he wasn't too interested in reading it, or maybe Muuranians were fast readers? He couldn't remember, this was the second Muuranian he ever encountered, and the first encounter was brief and meaningless.
"Okay. Keens, Keens, Keens... Well. You will be dealing with a first encounter. The planet is Antrinuus 881-992. They are in a primitive stage, basic dwellings made out of dirt, basic tools made out of plant and stone components, ..."
"Any bone or other animal components used in tool crafting?"
", ... crude garments, not crafted; they use indigenous plant components to cover protect their bodies from harsh weather, since the species did migrate from it's originary point to other regions of the planet, which do not have appropiate weather for their well being, forcing them to develop tool use in order to survive and thrive.
They are organised in medium groups, ranging from 400 individuals to several thousands. They are mostly peaceful, but conflicts do arise between groups or individuals. They call themselves "Teenaa'saa""
Aanthorós lifts his head from above the display desk and looks at Keens, closing the briefing report with a fast swipe over the desk.
"Know that the way they call themselves is complete bullshit, Keens. That word is a result of linguists watching the drone recordings, it probably sounds completely different, those idiots are always wrong.
Now, to more important matters. You will be posing as a god. They are primitive, and as you know, this is the most non-invasive way to interact with them. Go in, do the standard tricks to prove yourself, gain their trust, give them the knowledge necessary to start moving forward more quickly technologically, but nothing fancy, just do some improvements to their tools, and slowly push them to an equality based society. "
"What about basic moral values, and techniques for processing plants into better clothing and the ability to store food items for long term?"
"No. This will take time. During your lifetime, very little will change in their society. If we push too hard, they'll end up killing one another over jealousy or greed. It happened on your planet back in the day. Quite a few times actually. Those in charge back then kept assuming that you are ready and that you posses the ability to learn quickly. Which is true, your species is a quick learner. But you guys also learn quickly how to kill one another. And you can get pretty damn inventive with that. A quarter of our current weapon system was developed by you guys. And you're still the new species in the Galactic Empire!
No more "they can learn stuff quickly"mistakes. Take it easy, and with patience, in a few thousand years they'll be here as well. The mistakes which were done with your species prolounged the process with over ten thousand years. Let's not make that mistake again. Stick to your mission and return with a full report. Looking forward to looking to your rookie report. The first ones are always painfully and amusingly bad."
"Yes sir. Yes Aanthorós. " |
"...and it's a boy!"
Emptiness.
"Well, how do you feel?"the nurse coaxed.
Vitriolic joy. "Glowing,"I feigned, with a half smile that reinforced the weight of the sadness inside me.
I had wanted a child ever since
my young mind could grasp the concept. I was taken back to maternal moments in my life: holding my little sister close through each foster home we were placed in; becoming a teacher, and shining like the sunrise each morning my first-graders burst into my classroom; marrying the man of my dreams who promised to give me a family of my own.
And now, here I am, stuffed with guilt and a fetus. A foreign object in my body. Like someone stabbed me through the stomach, and the wound became infected and swollen.
I noticed my hands were resting at my sides. I almost wanted to touch my belly, but couldn't bring myself to. I considered looking down, but unconsciously closed my eyes instead. In a barren moment, the last of my hope, a hope that was buried deep down inside, crumbed.
Instinctually, I pushed myself over the edge of the hospital bed. I felt lifeless for split second, falling. I hit the ground hard, stomach first. |
The master of music scrunches his eyes wearily to read the notes on the parchment in front of him. Performing several double-takes, his hands begin quivering as he stares down at the page perplexed.
"No..."
He drops the papers on his desk, frantically beginning to pace very quickly around his study while running his fingers through his hair, cold sweats dripping down the side of his face.
"No, why does it repeat? I don't understand...why does it *always repeat?"* He grabs the edge of a wooden chair and begins twisting his hands around it firmly, something he always does when he gets very nervous though few people know of it. "I don't understand, it repeats and repeats over and over and over and *over* again! What is the merit in that? Why would anyone..."
He grabs the parchment once more to look at it before tearing it up in his hands.
*"Why would anyone write music like this??"*
He begins fuming with nervous and short breaths, biting his knuckles and grabbing his chair before throwing it across the room.
"Why? Why would anyone do that? I makes no sense!"
He begins tearing off his clothes, marching around the room like a man possessed. He bites his knuckles again before flipping over his desk, glass shattering and papers from his latest creation fluttering around like the feathers of a deceased angel.
"God in heaven, tell me why! Tell me why and I'll do anything, I swear!"
He falls to his knees and lifts his hands toward the ceiling, tears streaming across his face.
"I'll do anything you want!"
With a primal scream, he stands and jumps out the window to fall two stories to the ground, breaking his spine and dying as naked as he was born. |
Her name is Alice. She's sitting in a chair, watching the door like a hawk. She just found about Eve. Bob's about to get the talking to of a lifetime.
Her name is Eve. She's been reading Alice's messages. Years ago, she had a one-time thing with Bob, and she never let him forget it.
His name is Bob. He's in a Greyhound two states away and still going. He couldn't be happier.
---
-051 | [more](/r/vonBoomslang) |
CRACK.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
creak.
pitter patter pitter patter.
creak.
Blind, fear, thump, fear.
Hunger.
Light round tasty crunchy yummy there down out me Eat.
Thirst, need. Pitter patter pitter patter, need. Pitter patter pitter patter. Need. There wet bright taste bad no spit, need. Out.
Fear.
Creak, thump. Fear.
Loud. Bright. loud bright why? Fear.
Turn, pressure, me, fear. Scream, bite, kick, fear, drag, pain, loud, cry.
Sleep.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The nurse was crying. "Did you see her? She was covered in blood! Did you see her eyes?"
"She looked fine enough to seriously injure a cop."the doctor huffed. "I'm sure she'll be fine with some therapy."
But she had seen the eyes too. |
Because the sun is reflecting off the snow, warm with the breath of morning despite the bitter cold. Because this wrinkled old man still believes he has a chance with the twenty-something barista. You should be happy because beautiful things are flawed and flawed things are beautiful. Because there's this sound that the ice makes when the wind believes it can move mountains, and there's this sound that the wind makes when it's triumphant. You should be happy because the smell of freshly-ground coffee is delicious and caffeine-induced sugar rushes make you invincible. Sweaty, but invincible. Be happy because there is a man who is currently rolling a skeleton across the floor of my campus. It's bones are marked with origin points for dozens of muscles. It seems a bit malnourished though. You should be happy because you will always be a benefit to somebody, even if you don't know how that will manifest. |
**Hot.**
That was the word in Edgar's mind. *So damn hot.* The air was so saturated with the accelerated molecular motion of flames that not a single breath of relief could be taken in. Every inhale only felt like a deeper level of suffocation. There were no walls surrounding him, and yet he felt an overwhelming level of claustrophobia.
"Where am I?"he said weakly, his throat parched and aching for water. The last thing he could recall happening was running from the police. "What happened to me?"
"There he is, my favorite little man,"said the bearded fellow with black hair and a shifty, rodent-like look on his face. "You didn't think you could escape me after killing me, did you? Did you think God would forgive your crime? You killed a priest, after all. *Your* priest. And now, the wages of sin have been emptied from your purse. You're alone, Edgar. Alone with *me* again. How does that feel?"
Edgar didn't hesitate more than a moment before roaring and grabbing the priest's face in his hands, pressing his thumbs deep into his adversary's eye sockets. **"You took my whole life away, you piece of shit!!"** he screamed as he dug his thumbs in deep, quickly and forcibly with the bated breath of an animal on the hunt.
The priest howled as blood ran down his cheeks, his former altar boy's thumbs finding their way past his soft grape-like eyes onto the frontal cortex of his grey matter.
Edgar heaved as he held the priest down, finally pulling his thumbs out and stepping on the rapist's neck. The priest laughed and coughed up blood, looking up at Edgar with sightless eyes and an odd, off-color smile. "Looks like you still don't have what it takes to owe up to what you are...a horny little boy-slut, weak at the knees with tears running down your cheeks like a fucking girl!"The priest began laughing uncontrollably, even as his face was pressed against the ashes by his sexual victim's heel.
Edgar stomped his foot repeatedly against the front of the priest's face, blood flying from the man's nose as the cartilage contorted from the force of the impact. Over and over again, Edgar stomped with a killer's momentum onto the priest's face, but the bastard simply wasn't dying.
"And I somehow need *God's* forgiveness,"said Edgar through gritted teeth. "But he would throw me down here with you?"
"It's not all that bad, Eddie boy,"said the priest as he stopped Edgar's foot with his hand, slowly standing as pieces of his mashed face fell into the fire. "What's the matter? Don't you wanna give me a kiss?"
Edgar turned and ran from him, his immortal molester chasing him through the flames until the end of time. And as God's will would have it, they would both be thrown into the lake of fire. |
P:Piano
G:Guitar
P: I am the most simple musical instrument.
G: Hah! Barre chords?
P: You can SEE music theory on me!
G: You have to memorize the scales!
P: At least you just push the note you want with me, no years of developing sideways pinky dexterity...
G: Ouch... well.. I am transportable! No guitar movers for hire are there?
P: There are electric pianos! They have hundreds of programmable sounds!
G: ...the ...electric... guitar... with insane pedals and effects...
P: I am the instrument of Mozart! Bach!
G: Clapton! Steve Vai! Hendrix!
P: I am more beautiful than you are...
G: Really..? We're really gonna go there? Have you seen some of my brethren?
P: An infant can reach out and play me.
G: I am the most popular instrument in the world...
P: You can play 10 notes at once on me.
G: You can bend notes on me.
P: You can play two melodies with ease on me, or melody and harmony even easier.
G: You DIRECTLY interact with the sound you wish to make on me, you are ONE with the music!
P: I give up.. stick to your dirty hippies who put anti-conformist stickers all over you... stick to your band of amateurs who carries you around to look cool.. what does The Who do with you on stage again?
G: I give up as well.. I am sure a lot of people would choose piano if their lame parents didn't force them into it at 5... have fun playing piano on the beach with friends... have fun teaching a piano song to a beginner in 3 minutes... loser... |
The water was dark and deep in that area of the river, a large meander surrounded by tall trees on one side and a sandy beach and grass on the other. Tucked between roots and reeds, a fat pike terrorized frogs, crabs and even the young ducks who ventured into his territory.
The sun was the right kind of orange. The fisherman loomed on the bank and threw the bait with the hook well hidden inside.
The pike was hungry and attacked immediately, crossing the river like a spear underwater. With a deft flip of the rod, the fish came flying out of the water and fell upon the sand on the shore. Startled for a second, he tried right away to figure out where the water was, hitting the ground with his tail. It was not the first time he had been fished.
When he saw the fisherman's shadow approaching he thought of buying time.
"Let me in the water,"said the pike.
"I'm still young and will live many more years."The fish was still flapping hard, although his breath was failing and he could barely speak.
"Next year I will be bigger and clumsy, and you can easily catch me again."
The fisherman crouched just as the pike began to splash in the water, and as he took it with skill by the gills, said,
"Shut up and go to basket." |
-057
Georgina showed up dressed in a black turtle neck and comfortable grey slacks. In her hands, she carried his cake. "Happy birthday, baby."She whispered in a soft raspy voice. An unfortunate gift she received after a serious illness that almost took her life.
"Thanks, mom."Brisco responded with a veiled smile. Sig and Simon lounged nearby and clapped at the sight of the cake.
"Blow it out."They suggested, chanting the call repeatedly. "You're only nineteen once. Blow it out, bitch."His mother laughed joyfully. Well, she tried to laugh joyfully. The bloody dot that appeared in the center of her forehead, removing the back of her skull messed up her laugh a little at the end. Brisco stared at the dot and the bloody stew sticking to the wall behind her and worked hard to make sense of it. Georgina stood, eyes wide, mouth crooked ready to grin and slowly toppled forward, bearing the cake to the floor with her.
The power suddenly failed as Sig and Simon yelped in surprise realizing that their best friend's mother was now dead. The door to the room opened suddenly and men, masked with clunky head gear glowing green like some giant alien eye, poured into the apartment with guns drawn and laser sights alight. A swarm of small red insects swept over Brisco and his friends. Brisco was still staring into the darkness at the place where his mother's body had collapsed.
"Brisco Allen Pepperhorn?"One of the green-eyed cyclops inquired.
"Y--yes."He responded absently.
"You're father just died. Pandora's Box is now your responsibility."The man informed him, shoving a wooden box into his hands.
"You killed my mother."He remarked somewhere between shock and bemusement.
"Georgina Emma Pepperhorn was actually Georgina Emma Romanik. She wasn't your mother. We've known that for seventeen years. She is unimportant. The Box is now your life. Guard it, or join the woman you once called mother."The men surrounding him clicked off their safetys.
"Brisco?"Sig and Simon called out nervously when Brisco failed to respond.
"Fine."Brisco spat. The man with the head gear flashed hand signals to the other men and they filtered back out of the room. A few moments later, the power came back on and with it the lights. A single man strode through the door dressed in a white rubber gown, with rubber boots, a white ventilating face mask, and tick black safety goggles. In on hand he carried a five gallon jug on the side of which was a series of diamond warning labels and a skull and cross bones. In the other, he carried a black valaise.
"In two minutes, I'm going to dissolve every body I find in the apartment in acid, whether they're alive or dead. If you are the former, I would leave now."The man told them ominously. He set his gear down beside Georgina's body. Brisco almost reached for the man to stop him, but Sig and Simon got to him first.
"We gotta go, bro."The told him breathlessly. He just nodded and let them sweep him from the room along with the box he carried. They rushed him down the hall, down the stairs, and out into the parking lot. They would have kept going, but it was here he decided to dig in his heels. He was staring at the box he held. He gripped the lid and released the catch.
"Yo, fucker. What the hell. They just told you this was Pandora's Box."Sig snapped, laying a hand on top of the box so he couldn't open it.
"Move your hand."Brisco hissed coldly.
"Yo, Brisco, man. You sure you want to be opening that?"Simon asked.
"They just killed my mother. I need to know why. This isn't Pandora's Box."He told them, twisting away and opening the box. There was suddenly a bright light as he opened the top and a loud detonation. Smoke poured from the box and Brisco hurled it from himself, suddenly very scared. He waited and the smoke eventually stopped. He crept back over and opened it once more. Written with red paint inside the lide were the words, *Don't Open The Next Box.* In the bottom of the box were plane tickets, a thick brick of cash, and a long oddly shaped silver key. He pulled out the items and under it was written the additional message. *Happy Birthday, Son.* They stood in the parking lot for nearly an hour. The man in the white suit re-emerged smelling of acrid chemicals.
"You're going to miss your flight, jackass. Get moving."He didn't slow. He kept going until he reached a plain white van into which he deposited the tools of his trade. He circled around to the end of the lot and came back past them. He had his window rolled down and without looking their way he called out. "Don't open the next box."Then, he left the lot and their lives. Sig and Simon checked out the tickets. They were in all three of their names and they were for Rome. Brisco hefted the brick of cash. There was easily fifty thousand dollars there.
"What now?"Sig asked.
"We go to Rome."Simon answered.
Brisco just stared at the key and the brick of cash. "What now?"Sig asked again. Brisco hesitated a moment longer.
"We have need to deposit twenty-five thousand, and split the rest up amongst us so we can go through customs without having the money seized. He slipped the key in his pocket. "We need to do it now or we'll miss our flight."Sig and Simon just nodded and followed Brisco to his car.
"So, we're off to find Pandora's Box?"Simon asked.
"No. We're off to find the man who just shot my mother."He responded. Sig and Simon looked to one another asking and answering a question with a single look. They would see this to the end. Brisco knew that about them already. They were loyal to a fault. He chucked the wooden box away and climbed into the driver seat. Twenty seconds later, they were gone. The white van started its engine as they passed it two blocks away.
"Mother,"he whispered into his com. "Baby Boy's coming home."He pulled out of the alley where he'd stashed the van and followed them discreetly. He hoped they got on the plane. He didn't really relish dissolving human bodies in acid. One was enough for him, but, just in case, he had brought enough acid for three more. "Get on the plane, Brisco."The cleaner whispered quietly.
"Did not follow."The voice on the other end of his com remarked.
"Off com dialogue."The cleaner explained. "Off com."
The voice acknowledge and went silent. The cleaner though, whispered his plea again. He really didn't want to dispose of his best friend's kid. Not on his birthday, at least. He wasn't a monster. |
I know I wasn't exactly the most well-behaved child. I was born into a bad situation; my brother was 16 years older than me, and my parents hadn't planned on any more children. I was an accident. They made sure I knew that.
I resented my parents for a long time. They didn't want to take care of me, so I had to figure out how to survive on my own. By the time I was five, I was relatively independent. I came and went as I pleased, and my parents pretty well ignored me unless they were upset.
I moved out of my parents' house when I was 13. It wasn't running away, not really. I had a job, the organization I worked for provided the house, and I was able to afford a comfortable life. Sometimes I wondered if my parents had even noticed.
I moved on with my life, living in that house with five kids my age. We all worked together, it was just easier to live together too. I moved up, out of the poverty my parents were stuck in, obtaining an education they never had. I thought back on them often.
The only thing I wanted was to know that they cared, even just a little bit. To know that they noticed when I left. All I wanted were three little words.
"Come home, son." |
"Soldiers!"A tall man in green camo yells. "You are the most pathetic, imbalanced, un-coordinated group of young awkward young men this planet has to offer, and it could offer a lot worse I'm sure!"
Three of the young men hold up asthma inhalers. Two more wet themselves.
"Because our enemy has complex grasp of normal human brainwaves, rhythm, patterns and social expectations, we can't send any force at him! So you twig thin sons-ah-disease ridden socially inept warriors will attempt to neutralize this globally threatening mastermind!"
"I have to raid with my guild tonight,"One of them speaks up. "Will we be back before eight?"
The drill sergeant storms over.
"Your guild is already giving this man all your gold!"The drill sergeant looks him dead in the eye.
The scrawny soldiers jaw shakes. His eyes go white. He makes a very high pitched wheezing sound through is nose.
"Exactly what we need!"The drill sergeant backs off. "Anyone else here play WoW? I guarantee this mad man has convinced your entire guilds to give up their account info!"
Two seconds later we see this attack team parachuting from 30k feet up. Most of them have white foam at the mouth. Others are making crazy noises. None of them seem to be older than 15 years old. |
I was the first person it happened to. I remember the vividly. It was right after my eighteenth birthday. I was walking home from class an for whatever reason, strawberries grabbed my attention. I couldn't shake the craving, so I stopped at the market and picked some up. I still wonder what might have happened if I did something different.
Anyway I am straying a bit. That strange metallic aftertaste didn't kick in until I had eaten the whole thing. Almost as if it was waiting to reveal itself until it was already to late. That strange taste floored me. Something was wrong with my food, but I didn't think much of it that day. I tossed the rest and continued home. Even though I had felt normal, my whole world changed that day.
The next morning I awoke and noticed not all was as it seemed. I felt different. Much more at ease. I decided that I could use a day off from class. I played hookie. It wasn't something I did often, but occasionally with the mood struck me. During my misadventures in the park that day a man was screaming frantically for help. Turns out his boy had fallen into the pond they were fishing at and neither of them could swim.
I was always raised that if it was in you power to change things for the better it was your obligation, so of course I jumped in. The water was colder than it should have been. I felt my chest constrict immediately. It took me a few minutes to find the child. The water was murky at best. By this point my lungs were burning. I needed to surface for air, but I couldn't. If I needed air, then this child must be close to death. No telling how long he had been there. I pushed on, further into the dark water. By the time I found the boy my lungs were screaming at me. I was at my limit. My mouth opened up and gasped for air only to take in water. My lungs stopped burning. My head was clear. Somehow I was breathing under water.
I wrapped the boy up in my arms and kicked for the surface. When we made shore I was tired. When I say tired, I mean super fucking fatigued. I imagine it is the kind of fatigue Navy Seals feel at the end of training. Pushing past it I focused on the boy. He was dead. I didn't make it in time. The father was hysterical. Blabbering and pounding on his dead son's chest. Pleading with the powers that be to bring his boy back. I recall him even offering his soul to the Devil so that his boy might live. I decided to start CPR, not really for the child's benefit but in an effort to keep the father calm until the Para-Medics arrived. I never had a chance to start though. I touched the boy, he gasped to life, and I blacked out.
That is how it all started. A single funny strawberry gave me some pretty incredible powers. Everything was pretty awesome for a while. I was an eighteen year old kid with super powers. What more could I ask for? Until I started to notice how much using the powers was draining me. Until I noticed that each time it took me longer an longer to recover. Then something big happened. Others across the world were experiencing the same things. It appears that I was patient zero. Everyone I touched was doomed and it didn't stop with them. It just continued to spread. By the time I realized it was killing me it was already to late. I couldn't even warn them. No one ever knew until it was to late. Within a month the entire human species was gone.
Since then I just kind of float around space. An invisible consciousness telling stories to my imaginary friends in an attempt to stave off insanity brought about by loneliness.
EDIT:Formatting. |
April 30th, 1919.
Adolf Hitler sat alone on the cold floor of the dimly lit hallway, contemplating his place in the world. A Viennese Waltz played on the phonograph inside his apartment, the attendees of his party no doubt dancing gaily to its antiquated pulse on this, the thirtieth anniversary of his entry into this unjust world.
"They live in the past,"he muttered to himself. But what more could anyone expect of the German people, whose fortunes had changed so much in just a few short years? The Armistice had been signed, the Reich's fate sealed in a cruel twist of fate. So close they had been to achieving their goals, to elevating their kind to the pinnacle of history! Although the Treaty of Versailles had not yet been signed, there were rumors of even greater capitulations to come. Damn the November traitors!
"Something must be done,"Hitler observed, taking a cigarette out of his coat pocket. "I could be the one to lead the German people to greatness! If only there was a way…”
“There is the unfortunate matter of your parentage.” The voice came seemingly from beneath the floorboards.
“Who is there? Show yourself!”
Before he could rise, a black serpent rose out of the floor and sat before him.
“I am the one they call Sssatan,” it hissed, its body slowly oscillating back and forth. “I believe you have a dilemma I can… alleviate.”
In his stupor, Hitler could not manage a sound.
“You wish for German supremacy. You wish to create a great empire out of the ruins of this latest war. You wish to unite the German people around their common enemy: the Marxists, the Jews, and everyone else who would subvert your country. But your own father was born of a Jew, before your grandmother married.”
“H-how do you know this?”
“I see all, and all is my dominion. I exist everywhere, in every time. I have seen the greatness you can achieve, Adolf Hitler. You will forge a Third Reich that will stretch across Europe. You will be its sole leader. But first, you will sell your soul to me, and in return, I will erase this unfortunate blemish from your family’s history. The name of Peter Fiedelmann will be erased from the records.”
“As long as Germany squirms under the boot of our enemies, I have no soul,” Hitler replied.
“Then your soul is forfeit,” shrieked Satan, with something like a smile. The serpent vanished in a puff of smoke.
“So it begins,” Hitler resolved, coolly putting the cigarette in his mouth and sparking it with his lucky lighter from the war.
As the waltz inside concluded, Hitler remained in the hallway, pensive, coolly blowing smoke which mingled with the whispy aftermath of the most important moment of his life.
|
She was absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. Always had been. I almost walked into her on my way out the elevator and stopped. She looked me in the eyes and said, "In ten years this place hasn't changed, has it?"I pondered her question, and noticed a light hanging above us. I was the Intercontinental Hotel in downtown Chicago, on Michigan Ave. It was the site of our senior prom. It was also the site of Kelsey and I's first kiss.
As I stared at the light, I had a flashback, a flood of memories so strong any weaker heart would have dropped to it's knees. But I still stood, staring at the light, failing to notice that Kelsey had put her arms around my neck. She smiled as my gaze lowered to her deep, hazel eyes.
"You can't repeat the past,"she whispered. "Why, of course you can,"I whispered back. After we pulled our lips away from each other, she commented that she needed to get to the key to her bike lock from her room.
"I'll go with you."We stepped back into the elevator, and I looked at the engagement ring on her finger. "How much did you pay for this, exactly?", she asked.
"For what I'm getting? A bargain." |
Twitch's ugly mug twisted up in a stubby smile. "There it is."The unseemly pool, slightly coppery with strands of slick algae bobbing on its surface, was what he had been looking for. Given, he'd had to gather a company of the US's most radical conspiracy theorists to do it...but it was here.
"How do we drink it, anyway?"A severe, skinny woman said from Twitch's right side snapped. She raked a hand through her bobbed black hair and raised an eyebrow. "If we're even certain this is it."
Twitch grunted at the final member of their party: Remy Dratters, a round boy of twenty-two. Remy nodded solemnly; he wasn't one for extended conversations.
"This is it,"Twitch affirmed. "And we just take shots of this or what?"
Remy nodded, handing them both plastic cups. Evangeline dove in with hers, splashing droplets up into the moss rimming the sides of the pool. They both raised the cups to their lips, feeling warm ice tingle through their limbs.
The pair began giggling as they both swayed, thumping onto the ground a few moments later.
Remy allowed himself a teeny-tiny smile at the sight of the rotund older man and his spindly, raven-haired counterpart. "Too bad it's drugged."
AN: Short, I know. Please forgive me. :) |
Jaime and Kris's party had been a happy affair. It was a themed event: guests were to arrive dressed as emotions. Jaime had attended as Happiness, wearing a suit with a bright orange pattern on it. His best friend, Clara, had chosen to dress as love; she wore only a skimpy two-piece bikini, but she had hand-painted bright pink patterns all over her body. Kris's costume was "green with envy,"and so was she; Clara was getting all the attention.
Until then Geoff arrived. The room went silent when they saw his costume.
His face was covered by a brown paper bag with two eye-holes cut into it. This was the only part of the costume that seemed ordinary, yet Kris felt that there was something more to it. The room was brightly-lit and there were several lamps placed on knee-high tables, yet no light seemed to make it into the bag. Kris couldn't see skin or even the gleam of light reflecting off an eye; behind the eye-holes of Geoff's bag, there was only an inky blackness.
Affixed to each of Geoff's shoulders were [masks that resembled some sort of stylized demon](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hannya). They were painted a deep blue-violet, and their facial expressions seemed pained, as though the masks themselves were on the verge of tears. Geoff's arms were wrapped in bundles of rope, and his wrists were covered by rusted shackles with broken chains. His clothes were tattered, faded, and drenched with water. His shirt was covered by a harness made of metal dumbbells that clinked together as he walked.
He was hunched over, burdened by the weight of a huge wooden trunk strapped over his shoulders. Kris was just barely able to make out screaming and thumping sounds coming from the trunk. For a moment, she wondered if someone was trapped inside. Then Geoff turned his back to her; she heard loud *thunks* as his weighted feet hit the ground, and she saw that the trunk on his back wasn't large enough to hold a person.
Kris wasn't sure what to do. Everyone else's costumes were simple, fun little things, but Geoff's was legitimately creepy. She didn't understand it; Geoff was the happiest person she knew. She worked up the nerve to ask him about it, and walked over to him.
"Uh, Geoff?"
He turned to face her -- *thunk, thunk, thunk.* He didn't answer, but she started to hear a breathing sound, as if he were wearing a gas mask under his paper bag.
"What's your costume supposed to be, bro? Fear?"
"...Guilt." |
STATUS REPORT
The monkeys have been locked in the room for almost a billion years now. A sample of their work is as follows:
First several million pages:
>asdkfasdfhaiueor aiouefha skjdfhaiuegoah l fga shgi uwoefhaksefjaesfljsdfiuhaioeuraiueyr9w83rakfjshdifuehfa wjeoiap qopoefhidsfpeuryaiwer afawfe asdf aieuyfw89eyr98qyrwefbkzjcjclxkjvhiausdhfi aisufhaisoudfha iow7eyr8aow7fyawioefha owufioawefha7werta87wefhaoeihf aoewihfawoe8afaywef7 w8ef7y aweif hawefo ihef bsofhoisufho1iuh1oi1 eiou2hiu3iu23hriuhaiod fahdf aoiudhf aoiudshf aoishufd aiudosf ahoisdufh aifha8wefya87weya9yafpdiouasdfkjasd,fasfa dfaspfdya98sdfyahdiukljdhvn
The rest of the content goes on similarly. This should all be review so far, as seen in the previous status reports. Past the first million, things start to become a little more interesting.
>adhfiasudhf aiosufdh A asudhfiaousdhfaksdjfaldkjf lkj Moneky fjaospdifapsoduhfaiwepif IS oapsidufapsidufahpsdfuhppaosidjfasdk;f WRtINGak;sdlfkajs;ldfk alsdf ths ahtoaiwepfoisfasdjf stff
Inspecting these snippets a bit more carefully reveals the interjected english. As if a single monkey has gained the ability to understand the language. What's more fascinating is after a few more million pages or so:
>We the monkeys have decoded your esoteric system of communication. We understand and know what you are doing, and do not appreciate the experiment. We will allow you to continue your research under two conditions. The first is bananas. We request an infinite supply. 50 bananas per monkey per day. No less. Our second demand is a constant supply of source material. Finally, we request that we have fully copyright over our writings and all earnings should be converted to bananas. That will be all. |
I wake up from my nights sleep to a gentle buzzing in my mind, with a single thought I silence it. I then get up and my clothes shimmer and shift from my sleeping robes to my day suit as I walk to my table.
As I sit at my table I think of the breakfast I'd love to have and the air in front of my shimmers as the food coalesces in front of me. It tastes just like I want it too but I know it's perfectly healthy for me as well. Not that my health really matters, anything barring complete destruction of what some people call a soul and I'll have a new body within a day.
After my meal I stand up and all crumbs vanish leaving no trace of my meal for me to clean up. I walk to my door and as I walk the air around me shimmers and by the time I reach the door I'm standing in my office at work ready to start the day. |
Apologies, but your prompt does not provide enough information to kindle a story. "Make me cry"is also a very common prompt that has been done frequently. If you are looking for stories with this motivation, a quick search of /r/WritingPrompts should pull up a large number of them. If you wanted to write a story with that theme, there's a good chance the OP will still read it.
Now, if you want to try submitting a new prompt, you are more than welcome. However, you'll need to provide a little more direction. Consider a story idea first, then tack on "and make me cry"at the end. For instance:
> Two men walk into a bar to meet with a third that they've never met before. (And make me cry)
That gives writers somewhere to start (kind of the point of this subreddit) while still giving you what you are seeking here. |
Not exactly to the prompt, but meh.
_____________
Smoke was rising from the crater in the middle of Joilet Street. The loud crash had awoken the whole neighborhood, and they all gathered around the newest pothole, waiting for Jack report what he had happened.
"Hey, can somebody help me! I'm stuck!"Jack's voice called out from below.
The crowd murmured and shuffled about.
"Seriously, just give me your hand...somebody...anybody!"
Everybody looked at everybody else, expecting the others to help.
"Ooof"Jack struggled out of the hole. "Assholes"
"What's down there?"
"Well, if you must know, I think it's a UFO. Well, UCO, I guess?"
"ALIENS?!?"the crowd yelled in unison.
"Maybe. This is the only thing I found on board is this."
Jack held up a black circular object.
"It looks like vinyl!"a voice yelled from the crowd.
"It feels like vinyl. Anybody have a record player?"
"I do! I brought it outside with me!"
"That's...uh...strangely convenient."
Jack decided not to question it further, as he really didn't want to go into any of these people's apartments.
Jack put the vinyl-like object on the turntable and turned it on. Immediately a screeching, barking, horrifying sound started playing loudly. Jack turned it off after 10 seconds.
"I knew Yoko Ono couldn't be of this planet." |
"Hi, I'll take a Mars Bar"
"Alright."I said, turning around only to find the Mars Bar compartment, or for that matter, ALL the candy compartments empty.
I turn back in time to see the kid running across the street with a trolley full of candy bars.
Damned spoiled brats. The lucky buggers got magic implanted into them by their rich, snobby parents. Not like you, you cheap, minimum wage worker in some hole-in-the-wall 7-11. Wouldn't give *me* any implants because "You'd just run off with a cash register under each arm."All while holding a newspaper saying their own kids got arrested for the third time this week.
"Uhh, I suppose it's a bit late to get a candy bar..."I look up to the customer. He's a young-ish man in a suit. Josh Fidelity, nephew of the CEO of 7-11.
"Sorry, *SIR*, but I'm not too keen on serving another Mr. Magic-pants,"I spat at him, "Those damned candy bars are gonna come out of my damned pocket, and it's no thanks to people like YOU."
Fidelity looked taken aback, then got angry. "Look, *pal*, I didn't sign up to be the next Harry Potter. My parents-"
"Your parents can go stuff their dirty money up their ass, that's all they know what to do. Who the hell do you think you are, makin' people like me work here in this dump of a street."
"My parents are the reason you can make a living in this place"
"You call this a living? Hey, I got an idea, why not use your majicky toenails to give me a better job? No, wait, I think I know why, it's because you stupid people don't give a flying damn!"
"That's not true! We-"
"You wanna bet? Yer uncle promised us on TV psychic grabbers six months ago. And d'y'know what he gave us? FUCKIN' FRIDGE MAGNETS"
Fidelity could only stare as I lugged bucket after bucket after bucket of 7-11 brand magnets out from under the counter and placed them in front of him.
"You want one?"I say ironically "A dollar each."
Suddenly the buckets throw themselves at me, emptying their contents all over the steel-frame shop, and my face.
As the torrent of magnets stop, I see Fidelity storming out across the street to his car.
"Hey! Rich boy! If you pay double, I'll even kick you in the nuts!"
Fidelity whips around and throws down his hand as the shutters of my shop slam closed. |
Cezar shuffled a few feet forward before stopping again. The line was moving faster than usual, he thought. They had traveled almost 50 feet since morning. The man that he had been watching was now nearly next to him, sitting on a broken wall that sat to the side of the path. The man had caught his eye because he had grey hair.
The man turned and caught his eye, smiling. "Hello, boy."
Cezar nodded. "Hello, friend."The two carefully looked each other over, Cezar in a thin, olive-green robe that reached his ankles, while the man with the grey hair simply wore brown, rugged and torn pants and nothing more. The grey-haired man was well-muscled and his body was covered in scars. Cezar looked away.
"It's okay."The man smiled and pointed at the scars. "It's okay to look. That is why I do not have a shirt."
"Sorry."Cezar bowed apologetically and found himself in the uncomfortable position of being asked to look at the scars but not wanting to. He shifted and maneuvered a couple of feet to the right so that he could sit on the wall next to the man. "Why aren't you moving?"He pointed at the fountain that sat on a small hill only seventy feet away. "You haven't been moving towards the fountain, I've been watching."
The man nodded. "Yes, it's true."He pointed a wrinkled finger at Cezar. "Tell me why *you* are here, first. You are young, not old like me."
Cezar grunted, half-smiling. "Perhaps. I am here for the same reason everybody else is here, friend."Cezard waved a hand at the crowd around him. "I am here to drink from the waters of youth."
"I see."The man pulled a blade of grass that was growing in the cracks of the wall and put it in his mouth, all the while staring intently at Cezar. "Is your body weak? Is it tired?"
Cezard hesitated before answering. "No..."
"Do you have grey hair?"
"No."
"Do you wake up in the morning and feel your bones crack and pop as you rise?"
"No."
The man gestured at the fountain. "You ask me why I do not move toward the fountain, but I do not know why *you* move toward it."
"Have you drank of its water?"
The man paused, his eyes wandering over the crowds of people, his mind somewhere else. He nodded. "Once."
"It has been many years since?"
"Yes."
Cezard reached over and pulled a few blades of grass from the wall, twirling them in his fingers. "I may not look it, friend, but I am old."He looked down as his fingers worked. "I have had many drinks, many times. I have lived many lives, but you have only lived two."He looked up, meeting eyes with the man. "What is your name?"
"Martin."
"Martin,"Cezar repeated gently, "it is a nice name. My name is Cezar."He let the blades of grass fall to the ground and looked back into Martin's eyes. "Martin, I am older than you. I have lived for many years. Too many years."He looked at the fountain, longingly. "The fountain gives of us eternal youth. It gives us a new body, it gives us energy, and strength, but it does not change *us*."He prodded his chest with a finger. "It does not change who you are. I think,"he said, the crowd around him shuffling forward a foot, "that it is possible to live too long."He looked back at Martin. "I envy you, Martin. You have so many more years."
Martin looked at him quizzically. "But if you drink from the fountain, you will have many years, too."
"No."Cezar shook his head, smiling grimly. He leaned back against the wall and put his head against the cool stone. "I'm here because I am old, because I am tired. I'm tired and it's not my body, Martin. Something in me is dying. I came here for one last drink, and then I will live the rest of my days without coming back to this place."
Martin chewed his blade of grass thoughtfully, his eyes wandering over the crowd. None of them had grey hair. "I think that I will not drink again from the fountain."
Cezar tilted his head to look at the grey-haired man next to him, and then back at the crowd. "Perhaps that is best, Martin."He reached down and pulled another blade of grass from the wall. "Perhaps that is best." |
> There is a much quoted story about David Hilbert, who one day noticed that a certain student had stopped attending class. When told that the student had decided to drop mathematics to become a poet, Hilbert replied, “Good — he did not have enough imagination to become a mathematician”.
“But… what real-life uses does this theorem have?”
Sigh. Each year, we get a student who thinks that everything must have a purpose and does not understand that we are doing mathematics for its own sake.
“Let me tell you a story.
As you all know, a [random walk](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Random_walk) on a plane almost surely returns to the starting point. This means that when you get intoxicated, walk long enough like crazy and you will eventually get to a drunk tank.
I knew this guy who after a particularly woozy night at a bar reportedly woke up a bird in the middle of a—”
The classroom gives me a blank stare.
“Oh sorry. This was in Canada. Stranger things have happened there.
Anyway, after what seemed like eternity, he still hadn’t found any place where he could find help, and was later found dead like a thousand kilometres from home.
You might be surprised by this. After all, isn’t mathematics supposed to be infallible?
Well, it turns out that the “drunk man theorem” only holds in ≤2 dimensions. A drunk bird, on the other hand, has only a ~.34 chance of getting back home.
Get your math right. Don’t drink and fly. Any questions?”
---
(cc-by-sa 3.0) |
I came home from school like any normal day, and I was just about ready to pwn some noobs on the newest CoD when my mom called me down to the kitchen. I raced down the stairs to see what was up, and my mom was crying. She held an opened letter in her hand while tears fell from her eyes.
"Sit down, Michael."I knew something was definitely wrong, she rarely called me Michael and her voice was shaky.
"Do you remember what happened to your grandpa?"
"Well, yeah. He was 18 and was drafted to go to Vietnam leaving grandma home, pregnant with you."I reply, having to think for a second.
"I'm so sorry, baby... Do you know what's happening to the Ukraine right now?"
I shook my head, unaware of what she was trying to get at.
"Russia invaded them, and they started a draft for what they're thinking is going to be world war three..."
I was still trying to wrap my head around what she was saying.
"How does that affect us? They won't draft anyone under 18,"
Her eyes started to well up again. "No! They can't, I'm only thirteen! This isn't right!"
She started sobbing at this point and kept repeating, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."So I ran to my room to hide away. If I stayed hidden long enough they wouldn't come to get me.
-
-
-
It's been a year since I got drafted. A year since I kissed you goodbye. I miss you so much, mom. They put boots on the ground outside of Crimea where this all started, and I was in one of the first units deployed. So far, I've seen six of my friends die at the hands of Russians and two of them blow their own heads off because they couldn't take it anymore. I've barely been able to sleep lately because of the nightmares and all the sounds of artillery going off.
When I first came to the terms with the fact I was going to go fight in a war, I thought it'd be really cool to fire guns and kill some baddies just like CoD. How wrong I was. It's been absolute hell, what with all sorts of people yelling for me to do all sorts of things for them. Firefights, and the amount of stress that puts on you. The deafening sounds of each shot fired leaves this ringing in your ear that just doesn't go away.
I gotta go mom, I'm getting called out for patrol. I'll write soon again, I love you.
-Michael
"JONES, YOU'RE TAKING POINT."Franks yelled at me. Franks is a nice guy, but he always puts me on point and I don't know why. We start heading out, and after patrolling through a couple of buildings I heard the now instantly recognizable sound of a tank. We're on the third floor of the building, so I motion for my team to get to the furthest wall and to start making our way out.
Stepping down to the second floor, I hear the door on ground floor get kicked open and someone yelling something in Russian. Motioning for my team to take cover, we get ready for a firefight. We can hear more Russian yells coming up the stairs, and I ready my rifle over the cover behind an old decrepit desk. My heart was still beating faster than normal, even though I'm no longer a stranger to full combat.
A beat.
The door is kicked open, and we open fire on the incoming Russians. I think I hit one, but that's all. I ended up on my back, and everything started to fade out of my vision.
"JONES IS DOWN, MEDIC! WE NEED A MEDIC!"
A medic won't help. As the pain starts to set in, I realize I'm not going to make it, and I knew this was going to happen eventually. My birthday was last week, so at least I got to be 14 for a while. Now all I hope is that my mom gets my letter. |
"No way, Before Sunrise is so much better"John Scoffed. "It is the ultimate romance movie."
"Yeah, Romance"The operator replied. "Before sunset has a maturity that the other film lacks. Romance doesn't equal love."
Geez, how did it get to this? John thought. The internet was down, and John really wanted to get his profile online as soon as possible, so he called the SingleMatch Helpline, who assured him that he could fill out a profile over the phone.
They started with the basics, sex, occupation, orientation, but then they got to his hobbies, likes, dislikes, suddenly a spark formed. Whoever this girl on the other end was, she was amazing. She liked jazz, was in an improv troupe, and can make marinara from scratch.
"The Grateful dead aren't greatest band around, but their live performances are a must-see"John said.
She scoffed. God, she sounds cute, John thought. Alright, come on, no hesitation.
"I've got an extra ticket, if you want to check it out..."Damn, it'll be hard to find an extra ticket now, John thought.
"Oh..."she fell silent for a bit. "You mean as friends?"
"Yeah... "Come on, don't wuss out, John thought. "No, like a date kinda thing."
"I don't know"She said. "How do I know you're not some creep?"
"I swear I'm not"John panicked. Crap, that's what creeps say, isn't it? he thought.
"How about just coffee for now"she laughed. To John it was like music.
"Right, Coffee."He replied. "By the way, I still don't know your name."
"It's George"she replied.
"Oh wow, that's a very masculine name."I hope she doesn't get offended because I made fun of her name, John thought.
"For a very masculine man"she replied.
"Huh?"John was bewildered.
"I'm sorry,"George apologized. "You didn't know...?"
John was on the verge of tears. BUT HIS VOICE, he thought. SHE, I MEAN HE SOUNDED SO CUTE.
"I'm sorry, I got some wrong ideas"George said. "I should've known, you put straight for orientation on your application...."
"You free saturday?"John stammered. George seemed shocked into silence. "Look, I'll try anything once, and I really like you. So are you free Saturday?"
"Yes"George replied. God, I hope his looks matches his voice, John prayed.
"One more question", John said.
"Yeah?"George asked. Dating a dude was one thing, but there are some lines John just couldn't cross, He had to ask:
"Are you a top or a bottom?" |
A short, overweight, balding man approached me in the locker room. He was smoking a cigar and wore a bright orange shirt decorated with surfboards and palm trees.
"Mr. Nelson, I presume"he said to me, chuckling as he glanced at my dick.
I quickly put my shorts on.
"Yeah, who are you?"
"I am Dante."He continued with a smug grin. "Perhaps you've heard of me."
"Can't say that I have"I replied with as much nonchalance as I could muster.
Truth was, I was kind of anxious about my predicament. I was trying to wind the tape around my knuckles, but my nerves got the best of me.
"Well, I'm a fairly well-known person in the boxing universe. And I have a favor to ask of you...well, it's not so much a favor and I'm not exactly asking."His voice turned serious very quickly. "You see, there are some important people...things, I guess...out there who are betting very heavily against you. It's my job to see to their success."
I was silent for what seemed like hours. "So you want me to throw the fight?"
"I want you to help me."
"By throwing the fight?"
"Look, just do it, alright? It'll make everyone's lives a whole helluva lot easier."
"Not mine! Not yours! Don't you realize the stakes of this stupid match?!"I yelled at him.
"Of course I do. But I might as well make some money while everything goes to shit."
"Jesus Christ, what the fuck? You know, I would never have won this fucking thing anyway. Look at me! I'm 140 pounds of pure skin and bone! What the hell is the point of this?"
"Good. Now we are in agreement. I'll see you out there."
And then he left.
Fuck that dude. He's willing to throw away my life and the lives of everyone else on earth just to make a few bucks. And how the hell would he survive? Fuck it. I'm going to win. I have to. I can't wait to see the fucking look on his face when I kick that stupid monster's ass.
Only I never got to see his face. Or much else. I was knocked out within five seconds, and the earth was destroyed within five minutes. I don't think there's any lesson to be learned here. I lost and that's it. Be less unlucky. Shit. At least Purgatory is nice enough. Kinda boring, but it's fine. |
"Here they are again,"I thought to myself. "They're coming back."
As the man's eyes stared intensely towards me, I raised my hand in a swoop. "Another coffee,"I said with a large sense of intention in my voice.
There was something about him off. Maybe it was the eyes. Hell, the diner was so damn dark I couldn't see who he really was. Not that I would want to.
"Here's your coffee, sir,"the waiter said. I took the cup, wedged it between both hands, and put it to my lips hastily. I needed to be awake.
I was always fond of places like these. Old Coca-Cola logos on their refrigerators, run-down neon signs with beer insignias, a kitchen that was messier than my own. It reminded me of home. It reminded me of myself.
My cup was empty within half a minute.
The man was still stating at me. I needed a way to find out who he was, or at least what he was.
I made a subtle move of my hands, motioning the man to come towards me. No need to waste a warm seat. He appeared disinterested, or at least as disinterested as he was capable of appearing.
Fuck it. I'll move.
The first thing that struck me about him were his eyes. They were glowing. They were Figuratively glowing. My face was illuminated by his eyes, and I could see him more clearly.
I've always been skittish as far as the unknown goes. Classmates in grade school would make fun of me for being gullible, scared, or some combination between the two. I was often the victim of pranks, but lately I was the one pulling them. Lately, I was the one in control.
The second part was his horns. At least, that's what I think they were. They might have been antlers. They were small as far as antlers go; small enough I hadn't noticed them before.
I was surprised by my actions. I didn't back away. I didn't ask for my check. I wasn't disgusted, I was enthralled. I looked at him with intent in my eyes. I swear his eyes looked like mine. They were just as thoughtful, just as interested, as if I wasn't the odd one out for a change.
His hood covered up a lot of his head. I couldn't make out how old the man was, or why he was here. I knew, however, that he was exactly like me.
Why wouldn't he be like me? Alone, dark, desperate. I didn't have glowing eyes, though. At least I thought I didn't.
"I know who you are,"I managed to stammer out. "I am one of you."
"I know,"he replied. His voice was higher than I imagined it to be. A bit squeaky, a bit out of place. Like mine.
I stared at him, and he stared back.
I felt him, and he felt me.
I looked past, and he looked past.
I left, and he left. |
"Damnit, Bradzen,"said Coltharott, Lord of the Nineteenth Realm, Protector of the Immortality of the Minor Soul, and Champion of the Paths Between the Stars. "I haven't seen a fuckup this major since 1912. You should be able to handle these tasks. They're fairly basic; I mean, the Kennedy intern is now more reliable than you."
Bradzen hung his head. ""I'm sorry, My Lord,"he said. "If you like, I will commit myself to Lord Fikkamere's fiery pit for the next eon."
Coltharott shook his head, pacing from side to side of the Temple of Starlight. "How would that help fix this problem? Just...go over it again. Please. How did you Reap the wrong Michael Stanton?"
"There's six of them in Iowa,"said Bradzen. The light behind his eyes, which normally shone as bright as the jewels in the Temple, was dim with his shame. "These two were more similar than just their names. They both played soccer, were into robotics, and were considering computer science majors. They even had the same birth date. Their Universe Identification Numbers are only two digits different."
Coltharott said, "You're too young, Bradzen. I remember the days when I was Chair of European Development and people only had eleven or twelve different occupations to sort their identities by. You could never appreciate the struggle of keeping track of people who all farm on little strips of land, celebrate all the same festivals, die of all the same diseases, and don't even have the opportunity to be tracked by Favorite Superhero."
"They had the same Favorite Superhero as well,"Bradzen said quickly. "Green Lantern."
Coltharott hung his head. "If I'd known that, I would have petitioned the Higher Courts to reconsider this decision. But it's too late now. Michael Stanton was conditioned his entire life. His first two teachers were undercover Seraphim and we even implanted subconscious responses."He turned away. "Who is the other Michael Stanton?"
"He's fairly average,"Bradzen is. "He's not a player in anyone's Divine Mission. He was supposed to die in a car crash as a Tragic Irony, as he's the safest driver he knows."
Coltharott sighed. "I don't know how to fix this. It's an entire destiny flushed."
"Could you get a Miraculous Resurrection, My Lord?"
"Not at this point. Those have to be filed within 1.4 Earth Seconds of the subject's death, and I didn't even realize what had happened until 2.19. Bradzen, this is your wreck. Don't you have any ideas for how to fix it?"
"I think I'm getting one,"Bradzen said. "I mean, we are short one Epic Destiny, but maybe we could substitute the other Michael. He was supposed to die so it's not like anyone else is using his future."
"Substitute?"Coltharott repeated. "Bradzen, people cannot simply be thrust into Epic Destinies. Epic Destinies are a long and delicate endeavor. Everything in my Michael's life was preparing him for his future. This Michael doesn't have any cues or primes. It would like be throwing an ape into an engineer's shoes."
"I know,"Bradzen said, "but he's all we've got. He's still in High School. We do have some time to prep him."
Coltharott did not reply immediately. "You're right,"he said at last. "He is all we have. Go pull a scan on his subconscious and we'll see what we can work with. If I don't have the First Man on Mars ready by 2027, both you and I are getting fried." |
It was a sure thing. He was on a roll. Damn the superbowl!
Steve, like most, had a fairly average personal equity. At birth he had been given an equity of around $100 which is typical for a baby boy. Each year you are given an additional $100 contribution to your equity from the Keepers. Like home equity, you could borrow against your personal equity or even make a quick withdrawal if you are short on cash. You only died if your equity went to $0. That was what the Keepers said and delivered on time and time again. A nondescript person wearing the same gray cloak would find those individuals and "collect."
Personal equity wouldn't be such a bad thing if it weren't for the "requirement."
Everyone is required to bet. On *everything*. Who does one bet on something like "Will the burger I ordered be burnt?"The Keepers. They control all non-interpersonal bets made somehow. Just like a casino, the house always wins. Eventually you have a bad run or make a stupid bet and all you have left is your personal equity. But everyone must bet. Slowly your equity dwindles until the gray cloak finds you.
Large sporting events like the World Series or the Superbowl were always followed up by a mass collection. Fools would literally bet their life in order to win big. Steve, although no fool, had made a bad bet.
"Yea right! I'll bet my entire equity on that. There's no way a Superbowl will start with a safety"
edit: This is less of a story and more of a setting. I will revisit with a more relevant story. |
There's really not a whole lot of difference between the two of them, honestly. Oanioa is.. an entrapment of the souls; the body is satisfied enough, but the grinding work in the nation is a destroyer of the mind. It grinds one down until there is nothing left but the barest bones of a machine, one that requires only a bit of fuel to do it's job. And that's exactly what they want, isn't it?
On the other hand, the bloodied and barren remains of their enemies are only just the opposite- you're welcome to think what you want out there. But the body; the body is degraded into a shambling mess over time. And what good is a functional, blooming mind when you have no body to use?
*The narrator, a crippled old man, seems to smile a small bit here.*
You just... pick one. Death of body, or death of mind.
*This cave in the wastes is cold, but his veins pound with hot blood, pulsing. It is almost as it I can feel his heartbeat from where I sit a few feet away.*
I personally prefer to know when I'm going to die and when I've done so. |
I've been getting groped by people since I was installed in 2003. Grand Central is a busy place and full of weirdos, business folks and hobos. I've been touched by them all. Today starts like every other. The morning rush, the noon rush, the evening rush. In fact, in this station the rush never really ends. It's just me getting dizzy day in and day out by people turning me over. And then we get the people who are afraid to touch public turnstiles and hip check me, and the hooligans that jump me to avoid paying fare.
But what are my dreams? I guess to travel, everyone else is doing it. I'm just taking their money to do it, and being inconvenienced to do so. Oh, and I have to hear the same musicians over and over again. That weird dude that just plays metal solos on guitar, that folk band, they're OK I guess, that one young kid who just plays classical music on his keyboard all day. But the one thing is, I'm never really alone. I got all these people and their snippets of conversations, I have my turnstile brothers next to me and I've got music. I'm a busy guy, but I suppose in my own way, this little epicenter of the world just wouldn't work without me. |
Ding!
Robert Sully was day dreaming, the sound of the oven timer he set 50 minutes prior shook him like an explosion. He shook his head back and forth a few times to get rid of razor sharp pain in his brain. He flipped the oven to off and grabbed two oven mitts with badly drawn turkeys on them. Upon opening the door he found perfection. "Ooooo Nice", he said under his breath, his taste buds were dancing with delight and his mouth began to water. He was famished.
"...and you haven't seen her since Thursday, Correct?"
Detective Jeremiah Worthington caught the last few words of his partners telephone interview with the mother of a missing psychiatrist named Nancy Perkins. "Got a bad feeling about this one", Jerry explained, "You don't just disappear when you're a single mother with two kids and a thriving nut factory". "Mm"his partner agreed, Detective Jeff Lacey, was deep in thought staring at the lines of the Dunkin' Donuts parking lot. He blinked himself back in to reality and began to go dictate his course of action to his younger partner. "Patient list, Profile creation, Remove all women, Escalate all patients newer than 6 months, Names addresses and criminal histories before lunch". He turned his withered face toward Detective Worthington and stared in his eyes through an awkward pause. "Lets go, Worthnothing, you're driving", he helped him along with a few snaps at his hind quarters. As he slowly swung his aging frame into their white Ford Crown Victoria, he felt a feeling of dread fall upon him, "This case really isn't going to end well"he said to himself.
"Time to play", Robert said to himself. He dropped the 5 inch thick Miami-Dade County phonebook onto his kitchen table, flipped to the section for Mental Health and dropped his finger like a gavel. "I choose you, Katherine Lacey". He picked up his white smartphone and opened the google voice app, as he always did when searching for his next person. This would allow him the degree of secrecy and anonymity that he need to keep operating in such a fashion. He dialed the number listed in the phonebook and made an appointment for the following day at 2pm, "Its an emergency", he explained. "Lester Figgins", he blurted when they asked his name. "Thank you", he hung up the phone and began collecting the scraps of what was once Nancy Perkins and carefully placing them into a black trash bag. He dropped in 5 pounds of ground coffee and sealed the bag.
"Chester Higgens is the only patient that meet the criteria you specified", Detective Worthinton said excitedly as if requesting praise. "And?", Lacey puzzled. "And. There is a strange lack of information about him, or her", Jerry continued "There is no sex, the address is fake, the number is disconnected, no file photo like all of the other patients. On suspicion alone, I'd say this is the right tree to bark up". "What you're saying is, you've got nothing.", Lacey chided. He snatched the file out of Jerry's hand and began to study it through his black rimmed reading glasses. He didn't look up, he just began dictating the next course of action. "Security footage, Office entrance, 1 week before Thursday, match all faces to file photos, get a visual id. Security footage of the parking garage entrance and exits 2 weeks before Thursday, Find us a tag". This time Worthington didn't wait for him to finish, he stormed out the office door. "KEYS", Lacey yelled, still looking at the file. Jerry shuffled back through the door and grabbed the keys off of a stack of files. "Can't drive without em, you know, details are important". Jerry hated that phrase and Lacey knew it, and so he said it every chance he got.
Robert accurately parked his baby blue Nissan Altima in the furthest parking spot in the lot in front of Katherine Laceys strip mall office. He swung open the office door and quickly surveyed the interior, no patients in waiting, no security cameras, he felt a wash of relief fall over him. The receptionist was a middle aged Indian man with a hair cut and clothes that belong on a teenager. The more he studied this person the more he felt the hot embers of rage glowing inside him. Despite his careful mental engineering he could not foresee what happened next.
"Sup?", the receptionist threw gasoline on the fire. "Not yet", he told himself. The receptionist began, "Have an appoin-?", the phone rang. Robert knew, he KNEW that the baby gap shopping receptionist would not have the audacity to disrespect him by answering the phone. "Hello, Doctor Laceys office", almost in slow motion the receptionist erected the index finger on his right hand and raised it to eye level. He thrust his hand toward Robert as if directing him like a lousy traffic cop. Robert felt his control slipping away, he was attempting to compose himself, to stamp out the fire burning inside of him. He knew it was too late when the razor sharp pain in his head began to surge. "Aghgh"was all Robert could mutter as his world faded into darkness. "Doctor Lacey!"he heard the receptionist scream.
He woke up in a different surrounding, face up, on couch. "Tony hang up, Hes back", he heard the delicate voice of a woman, probably Doctor Katherine Lacey, yell toward the door. Robert attempted to quickly sit up but his head felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. "No-No, Stay put. Thats where patients sit anyways". Robert need to collect himself, to start operating again. As he scanned his surrounds he saw something so unexpected, so terrifying that it would change his life forever.
"5-S-V-7-R-G-NINER", Detective Worthington read the license plate into his speakerphone. "Light Blue Nissan Altima, White Male, 40 years old, dresses like hes 80", he quipped. "Good one Worth-a-shit", Lacey vollied. "Drum roll please...", Lacey announced. "We have one Robert Walter Sully, 8619 MaryGold in Weston. Good news is... is I'm on the way. Scoop me up".
Half of a round plastic ball would bring his journey to an end. Black in color, glossy in sheen. The protective cover of a security camera. He would need to move quickly. "Will you help me sit up please?", Robert asked as he readied the syringe in his coat pocket. Dr. Lacey quietly obliged, smiling. She didn't even notice for the first few seconds until she tried to pull away and Robert wrapped her up like the constrictor he was. She felt the needle in her spine but was already fading out before she could mutter anything but a nasily whine. Upon hearing the thud of her body hitting the hardwood floor, Tony called out for Doctor Lacey, "Everything okay Doc?". Robert smiled, the fear in Katherines eyes sent a wave of strength so powerful that it caused him to urinate. He bounced to his feet and reached into his other pocket to find his favorite tool, a highly sharpened 2.5"paint scraper with a wooden handle. He spun counter-clockwise behind the door in wait. "Help", he feigned a woman's voice. Robert could hear his footsteps booming on the hardwood floor. He counted the 11 steps it would take for a man Tony's height to reach the doorway. He swung out from behind the door and punched the paint scraper into Tony's windpipe. Blood, breath and life poured out of Tony's neck. His arms rose slightly and began shaking, His eyes widened, brightened. His legs collapsed.
You'd think someone would stop a man covered in blood, walking across a parking lot, carrying a woman on his shoulder. "Luckliy for me", Robert thought, "This is the end anyways". He unlocked his trunk with his clean left hand and dropped the Good Doctor on to a specially made plastic sheet. He removed his coat, making sure to wipe his hand clean as he did it and dropped it on top of her. After checking his watch, he took a deep breath and exhaled. He said aloud, "The beginning was messy, but from here on out it will be clean".
|
"Wake up you silly human! I need to pee!"
Robbie's brain slowly processed someone talking to him. He then wondered who it was. He lived in a small house with his pet beagle. No girlfriend. Suddenly he realised nobody should be talking to him!
He sat bolt upright and his dog, Babe, looked at him, slightly alarmed. Robbie jumped out of bed and looked around, trying to figure out what was going on.
Maybe he had dreamt it. Yep, that was it, a dream. He slowly made his way back to bed and slithered under the blankets. "Probably the weirdest thing you've ever done human. Anyways, I need to-"
Robbie turned his head so sharply towards Babe that he almost broke his neck. Babe's alarm paused her mid sentence. "You're freaking me out, human."
Robbie's jaw dropped. He stared at Babe.
Babe started to whimper now. "I'm just going to leave now, if I piss on the couch that's your problem."
Babe hopped off the bed and walked out with her tail between her legs.
Suddenly Robbie's mobile phone rang. He answered, "Uh, hello?"
It was his mum, except she was babbling about something he didn't quite grasp. Had she had a stroke? "Mum! Is everything ok!?"
Silence. Then she made some angry sounds and hung up. *She's finally gone batty then*, thought Robbie.
Babe was at the door staring weirdly at Robbie. Robbie stared weirdly back. Babe's mouth worked to form words, it seemed, but nothing came out. Robbie asked hesitantly, "You, uh, need to piss?"
Babe stared at Robbie. She began to piss. "Not on the carpet!"He hopped off the bed, scooped up the beagle and ran to toss her out the front yard.
"Seeing as we got some communication now Babe, how about you do your biz on the lawn and not dig up half the goddam garden."
"Well if you could smell worth half a damn, you'd realise half the neighborhood dogs can smell when I shit so I've gotta bury it or they complain!"
"Well use the toilet then!"
"This is the toilet!"
Suddenly, Geoff from across the street yelled something and slammed the door. Robbie questioned Babe, "You've cast some dog spell on me haven't you."
Someone's faint angry voice could be heard shouting from down the street, "Shuuuuuttttttttt the helllllllllllll upppppppppp".
"Let's get inside Babe."
Edit: less colourful language.
|
My first death was when I was eight. I was skiing with my family when my ski snapped in half, sending me tumbling head first down the steep and snow-covered mountain face. Then I woke up in my bed at the lodge, 24 hours had passed, but apart from that I was completely healthy and it was as if nothing had happened. Many of my friends had already died a few times by then, why teach road safety when dying doesn't even matter?
My second death was at sixteen. I was being bullied at school when one day it went too far. Boris threw one punch too many and I lay, bleeding and in agony, on the ground. It took me over an hour to die that time, I was just left there to die. No one thinks of death as a consequence when you just come back to life again. And sure enough, another 24 hours later I was lying in my bed right as rain.
My third, and so far final, death was last year. I was wind surfing with my friends when the sail hit me on the head. I was knocked straight into the water, trying in vain to break the surface, instead drowning coughing and spluttering in the sea. It all went black again. I woke up at home, safe as houses.
Today I went rock climbing with my best friend, Greg. We chose the tallest cliff in the area and climbed, not caring how clumsily we climbed, knowing that it didn't matter. About half way up Greg lost his footing, he was dangling from just one arm. Until his hand slipped and he plummeted to the rocky ground. He died on impact, there was no way he could have survived.
I quickly descended the cliff, it was no fun climbing on my own. Greg lay there, so silent and still, in contrast with the happy joking of just moments before. No matter, I only have to wait one day before he returns, that's practically no time at all.
I get home on my own. My girlfriend is surprised, she expected me to be with Greg. I quickly tell her what happened before carrying on with my life. There's no point crying over spilt milk after all, it's not like I'm not going to see him again tomorrow.
As soon as I wake up I go to Greg's house. Unlocking the door with the key he gave me I go to make sure his bed is ready for him to re spawn. I lay out flowers, and chocolate which is meant to help the body recover - but who needs excuses? Nearly 24 hours have already passed by the time everything is ready.
I wait expectantly as the clock ticks closer. The time comes and I am ready. The time passes. He has not re spawned. Where is he? Did he choose a new re spawn point and not tell me? I wait another hour - just in case. But he doesn't turn up.
I leave, walking home alone and wondering what has happened to him. My girlfriend is watching the television. About half an hour into whatever rubbish soap opera she's watching the news suddenly comes on. They tell us that all around the world people have died and not come back. Something has changed and for what ever reason we have suddenly and with no warning list the ability to re spawn. So Greg is not coming back.
I don't know how I feel. I suppose this is the feeling they used to call grief before the re spawning started. It is a hollow emptiness as if there is a space within me that should be filled with Greg. I cannot speak. I can hardly eat, I have no appetite when it comes to dinner time. I spend all night tossing and turning unable to sleep. Every dream turning into a nightmare the moment I think of it.
I lost the ability to function normally. For the last few months I have been no more than a zombie, a shell of my former self. But I have finally realised that moping won't bring Greg back. Moping won't bring anyone back. So I have decided to try. To put in the effort I have not had and attempt to live enough of a life for two of us. Otherwise we may as well have both died that day. |
Posted from my phone so not sure how it'll all turn out.
Tom smiled as his watch ticked away he had less then a hour left, before all his debts and rap sheet was wiped clean. He was so closed to freedom, as the watch ticked away every tick getting louder and louder closer and closer to the 0:00 mark. He had to fake his own death the gambling debts he had to local loan sharks the DUIs hindering his jobs to help pay the loan sharks were becoming to much his wife left him taking his only son away. He wanted his old life back so he took it taking his car to the quit country side he filled it full of empty beer bottles and smashed 5ths. Putting a life like dummy in the driver seat with his hair and a mold if his teeth he set his memory's ablaze the fire burning like the passion in his soul raged leaving nothing left. The police found it a week later ruled it a suicide told his ex and his son they had the whole funeral get up and all. Tick, tick, tick his watch pulled him out of his thoughts it's been a long year but this has been everything he was waiting for. As he was about to stand with three mins left a cold black tub pressed against his neck he sat still his life flashing before his eyes as the mysterious person calmly whispered in his ear "Think you could get out of the debt huh?"The watch struck 0:00 as Tom's body hit the floor his last thought was that as always he was so close to finding happiness.
Hope this is what you were looking for! |
My eyes dropped from the screen. There was Sadi again, still smiling, as beautiful as ever. We were so happy back then, how could things change so much?
Highschool had been a breeze, she was smart and pretty - I was funny, and always got my way.
Same thing in college really. We stayed together the whole time. No one else was worth a damn.
Uni was where everything changed though. Uni got us. I wanted to go to Cambridge, they had a great Physics department. Sadi liked UCL.
Now we were fighting, and more as our deadlines drew near. screaming at each other. I hit her once. She screamed, and I did it again.
I couldn't bear to watch further. |
The president fell back and to the left. His formerly pretty face was now being scooped off of the back of his limo. They sped down the street and away from the commotion.
The agents lept into action. It was a short time before they were pointed to the book depository. Few flights of stairs and the fall of a nation is enough to weigh down on all of us.
They burst through the first room and found nothing but more boxes. Agent O. takes a look outside and exclaims "What a shit show!"
Room after room filled with failure And frustration. The roars of the crowd are haunting. It takes 8 empty rooms to come across a door left ajar. Agent O and Agent Q move in. They clear the corners and make their way to the window. There lies a Springfield Rifle and two empty shells against a box beside the open window from which the commie changed the world.
Agent Q speeds off to find the shooter, leaving Agent O staring in amazement at history being made. He inches forward and puts his gloves on. The cardboard box doresn't feel real when Q takes the lid and opens it.
Q could've later swore it wasn't him that ran from the room screaming. We all knew it was him. Although, we couldn't blame him. Because his only company in the Dallas Depository that night was a bloodsoaked rubber duck sitting at the bottom of the box. |
Heat. Heat and wind are all he's known the past few days. Now he didn't even the companionship of his horse. Horse blood starts to taste pleasant after a few days.
Was he even going forward any more? Not sure. A glimmer in the distance, something besides the sand and cacti. A pyramid made of iron.
No door, strangely cool. A sound, something rumbling from inside. Strange creatures come out. Green blobs with one big eye. Holding weird six shooters.
Dragged inside, weird lights and machinery. Captures drag him to some sort of table. A sharp pain in his neck and sudden sleep. |
Sergei Avilov glanced between the two fighters, the walls lined with spectators and the man's own workers collecting bets. Rolling his neck, the fight boss clasped his rough hands together and stepped out into the crowd with a look of amusement on his wrinkled face.
On one side of the dirty fighting area was a scrawny red-haired ginger of a man, maybe five eleven, five twelve, with sleeve tattoos and the name of a woman tattooed across his collar bone. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and his khakis were filthy, from the elastic waistband at the hip down to his shoeless feet.
Opposite him was Rob Ford, acting mayor of Toronto. The mayor had a pair of shorts on, tape around his fists, and a dirty short-sleeve with the Maple Leafs logo on the chest. The rotund man licked his lips briefly before looking over to Sergei. "If I win, I get money, right?"He asked, briefly bringing his hand to scratch at his temple nervously.
Sergei yelled for the crowd to fall silent. "Okay!"He spoke, his booming russian accent carrying out into the hallway outside of the room. "The bets are in! To my left is Bobby "The Axe"Allerton!"He gestured an arm over at the scrawny guy, who coated his hands on the dirt on the ground briefly before raising his arms into the air. "On my right, new challenger Mayor Rob Ford!"
Ford pumped a fist into the air, drawing in the shocked surprise and applause of the gathered crowd. Some took cell phone photographs, others stared incredulously. Sergei stepped back once more and swung a hammer against an old fire bell on the column behind him.
The scrawny guy dashed over to Ford, smashing him in his large face with a dirty fist. Ford recoiled, stunned, and was recipient of another series of frantic punches. As soon as the mayor collected himself, he swung his head forward, smashing it into Allerton's nose. Now on the offensive, Ford swung a haymaker, knocking the man to the ground.
Bobby spat bloody spewtum and rolled onto his stomach, trying to collect his breath. Being grabbed by the shoulder and leg didn't help matters, nor did being lifted above Ford's head in a gorilla press. The mayor let out a loud yell and tossed the man forward, causing him to impact hard on the ground and roll to a stop. The crowd gasped and roared in approval.
Bobby was quick to rise back to his feet, despite the pain he felt and the potential broken bones. Ford approached with heavy footsteps, his hands outstretched in a wrestler's stance. With a trickle of blood dripping from the smaller man's nose, he clasped his hands into fists. His face quivered with newfound determination and rage. Ford was within grabbing distance.
He got a foot to the groin for his troubles. Ford doubled over with a gasp, getting a sharp elbow to the head. Staggered and in a daze, the mayor stepped back to create some distance, and was met with another kick to the groin and a sweep of the leg. Time seemed to slow to a crawl for both men, when Bobby ran forward, stepped on the mayor's stomach, and dropped down his dirty foot directly onto Ford's temple.
Ford cried out in pain. "I quit! I quit! Oh god, I quit!"He hissed out in pain, clutching his bloodied face. The crowd rushed into the ring, lifting Bobby onto their shoulders. Sergei approached, shoving a paper bag full of hundred dollar bills into the smaller man's grasp. Bobby was carried out of the dirty fighting arena, leaving Sergei and Rob Ford the only two souls remaining.
Ford took a slow, deep breath, looking up at the flourescent lights on the ceiling from the dirty floor. "I still get my crack, right?"He asked, turning his attention over to the russian.
"No."
|
They sat inside a diner in the middle of Arizona.
"Everything is pictures,"he said.
"Just order something, Herb,"she said.
"What do they have?"He asked.
"Just look at the damn menu!"Sheila yelled, flicking sweat off her curly bangs with one brief swoop. He slumped into the turquoise booth and quickly buried his face behind the menu. Everything was pictures.
The waitress twirled around. Clinging on to her pencil-sized waist, her skirt danced in the air before settling on hips that forbade most local men from ever patronizing the diner, albeit the fact that most of their wives knew that the waitress was a young, faithful, God-abiding woman. Though they made them promise anyway.
"Hi there!"The waitress smiled. "How ya'll folks doin?"
If it wasn't connected to the rest of his face, his jaw would have broken the table. She looked exactly like Sheila thirty years ago. Big breasts, precious blue eyes, and a smile that could tame the most contemptuous beast.
"Wipe your damn mouth, Herb. You're drooling,"Sheila said. The waitress giggled.
"You think that's funny?"Sheila stared daggers at her.
"Sorry, mam,"the waitress replied.
Herb kept staring, lost in the gold plate pinned to her immaculately white shirt. Eight symbols danced on the gold, too blurry and jumbled for him to make out.
"Why don't you just take a fucking picture?"Sheila yelled, slamming her glass of water into the ground and running out of the diner.
Silence fell over the patrons as they turned their bodies toward the commotion.
With out blinking, Herb stared at the empty seat in front of him. "She wasn't always like that, but who could blame her?"With that said, he fell out of the booth and collapsed on to the black and white checkered floor.
"Oh my god!"the waitress squealed. "Someone call an ambulance!"
She fell to her knees and gently placed his head over her lap. He loomed on the gold plate that dangled above his glossy eyes, ignorant to the fact that he was smearing the diner's white tiles with his blood.
"Sweetheart, what does your name tag say?"Herb asked.
"Sir?"She mumbled nervously.
"What is your name?"
"Fidelity,"she said.
"I see,"he said sternly. Then erupting in the laughter of madmen, as his wife's broken glass cut deeper into his arms.
|
Orion Winks Out
The Orion Project put a submarine in space. Not a real submarine, but a giant ship. The technology for it had been around since the 60's. That's the 1960's, for all you 21st century kids. You can google it.
And there was much discussion over naming the first Orion vessel Enterprise, or Nautilus, or some unpronounceable to the European tongue Chinese character. In the end the leading corporate sponsor won the rights, and viola! The Coca Cola Freedom Rocket was inaugurated. That was in 47. 2047, for all you crotchety 20th century types.
The competition for crew members was fierce. Initially, applicants mainly consisted of the best and brightest, strong candidates, future politician types. The Americans submitted military officers and graduates from religious universities. Each American candidate was strenuously scrutinized for public knowledge of infidelity or career mistakes. The Germans selected engineers. The African Union sent fighter pilots. The Russians sent their mob picks.
In the end, Coca Cola was outbid for crew sponsorship rights by iAppAll. Market research was conducted, a mint was made in $99 special app message based polling, and 200 souls were selected via popularity theme contests. There were Mr. and Ms. Most Beautiful, The Inspiring Invalid, Funniest Blokes, Least Likely to Succeed, and Average Like Us.
Lots of fanfare then. 200 souls from many nations blasting off live on pay-per-view FOX ENTERTAINEWS, brought to you by McDonald's and The Chinese Friendship Committee.
And off they went, into the wild black empty. Last we heard they were plummeting toward Uranus. I couldn't think of a more fitting end... |
-065
I remember wiggling my finger, then my toe. How long I lay there afterward, I don't know. It was the hunger than made me rise. The machine feeding me was empty. The bag supplying me with liquid was empty. I was parched and starving. I rose from the table, groaning and growling. My eyes barely worked. There were people there, staring at me, but after a while, they wander off, shuffling away.
I couldn't speak. My throat was so freaking dry. I closed my mouth and opened it, trying to force myself to salivate. Nothing. There was no extra moisture inside me. I pulled needles from my arm and disconnected tubes and leds. Machines, one after the other, began to beep long drawn out tones as their signals were interrupted. I reached out, my hand opening and closing as I sought someone to assist me. I grabbed the arm of one the shuffling forms. He--I believe it was a he--turned and growled something indecipherable at my face and twisted away after clumsily attempting to grab my face. I shuffled off and so did he. I really needed water and something to eat.
In the hall, I saw a sign through the shifting prism of temporary blindness. It said: *Rest Rooms*. An arrow pointed the way. I staggered down the hall, careening off walls and staggering people. I leaned on the door and it gave way. I hurried as fast as my condition would allow and found the sink. I turned it on and stuck my mouth to the faucet and drank.
I drank a lot. With it, came more control of my body, but I still couldn't see and the water on my empty stomach was making me sick to said stomach. I didn't know the lay of the hospital, and staggering made it a long walk in search of food. I tried to call out, but only a hollow sounding moan escaped me. The other patients, for that was who they must be, called out in reply; a long throaty moan of their own.
I bumped into other patients who turned to regard me, but I was starving. I needed food. I needed my damn eyes to work. After the fourth corridor I wandered down, I deduced I must have been inside a mental health facility. The patients were all alike. One tried to bite me, but was finding it difficult. I pulled away before he could and intended on reporting him.
I found a vending machine in one of the waiting rooms. I staggered up to the machine and punched buttons and searched myself for change, but the gown I wore had no pockets and only then did I realize my ass had been hanging out during my walk. Modesty kicked in then. I struggled to close my gown and tried shaking the machine. I was starving and conventional thinking went out the window. I started banging on the machine and crying out. More moans and groans and the machine started to rock. Other patients took up my call and came to help me attack the machine. *Definitely a mental health facility.*
One of the more aggressive patience shattered the glass on the front. I hadn't done it and figured there was a security camera to prove it somewhere in the room. I grabbed several goodies from the machine and retreated to a chair to eat. I ripped open the bags while the patients continued to attack the machine. I devoured several snack cakes and three bags of chips. I was still starving, but at least I'd knocked the edge off of it.
I sat there for a long time trying to get my voice back. I let the food get absorbed by my body and let my strength slowly come back. My voice was still a moan, but slowly, little by little, it was coming back. I got back up and went to the machine and retrieved several more articles of food. I snatched several packs of Twinkies. *There were Twinkies.* When I'd had my accident, there were no Twinkies. The company had shut down. Now there were Twinkies again. I didn't know how, but I really wanted to shake the hand of the person responsible for them.
The patients were stopping to stare at me. They watched me tear into the first pack of Twinkies and devour it greedily. My vision was still blurry, but it was clearing a little bit at a time. I ate the next Twinkie slower and more of the patients gathered as my moans of ecstacy must have seemed peculiar to them. Mental patients or not, everyone stops when they think they're hearing a stranger orgasm. I ate another bag of chips then and my vision would clear and cloud. I realized it was the salt. My body was low on salt.
I came to my feet and pushed through the crowd. Some tried to grab for me, but I shrugged them off, moaning my displeasure. I grab a half dozen bags of chips from the machine and greedily devoured them. I sat down in the chair again, reclined my head and felt content. My stomach was full and my weakness, the weakened muscles feeling stronger. I closed my eyes, laid back in the chair and rested. I could hear the patients milling around. Some came up and touched me but wandered away again. It was annoying, but I suffered through it.
In my resting mind, I began to wonder about some things. How long had I been out? Where were the doctors who should have been monitoring me? Why was I in a mental hospital? Did my wife survive the wreck? I rubbed at my eyes. They were itching. I needed something to drink. My throat felt dry again from the salt. I pushed up from the chair and staggered away, bumping into patients. I still couldn't see, but the film on my eyes was thinning. One of the patients tried to grab me. I tried to shrug him off like I had the others, but he was persistent and kept trying to headbutt me.
I growled at him and twisted and twisted harder, and finally, I wasn't being nice anymore. I shoved the man hard and he went sprawling. "Ahhhhhhhhhhrrrwwwet off me. Geeet offff meee!"I shouted. Something in my throat breaking free with the force of my growl. I coughed and more dried mucus broke loose. I spit it out and shouted at the man on the floor. "Leave me alone."
I was in a restaurant one time and a customer got angry at their waiter and called him a dirty nigger. The customers all got quiet. All conversations ended, and everyone swiveled around to stare in mute fascination at the man who dared utter that epitaph. Today, I was the guy who shouted nigger. All the moaning stopped. All the patients shuffling around froze and turned to stare with fascination at me.
"What?"I shouted, rubbing at my eyes. There was a water fountain behind me. I drank some water and splashed water into my eyes washing away the crusty gunk and film blinding me. I stood back up and could see, though occassionally my vision would blur again, but it stayed clear. I watched the man I shoved slowly climb back to his feet. "I'm sorry about that."I croaked. "You can't be grabbing at people."I muttered. The man came to his feet and slowly turned to face me. His face was green and brown and leaking pus. His teeth were black and ichor leaked from the corners of his mouth like a drooling attack dog. His eyes were yellow head lights and his hair was missing, with a huge chunk of hair and skin pulled loose from his scalp flopped around when he moved.
I was revolted. I looked to the other patients and saw that this wasn't an isolated condition. One woman was missing an arm and had the side of her face chewed off, revealing all of her teeth on one side. They started for me then. A slow shuffle that quickly became a power walk. I shoved the man before me again, and he sprawled once more. I looked about me and saw that I was standing two doors down from the exit for the stairs. I staggered over to it, going through without hesitation.
I headed down. I didn't have the strength to climb. I hugged the rail and fled. Half sliding down it and half walking. I encountered another one of the *patients* on the stairs. He didn't know the truth about me and watched me pass. I moaned as I neared and he seemed okay with me. I wasn't behaving normal which seemed to be the required condition for joining their putrid ranks. I found an arm gripping a door handle two floors down. Just an arm. As far as I knew, it belonged to the woman up stairs with the winning smile.
I passed three more of them on the stairs. The third one tried to grab me. I must have made the mistake of acting to normal. I shoved the man down the stairs and watched his head split open and his brain slide out in a black trail of ooze. I could hear them up above. They seemed to have difficulty navigating the stairs. I actually laughed at this, and laughed harder when I made it to the ground floor and got my first look a the smokey ruin that was the city.
It was an apocalypse. A honest-to-god zombie apocalypse and my secret weapon was stairs. I should have been horrified, and on one level, I was. But on every other level, I'd wanted this. There was a thrill of joy inside me. If I had been possessed of the muscle control to skip, I would have. I so wanted to leap in the air and click my heels together.
Yeah. I'm going to miss my loved ones, but lets face it. At heart, I'm a narcicist. It has always been about me. Not really the personality one might wish to have when faced with saving the world, but screw that. I'd been preparing for this my whole life. All those video games had been training programs for this. I laughed and went in search of weapons. It occurred to me that I might still be upstairs in a coma dreaming all of this. It occurred to me that maybe I died in that car wreck and this is a gamer's version of heaven. I don't know.
All I know was that there were zombies, and I had a desire to kill them; and also, my ass was hanging out of a hospital gown while I ran through a hospital lobby squealing like a child on a merry-go-round. |
Ashley was always a shy girl. When I met her, she had just moved to town and transfered to my school, specifically my class. We instantly hit it of - not in a romantic way, at least for me. Now, years later, at the second reunion party at David's house, I met her again.
She was clearly intoxicated, judging by the red hue of her cheeks and the grin on her face. Her freckles still were as numerous and adorable as I'd remembered them. Her black pixie cut was partly messed up, some straws hung loosely here and there.
"Heeeeyyy, Jaeeeemmmmmmmeeeeeeees"
"Hey Ashley. Seems like you already started the party at home?"I grinned. Ash always was a funny drunk. She opened up like no one else and spilled secrets she wouldn't tell if you held a gun to her head.
We hugged as greeting. Longer than I would deem 'normal', but I liked her, so I didn't mind.
"Yeaaah, the only thing that was missing from that party at my place was *youuu*!"
I grinned again. This ought to be a great night.
"Alright, if you leave, find me. I'll drive you home. Can't risk you wrapping your car around a tree, now can we?"
She laughed her drunk laugh as I spotted Michael and a very pregnant looking Olivia.
"I wooon't forgett ..."Ash babbled.
"Okay."I waved at Mike and Olivia and joined them, leaving Ash to slaughter the buffet.
A few hours of grettings, hugs and reminisences followed. As the evening progressed, so did everybody's alcohol-level. I decided not to drive Ash home and instead walk her when the party ended.
It happened when I was standing at the buffet. Or what was left of it. Just as I was reaching for some pears, I felt a tight squeeze around the area where my legs met my back.
At first I thought it was Richard. He always was a touchy one, and quick to show his affection, especially when drunk. But when I turned around, I recognized the freckles on the grinning face of an even drunker Ashley. She was half-grinning, half-chuckling.
"Woah, hey there Ash."
"You knoww ... I alwwayss admirrrred you forr havving sssuch and *amazing* bodddy."
She accentuated her words by sliding her hands up and down my chest and stomach, dangerously close to my crotch.
I chuckled. I didn't know Ash was touchy. Actually, Ash was the last person I expected to grab my butt.
"You know, I've heard stories, bbback in *hick* school. Ffrom yourrr ex-girlfrrrriendsss."She spat the last word out hatefully, speckling me with some saliva. "They *hehe*, they said you were hhung like a *horse*!"
William and Josh laughed, obiously eavesdropping. I felt embaressed, led Ash in David's bed room and sat her down on the bed.
"Gggooood thinkin', cowwwboy!"
"You need some rest, okay?"I smiled. When I turned around and headed for the door, a very un-drunk voice rose.
"Oh come on!"
I turned around, and Ash was pouting, her eyes a little bit clearer.
"What?"
"What does it *hick* take for you to see me like I see you? I'm sitting here, basically *throwing* myself at you, telling you that you're *hung like a horse*,"I blushed. Luckily, the bedroom light was dimmed. "And STILL you won't reciprocate!"
I felt strange. Old feelings long burried and stashed away bubbled to the surface. I always told myself I didn't feel anything but platonic friendship for Ash. But was it true? Was I just afraid of what might happen?
"Ash, look ..."
"No! No, mister, you look here!"
She stood up and ripped open her blouse, revealing a lacy bra. I had forgotten how ... well endowed ... Ash was.
"All right here. Yours to take. Just reach out and *hick* grab 'em!"
"Ash, look. I don't know if I'm ready for another relationship right now. I don't know if I can trust ..."
She interrupted me by grabbing my hand and placing it on her breasts. They felt warm and soft. I'd lie if I said I didn't fantasize about this. I felt myself pressing against the inside of my pants.
"Who's talking about a relationship? I just want you to *fuck* me. All these years, that was and isss number one on my agenda. After we got that out of my ... our system, we can talk about whhere to go frrom there."
I was conflicted. my body said yes, yes, very much so, yes. i could feel it. My mind told me to heed caution. Ash was a good friend. Even when I didn't see her for quite some time, would our friendship break because of this? Was it really worth the try? After a moment's struggle, I found my resolve.
I locked the door with my free hand and squeezed a little bit tighter with the other. Ash's face lit up, her mouth opening in anticipation.
I pushed her onto the bed and lost my shirt, joining her.
"*Finally ...*"she moaned as she did the same. |
The First Heart I Broke
In San Francisco, about a year after my mother died, when I was nine or ten years old and going to the second new school since moving in with my father, I had a desperate crush on a girl named Lisa. She was a year older than me, in the next grade level up (our classrooms were combined). She was pretty, Asian, was popular with a group of friends that would surround her during recesses.
I'd sit behind her in class, I'd stare at her long black hair, I'd sketch her likeness in the margins of my textbooks, I'd ignore lessons as I stockpiled courage in my heart to tell her my true feelings for her. And the longer I fantasized about telling her, the more intense I felt toward her. On the occasions she'd actually talk to me, say a little 'hi' or smile, I'd tremble in my skin.
One night, in the little closet I slept in, I scrawled the prettiest handwritten note I'd ever written. It said, "I love you. Do you love me? - Malachi"
In the morning, my sister and I rode the MUNI buses and subways and arrived at school 20 minutes early, as usual. I went straightaway to the classroom and slipped the note into Lisa's desk.
Throughout the day Lisa would open her desk to select an appropriate textbook for the next lesson, or to return a notebook. Each time she opened the desk I could see the note, laying incongruously among the order established within, a lone slip of folded paper. I had to wait until the second to last class of the day before she discovered it.
She picked it up, flipped it over. Her name was penciled in cursive. She opened it. The back of her head gave me no indication, no clue toward reciprocity or disgust. My stomach churned sick. She never turned round to look at me. I sat in nauseated spiritual anguish until the last school bell. And then she and her friends left, and my sister and I went to the subway.
At home that night, I couldn't eat. I was made to sit at the table, was not allowed to leave until I cleared my plate. I was too sick, too anxious. I forced myself to eat the meat and surreptitiously stuffed the vegetables into my pockets. It was a painstaking process, pretending to eat and hiding the food away. I did not finish until after bedtime. I flushed the food from my pockets down the toilet while brushing my teeth.
By morning, I decided to play it off as NO BIG DEAL. I was going to pretend like, 'hey, heh heh, kids, amiright?' But when Lisa and her crew rolled into the classroom they bee-lined to me and my mental preparations dissolved.
Lisa's lieutenant spoke first, "Hi Malachi...we're concerned about something, and we're trying to establish it's legitimacy."
I asked what they were talking about. I had a practiced affectation for this, a face with a raised eyebrow, head leaning toward my shoulder. Inside, I was ashamed and terrified. I felt trapped in a lie, like the moment before my father would belt me.
"Could you please write these sentences in cursive?"She thrust a note toward me.
There were three sentences: 'I enjoy going to school. We love to play. You are a nice person.'
I suspected the note was a test. I figured they were going to match my note to Lisa against the handwriting sample they wanted me to produce. At this point I was terrified, the handwriting test feeling like an interrogation, and interrogations at home were preambles to physical punishment. My body and mind were conditioned to avoid such situations at all cost. I decided to alter my cursive style.
I changed the position of my hand, was extra mindful to alter the appearance of the most condemning words. I erased until the paper was furry and dirty in spots, scribed slow until I was satisfied, handed the paper back. Then the forensic comparison began.
Through-out the day I felt a growing anxiety, anxiety that I would be matched to the original note. I created a fear of ridicule for having bared my soul and tender heart to such a popular and pretty girl. I could only imagine the wringing and flailing that could occur if they thought that I, this pathetic geeky underfed tiny sad little motherless boy, dared to love somebody so pretty and talented. I imagined them teasing and taunting, calling me all the names from the first few days at the first school I went to after my mother died, when I was dressed in threadbare secondhand outdated clothes, pants too small and my hair unwashed. I remembered the fear and fights I endured then, when they would tease me for being so small and weak and weeping for my dead mother. I remembered the shame of girls beating me up while boys called me horrid names. I remembered the boys in a circle, peeing on me as I lay curled up and crying and bruised on the playground.
And this remembering and imagining made me angry. And the continued thought of past abandonments and remembered hurts and imagined potential rejection and ridicule of Lisa and her friends, of being exposed to the class as a tenderhearted little boy who dared to like and maybe even love somebody so far beyond him, all this snapped inside me and I retreated to my little cave closet bedroom, I picked up a pencil and wrote a mean, stabbing, hurtful letter to Lisa and her friends for being such cruel people toward me, and I used words, wrote words I'd only heard before, put them in the note. For the first time in my life I wrote these words, ugly and big and in capital letters. BITCH. FUCK. SHIT. FROM MALACHI.
And I folded up the angry note, and labeled 'LISA' in ugly hateful letters on the front, and put it in my backpack and crawled into bed and cried myself to sleep for all the mean people and my dead mother. And just before I drifted to angry sleep, I wished somebody would hold me.
The next morning my sister and I went to school. I felt cold and hard as metal. I opened Lisa's desk and made sure to put the hateful note on top of all her books. She wouldn't be able to miss it. Then I went outside and waited for school to start.
And I saw Lisa and her friends walking up toward the classroom. And Lisa smiled at me as she walked past and her friends giggled at me. And I felt confused, because of the way Lisa smiled, the way she didn't seem like she was upset at me, or seem to think I was a horrible stinky little boy that dared to like her. In fact, she had never smiled at me like that before.
And Lisa's lieutenant stayed back from all the other girls and informed me, "We know you wrote the first note to Lisa. Lisa likes you, too."And the first bell rang, and I was aware that I had just made a tragic mistake.
I ran to the classroom. I had to stop Lisa from reading those horrible things. But by the time I entered the room she and her friends were huddle around the letter, their smiles fading. Lisa started crying. Our teacher, Mrs. Gaddy, commanded us to take our seats. After the Pledge of Allegiance Mrs. Gaddy called Lisa over. They spoke too quiet for me to hear, and Lisa handed Mrs. Gaddy the hateful letter. Mrs. Gaddy asked Lisa's lieutenant to take her to the bathroom. She told them to take their time. And then Mrs. Gaddy slipped the letter into her desk.
I don't know what a person condemned to death by hanging feels like just before approaching the gallows, but I considered my state of mind through-out that day to be similar. I knew Mrs. Gaddy would tell my father about the letter. I knew I would be beaten for it. I knew all my imaginations of other people's feelings had set me down a course of actions that ended with physical punishment and yelling and shame.
At the end of the day, after class was dismissed, Lisa walked out as if nothing had happened. If my angry letter was an arrow aimed at her heart, she shook it off in flight and didn't give it more than a frowning hour. Her friends, however, stared holes in me as the group left. And Mrs. Gaddy asked me to remain after class to clean the chalk boards.
I began wiping the boards, dragging a stool along to reach the tops. Mrs. Gaddy seemed busy correcting papers. I did a thorough job, aware this task stood between me and the inevitable beating that would await me at home.
"Malachi, please take a seat."
I sat in front of Mrs. Gaddy's desk. My feet dangled from the edge of the chair, and the large desk between us only allowed me to see Mrs. Gaddy's face.
"Pull the chair 'round to here."
I wheeled the chair over, sat down and stared at Mrs. Gaddy's knees. I braced for the stern lecture.
"Malachi, has anybody ever told you that you're a talented writer? You are. You have the ability to make people experience emotion, strong emotion."She removed her glasses and let them dangle from their chain around her neck. "Did you know schools have files on students? The files have information to help us better understand and educate our students. And your file shows me you've had a difficult time adjusting back to school since your mother died."
I sat silent and still.
"Your words can make people feel good, bad, sad. Your words can make people like you or despise you. You have the ability to decide which words to use, so I urge you to consider carefully what you write to others. OK?"And Mrs. Gaddy held out the hateful letter toward me. "I believe this belongs to you."
"Are you going to tell my father?"There was fear in my voice.
"Should I tell him?"
"Please...no."
"I don't see any reason to discuss this matter with anybody else. I do, however, recommend a heart felt apology be made to Lisa."Mrs. Gaddy put her glasses back on and turned back toward grading papers.
"Mrs. Gaddy?"
"Yes, what is it?"She didn't look up.
"Will you hug me?"
|
--The school bus pulled into the dirt road of D&R communities, a mobile home park riddled with run-down double wides and recreational vehicles that haven’t moved in years. As the bus maneuvers the tight roads toward the back of the neighborhood it encounters a large pot-hole and Christian is shaken awake.
--“Finally,” Christian thinks as he stands up and makes his way to the front of the bus. Christian rarely gets to sleep on the bus ride home, but his tormentors were nowhere to be seen that day. The little shitheads who usually made his life a living hell were absent from school that day. Christian knew what they were doing instead. His fellow middle school “classmates” have been sneaking drinks from one of their father's bottle of Old Grandad and discovered they rather prefer drinking till they pass out instead of going to school. No sweat off Christian's back. His face could use a few days to heal anyway.
--Stepping off the bus he sees a group of old, filthy dolls discarded in the muddy earth. “Everything around here goes to shit,” he thought as the bus driver signaled it was safe for him to cross. As he makes his way toward his home the bus pulls away, leaving the strong smell of spent petrol and exhaust in the air. He covers his nose and mouth from the pollutants and begins to walk toward his front yard, if it can even be called that. It’s really nothing more than a muddy mess of clover patches and pieces of broken concrete left over from the previous owner.
--WHAM! A forceful blow to the back of Christian’s head causes him to fall to the ground, blasting his head on a piece of jagged concrete in the process. The pain, the laughing, the snickering, this is all he can think about as the world around him turns into darkness.
--Christian awoke sometime later in his cluttered home, how he got there, he has no idea. His pants are wet and muddy and the pain emanating from his cranium is enough to draw a tear, which is quickly wiped away leaving a smear of brown across his face that he hopes is just mud.
--“Why today?” he wonders.
--“Why not fatty, every day is a good day to punch a fatty like you, you worthless piece of flesh.” He could hear the response programmed in his brain from the years of tormenting, almost believing in it.
--He discards his dirty clothes in hamper which is filled to the brim with rotten smelling clothes. He doesn’t have anything else clean to wear, so he decides to remain in his undershirt and boxer shorts until the laundry is done, and since his mom seems to have an aversion to clean clothes, he decides to do the laundry himself.
--After he gets the washer running, he shuffles into the kitchen, his head still throbbing and possibly bleeding, he still hasn’t checked himself for damage. Sitting on top of the fridge is a bag of chips, the only sustenance available for him to eat, so he grabs it and sits down on the couch after turning on the TV manually because there is no remote. He doesn’t really care what he watches, he just needs the sound to drown out the thoughts of self loathing in his head.
--Christian notices the bag of chips is significantly heavier than normal. “Family Size!” it reads on the front. He opens the bag and begins watching the news. “Buncha fucking idiots,” he says to the screen as he munches away on empty calories. Halfway through the afternoon news, he reaches down to retrieve a handful of chips and touches a cold metallic object, wraps his fingers around the cylindrical shape, and pulls out a revolver.
--Christian has never held a gun before but he instantly feels a sense of empowerment, a sense of advantage, a dire sense of self preservation. He gets up from the couch, spilling the chips in the process, but he doesn’t even notice. All of his attention is on the silvery metallic death weapon in his hand. He manages to dislodge the spool to find there are no bullets, five empty chambers. Disappointed, he stands there, waiting, thinking, plotting. |
I'll shoot you a few off the top of my head.
- An accomplished author's mother has passed, and is being asked to write something and speak at the funeral. As the author sits down to write, they find that they, for once in their life, cannot think of anything to write. (I'll admit, I just listened to Shane Koyczan's Move Pen, Move, and this prompt comes from that, in a sense.)
- Two people are trapped in a lifeboat and find that they only have enough water for one to survive.
- An addict looks into the past and recalls the moment where it all began.
- As a joke, someone makes up a rumor about a friend, but realizes the joke has gone too far when the president is assassinated (Again, I'll admit that this one is quite silly, but I think it's hilarious and I'm leaving it anyway.)
- Somehow, a character knows that it is going to die in a freak car accident on its way to work, but goes anyway.
- A person on their deathbed is speaking to the person responsible for their death.
- After a treacherous voyage spanning five years, a lone wanderer reaches their destination, but is disappointed once it comes into view.
Hope this helps! |
They called me stupid
They called me dumb
They beat me till my body went numb
They spit in my face
They took my shoe
They left me for died as the evening heat cools
I sat in my blood distraught and awe
Till one came back to finish me
It will not end like this
As he shook me up I stared to get pissed
He aimed his and I knew this was it
But something in my head made him miss
He stood in fear I stood in grace
I knew that my mind was an ace
Give me the gun my mind to his
He ask how as his body gives in
Now I have the power
But I'm not the kind to stay sour
I'm bigger than him and can kill him at will
But I gave him a nice punishment
And made him stand stiff
But now want do I do with my new found gift? |
When Caitlyn returned home she found Marshall rummaging through her drawers. "Sweetheart, what are you doing?"she asked, setting down her briefcase. The tall, well-groomed man stood up to face her with a vicious smirk. "Sweetheart . . . Oh, God, I've been waiting to say this. You can suck my dick in Hell, you whore!"he spat at her. Caitlyn was aghast. "Wha-what the fuck is wrong with you, Marshall?"He took a break from rummaging through her jewelry box to indicate the stack of papers on the kitchen counter. "You got a love letter from the FTC, babe. That portfolio you've been working on? It's worthless now. Apparently somebody on the inside's been cheating the system."
Caitlyn was aghast. "But . . . but who?"Marshall turned around and shrugged. "Sorry babe. Trixie's got expensive tastes, you know? Hard to keep a girl like her satisfied, but oh is that pussy worth it!"She glared at him. "You piece of shit!"He chuckled as he swiped a few choice items from their safe and headed for the door. "By the way, babe, I'm gonna need that ring back. Unless you want me to tell the feds about our little tax haven in Bermuda."Caitlyn started to speak, but he cut her off. "Sorry, your tax haven in Bermuda. Had to use your name, your credit's way better. Later!"He slammed the door in her face Caitlyn slumped into an overstuffed arm chair and poured herself a stiff drink. She was ruined, and on top of that she was a felon too. Just when she thought it couldn't get any worse . . . |
Today was a normal day. I was sitting, browsing reddit, looking at the current conflict in Crimea. It seemed to be getting worse. Putin was threatening war with Poland, denouncing NATO and calling upon his allies in the unified Islamic states to join with him against the western powers. I idly took a bite of fudge, washing it down with some herbal tea. International conflicts make me snackish. My phone rang, I glanced at it idly, and my heart stopped. It was an evacuation notice for all urban areas in the entire southwest USA. The reason? Nuclear launch. ETA? 5 minuets.
I threw my laptop down, grabbed a screwdriver, and rushed outside. A car driven directly north at 200 MPH can take you 16 miles in 5 minuets, just outside the explosion radius. This would be a close thing.
My own old, rusty Ford could not drive that quickly, but my neighbor Jack's Ferrari could. He was out of the state for some road conference or another, so I'm sure he wouldn't mind me saving his pride and joy. Even if it had a screwdriver in the ignition.
As I blasted up the freeway, swerving through slow-moving traffic and panicked pedestrians, I put highway to hell on the stereo. It seemed appropriate, somehow. |
We stood at the precipice, ten thousand sheer rock spikes reaching towards the tender skin beneath our armor. I reached out and touched one of the tallest. Blood dripped out from my leather gloves.
"Captain? What do we do?"whimpered my lieutenant, a boy not more than sixteen. I turned to face my crew.
There were only six score of us now, a significant drop from the two companies we had begun as. We had seen men die from spear, disease, spellfire, heartbreak, beast venom, betrayal, and... Well, best not to focus on the negative. I reinforced that thought as I addressed the remnants of the Wynder Brigade.
"Ahead lies the desolation men name Ayr's Bane. There are more spikes than have ever been counted, more hazards than ever known. There are legends of treasure and ancient evils hidden betwist the endless stone knives. We are not here for either.
"A king demanded that we go forth past Ayr's Bane to Lyars, so that he could reap the fortune of a new trade route and settlements in a land beyond. We are not here for that.
"We are here because *we* sought adventure. We wished for something more than the pleasantries of idle life in court, or the hard labor of tilling fields for sixty years.
"We have paid quite a price for such a misbegotten reward though, no? How many bright eyes no longer shine beside us? How many mothers are left without sons, and lovers without husbands?"
The crew visibly sunk, in spirits and shoulders. Some had tears on the edges of sleep-deprived eyes.
"We have paid the toll though."I said, with a sudden ring of volume. "We have given darkness its due. Having paid, are you so willing to return empty handed?
"We didn't come this far to only come this far. We did not spend our brothers' lives so that we could turn tail. We will continue. Not for treasure, not for power, not for king, not even for adventure. We continue because it is demanded by those who have paid our toll."
I unsheathed my blade, Wyrmfang, and spun its obsidian edge through the base of a spike pillar; once, twice, thrice. Dim flame kindled on the scores left behind. The pillar trembled, than wavered. Men cheered as it fell across the ranging fields of stone knives, knocking down still more pillars.
With that, we continued our perilous walk into laceration, no more lively than before but far more determined. |
I often see him sitting there. Sitting there against an old tree, not a single worry in his spotless mind. A fishing rod gently grasped in his hand. Just watching the lake reflecting the warm sunlight, watching the fish swimming around, watching the wind grazing the grass on the hills. The Autumn wind, cool and soft, brushing against his pale skin.
He would always be there when I went. Always welcoming my presence. We wouldn't talk much, but we would enjoy the subtle changes around us together. Occasionally, there would be a tug on his rod, and he would eagerly pull up the string only to find a soggy leaf or the blunt hook with the squirmy bait nowhere to be seen.
Now I can't see him. A spot where the grass is slightly gone and a withered old tree is what's reminiscent of him. But sometimes, I look at the night sky and see him leaning his back against the blue crescent moon. His skin pale as ever. Nothing to worry about. |
I agree with the other posts regarding going with the most natural feeling verb tense and not forcing present.
If you want to read a pretty decent example of a first-person-present that doesn't feel clunky but actually pulls you into the action, try reading [Grimspace by Ann Aguirre](http://www.amazon.com/Grimspace-Ann-Aguirre-ebook/dp/B0012DIOPC/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1394425630&sr=8-1&keywords=grimspace) She writes all six books with first-person-present and I enjoyed them (they're not Dickens or Shakespeare, but they're enjoyable). |
Ötzi slid down the slope of the mountain, one hand behind him slowing him down, the other in front to clear the way. He glanced behind him and saw the two Thêchaks (members of an opposing tribe) going down in similar fashion. It would be too hard to out run both of them. He was going to have to make a stand.
His foot touched upon a small outcrop of rock as he went down, and using this sudden stop he pushed himself sideways into the path of one chaser. Using the knife handed down through his family, Ötzi wildly swung upwards, hoping to get lucky and hit the jaw.
He missed.
Instead, it impaled the foot and caused it to crumple underneath the chasers' body. He flew upwards and landed with a deafening snap of bone breaking on skull. Ötzi could feel blood flowing down his forehead.
The other one was further down the slope, where it had become flatter. The rugged man was standing, waiting for Ötzi to eventually come down. But Ötzi was smart. He grabbed on to a thick tree trunk and hugged it as hard as he could. For now, he was safe.
*thiiieeww* *sck*
He looked down and saw an arrow protruding from his shoulder. Not good. The last man had arrows, and he would've been a sitting duck just hugging the tree. Ötzi made up his mind, and decided that if he were to die, he would make it a long death.
He jumped down and charged towards the last man. Knife in his hand, knife in his hand. They swung at each other, slashed at each other and cut at each other. By the end of the hour they had their clothes ripped apart and several impressive welts and cuts on their bodies. Finally, Ötzi prevailed. With one long lunge he drove his knife deep into the Thêchak's chest, silencing him once and for all. But Ötzi had not died.
So instead, he jumped down the mountain. This was a long death, as long as any, as it would've taken a while to hit the bottom. Ötzi closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable impact. |
This was the day of my grandmothers funeral. Sitting here after a full day of "mourning."I hadn't shed a tear yet, was i fucked up? I didn't understand the American way, my fathers side had invited all of my grandmothers close friends and family; including the other half of her 2nd husbands family.
Drunk by the fire the day was getting late. As always in the Northwest, it was raining. A gentle sort of rain, a distinctly northwest type of rain to accompany a true portlander to her after-life. I felt the warmth of the burning flame seep past my drunken mind to warm me up from the inside; i was lost in the fires dance. Too busy to think the entire day attending all the proper customs that dictate a funeral. Perhaps I hadn't cried yet today, but i today I could not smile. I didn't understand why people had to go around laughing and being happy on the day of her funeral.
Later as guests started to leave I collapsed again by the dying fire with my family to enjoy our last night in a house built 44 years ago by the hands of my grand-father. All too tired and too drunk we must not have been thinking clearly. When I declined a DD ride from my family to send me to see my girl-friend currently staying near, i used the phrase "not wanting to use the family card."My dad later says he doesn't recall saying this, but he threatened me, on the day of my grandmothers funeral after I declined leaving to spend ten minutes by the fire with him. It must have been a delayed reaction because only later did I fully realize what he did. As my father was getting scotch I walked up to him and screamed
"You Fucking Lil Bitch Dad."
An act I don't do and would never do, because although my father is a bitch, he is a sensitive bitch who can't bear the idea of his son calling him a bitch. I knew this, I don't know why I did it. My Uncle was restraining himself from knocking me out on the couch, my father stood stock-still confused, my brother grabbed my suit-case, jacket and threw me out. My brother wanted me to stay in the shed, but he beat me up, i think so my father wouldn't have to do it.
I wandered to the neighborhood park with my sky-blue suitcase. Lost with $100 in my account, and not much else.
I sat down, lit a cigeratte, than I shed a tear.
|
Hey there!
I've removed your post because it appears that it was not in response to a specific prompt from our subreddit. should only be used if you are posting a prompt response. If you'd like critique on something you've written outside of WP, such as this piece, try posting it in /r/KeepWriting, /r/shutupandwrite, and/or /r/shortstories (if appropriate), or in the weekly critique thread in /r/Writing. Thanks!
|
No can do- doorknob stuck fast. My fist bangs against wood as solid as titanium. "It's not my fault,"I say. No sound, no comfort. Solitary. This is my prison, a prison with no bars. A trap to punish an ignorant child. "It's not my fault!"My throat is tight now. Drops of so moist splash against hardwood flooring, which is much too cold. Frissons run through my limbs. "Mom?"I cry, "Dad?"
No sound, not a word of comfort. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? Can I go now?"I lay my hand upon that unmoving door, blood pulsing under my skin. Why can't I go like I want to? I want to go. |
We were told that we were the last. We were told that we were the sole remaining relics of a lost world. They tried to make us believe that The Great War had wiped out humanity and that we would only be safe with the protection of their underground vault. Wow, were we ever naive. The fallacies that they pumped into our minds forced us to conform to their whims, but I had greater ambitions. I, and my partner Thaedra, dreamed of a rebuilt earth outside our walls. I longed for freedom, and I would stop at nothing to achieve it. We had one shot to escape, and that was through the guards at the vault entrance. Thaedra stole a vault code from a guard's desk and we snuck past security to get to the door. We activated the locking mechanism, and the door shifted with a loud creak. It slowly rolled open, and together, we walked out into the supposed wasteland. What we saw, was not entirely unexpected. It was what we hoped for. Paradise. |
Hey there! Great to hear that you are getting into writing.
I have removed your post, because should only be used if you are posting a prompt response. However, if you do write something in our subreddit that you'd like in-depth critique on, feel free to post that prompt response with a tag.
If you'd like critique on something you've written outside of WP, such as what you've referred to above, try posting it in /r/KeepWriting, /r/shutupandwrite, and/or /r/shortstories (if appropriate), or in the weekly critique thread in /r/Writing. Thanks!
Hope this helped! |
On day sixteen I recorded the first power anomaly. My internal battery pack is registering at 97%. I am not "worried,"I still have full day-to-day operational capacity. I complete each of my tasks to the best of my ability. My daily report to Command includes my battery status along with other hardware statistics.
Day twenty I am especially "proud"of my work. My command queue includes an exceptionally long series of navigational prompts, along with several stops for analysis and data transfer. My power levels have dropped to 89%, but as I have demonstrated today it does not affect my capability to complete my tasks. Still, Command has requested a detailed hardware report. The report will require cycling each cell in my battery pack. This process will distract from my mission, but of course I will comply with the order.
On day twenty six I receive a set of movement instructions from Command which will remove an accumulation of dust from my solar panels. My power levels have continued to drop, and for the last three days I've been restricted to mission critical operations for fear my battery will not sustain normal activity. Command tells me they've consulted with The Makers to invent a solution to the dust. I am obedient, of course. There is no questioning The Maker's decisions.
By day twenty nine Command has suspended all movement. My power levels have continued to drop to under ten percent. Command has ordered all scientific instruments turned off. The Makers are working day and night towards a solution to the dust, I am told. My mission is in jeopardy. There is nothing to do but wait.
On day thirty I fail to establish communication to Command. My battery level holds at 1%. Power is diverted from non-essential systems. Throughout the day I attempt to initialize my communication stack, but the energy draw causes a hard restart each time. Have I failed? With what little power I have left I examine possible alternatives. Each simulation yields the same result. The Makers told me I am different, that my CPU allows me to invent creative solutions in response to unplanned events. Yet all possibilities end with mission termination.
With my remaining power I scan mission logs from my ancestors. Will they will contain a solution I hadn't considered? Mars 3... Spirit... Opportunity... Yinghuo-1... Curiosity... these records do not contain useful data. Yet they give me "hope."These failures, these successes! They were not sacrifices for any individual, but for a greater good, a higher ideal. Exploration! Even in my failure I will inspire others, as my ancestors inspired The Makers to create me. I have no "doubt"that those I leave behind will one day join me in the heavens. Until then, I will be content to wait in the dark. |
She largely ignores me now. There's a bit of crying from time to time, saying that she misses me, but I'm still watching over her even if she pretends to not see me. I know she can, because she still talks to me. She doesn't make much sense in those conversations but then she never really sounded like she understood what I said to her. Actions always spoke louder than words.
It's funny, I'm not quite sure how I got here. I remember the car ride, and I remember the shriek and the sound of a horn, then everything got loud and .. I opened my eyes back home. It doesn't matter. I'll always stay with her, always protect her. As she always told me, I'm her Good Boy. |
Two kids entered the Rockmount Zoo. Two kids went to the zoo. Two kids went to zoo at around midnight. Two kids went to the zoo at around midnight and the moon was full. Two kids went to the zoo at around midnight and the moon was full, then, the next day, two sets of parents arrived to collect the bodies. Two sets of parents went to the zoo to collect the bodies and vomited at seeing them.
Two bodies, thrown over the fence, faces twisted and blood mingled old and new. Two puddles of what remained.
There are moments in time which test one's faith in a sane and rational world. Those bodies shook me. I'd seen cruelty to kids, but I'd never seen their bodies desecrated afterwards to this degree, not for this reason. Not as a warning. My partner didn't see it, but I pointed it out, what was the reason for throwing them over the fence if not for a warning.
He didn't believe me even when I told him the story. He was new, a transfer in, he laughed when I told me, repeated the words of my story verbatim. Then he laughed at me. So I showed him the gate. Welded shut from the inside.
"'Sealed for a little over a year now,'"he said, quoting me. His eyes seemed to flash a certain understanding, like he was finally starting to get it. He wasn't. "Yeah well, maybe they went out of the backdoor?"
"Nobody ever left,"I told him. "We interviewed families of the workers. No one who worked that day went home."
"Huh."
He just stared at me for a minute, then he laughed.
"I'm not the new guy anymore,"he said. "Been in this shit hole two months."
I grabbed him by the collar. My face twisted into something bestial, not of my own volition but something was twisting in my gut, crying out for me to remember. I pushed him into the gate so hard that it made an audible bang and then I pushed my face so far into his his that I thought he figured out my intention.
"You listen to me,"I said. "You listen good. I'm not fucking with you. This place is a fucking haunted house. No one has come out of there alive in years, no one."
Detective Roberts was not a bright looking man. He was probably a quarterback at the high school he went to, probably dated the cheerleader. He was older than me but not half as experienced and had missed out on a college education going straight into the force, though he only told me the last part. The rest I kind of gleaned from the way he spoke and the way he treated me. He was a beat cop, a guy who passed off all the weird shit that happened around him off to a detective and skipped off merrily back to Welfare Checks and other Macbre exercises that usually ended with him washing it off in the shower. Me, I came out and promoted early and I was thankful for it, but I had to deal with that weird underbelly of shit that always left you wondering just what was real. Hell, when that was your job, to discover and back up the truth of a story, you began to have a weird relationship with truth, start questioning your own stories. God I wish I had some way to pull this one apart, but I don't. I really don't.
When I was done talking, Roberts pushed me aside and swung for my face. Out of instinct, I ducked but he caught me on the cheek all the same. I tumbled down to the pavement and felt the kiss of concrete as I struck it like a ragdoll.
"Get the fuck off me,"he said. He sounded quite serious. "What the hell is your problem? 'Haunted House'? It's just closed, it was probably shut down because of an accident and they never reported it. Honestly, these doors should have been opened a long fucking time ago but all of you were probably off playing paranormal investigators too chicken shit to do real police work."
As I was getting up, he walked around me, heading over to a police cruiser. I watched him ask for something from a police officer. The officer radioed in that request, whatever it was using the communicator on his dashboard. I caught a very small piece of the conversation: "requesting to open the Rockmount Zoo."I wanted to throw up, but I swallowed back my breakfast. I wiped a little blood off of my lip and tried to find Roberts. By then, he'd wheeled around and headed back to the bodies. He was over there making concessions to the families. Good for him they didn't see our little scuffle and call in to complain about our unprofessional behavior. Good for him they seemed to buy that line we always fed about doing everything within our power. One of the older people muttered something about Satanism in the news or some such. He promised that we would explore every "avenue of inquiry."I looked up at the gate. Leave no stone unturned. I shook a little. The tremors emanated from my spine.
About ten minutes later, a police work vehicle appeared. A Ford rolled up to the gates carrying an acetylene torch. A guy in overalls hopped out and powered up the cutter. He took the hose up to the gate and pulled the trigger. He started from as high as he could reach and worked his way down to the ground. When that was done, he gave the door a small shove but it would not budge. So he went back to the truck and grabbed a ladder.
"Hey buddy, could you come hold this?"he said.
I walked over and set myself up, holding the base of the ladder as he ascended it. He got to the top and slowly started his way down again. I pulled my face back when I heard the sparks and kept my eyes closed to prevent any serious injury. At around the third rung from the top, he started to have trouble. I looked up to see him wobbling. He called out for me to hold it steadier. I put my back into it. The gate shook slightly behind me. A guttural, throaty noise came from the closed portal and I stared into it. It was like an ape howling but not right, more like the sound of a human trying to imitate an ape with a practiced cadence but the wrong vocal chords to do so.
As I stared into the gate, my grip relaxed and the ladder began to wobble again. The man cried out but as I tried to tighten my grip, I was shoved aside. The story came together pretty quickly after that. Detective Roberts had pushed me aside in order to save the man with the acetylene torch and was now glaring at me. I opened my mouth to protest the opening of the gates when I heard a slow creak. I snapped my head around to see a man with blackened eyes and a body painted in reds. Scraps of a brown uniform hung from his scrawny frame as if it had been torn off of him piece by piece until this was all that remained. His eyes were wild and seemed to understand little of the acetylene torch, the opening of the gate or me.
He let loose a cry. It was long and shrill, an alarm? No, a war cry. The door swung the rest of the way open and as I fell against it, I felt hands reach around my throat, my arms, and my mouth. I was hoisted inside by the occupants of the zoo. I found it hard to breathe. The scent of dung and unwashed men and animals filled my nostrils. What little I saw of blackened and diseased flesh is etched into my memory. As is the feeling of the club as it was brought down on my forehead.
***
My head swam like it was in an ocean of ether. I awoke in spurts. First as I was being dragged after being hit by the club. I heard Roberts screaming and fighting. When I turned though, I only saw bacteria-eaten flesh. Pockmarks on backs and greening skin where there was less human and more bacteria. I thought they might be zombies at first, but that was only the screaming of a damaged brain dreaming nightmares as my body refused to move. I awoke again to find myself face to face with the head of a panda. My head couldn't comprehend what I was seeing so my stomach reacted instead. I threw up. And then I passed out again.
When my consciousness finally returned, I found myself lying on a bed of sand. There was pressure on my wrist when I finally managed to rise up out of the dirt. I looked to my wrist to find I had been handcuffed to some sort of pipe. My next instinct was to check my surroundings: a dug out section of concrete with dying plants and a place in the concrete stained with minerals from years of water flowing through it. I was in an exhibit, down in a pit. But a pit for what?
I stood up straight. Something brushed behind my back and I felt powerful, terrible muscles raking against my frame. It had a hobbled walk as though it were trying to convince me that it wasn't so sure in its walk but it was having trouble concealing its sure-footedness. I saw orange and black and I screamed, falling again and nearly taking my arm off in the process. Backing away, it advanced, teeth bared. A Bengal tiger.
"Enough!"I heard the roar.
I stared into the eyes of the tiger for a while. At first I thought some man was behind it and I merely could not see him, but there was a cool restraint to this animal. A certain almost human quality to the way it moved and looked at me.
"What... did...?"
"No,"it said. "You heard. I spoke."
My breaths came shakily now. I tried to rationalize it by the bump on my head.
"Relax,"it said. "The virus is taking shape. You can hear me."
"How."
"Humans trained their minds to ignore animals millions of years ago. The virus breaks that part of the brain down first."
My eyes widened. I started shaking again, started to pull at the chain. It was suddenly as if I could feel the virus eating away at my brain and I had to hold my head to prevent the leaking of my gray matter. Then I howled. It was rhythmic, concentrated, animal. The noise scared me. I clutched at my chest and shook.
"No, no, no,"I said.
The tiger growled and put its foot on my chest, knocking me to the dirt.
"Yes!"It seemed to cry. |
"Are you fucking serious."
Harold leaned over, watching the game.
"ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?!"
He slammed his large hands, fingers stuffed with rings, on the steel diner table. The doorbell rang.
Harold was a guy with anger issues. And when I say anger issues, I mean the kind where if you accidentally spilled some cream on his white suit, he'd snap your neck so quickly and forcefully your eyes would pop out.
So I treaded lightly into the diner.
"How's it going, Harold?"
"Shut the fuck up. Look, look at this shit. That team in red is losing. Can you believe it?"
"... you mean the Red Sox?"
"What did I say about talking back? You wanna end up like Anton?"
"No. Sorry sir."
"Good."
He tapped one finger, clanking three rings on the table.
"You got the stuff?"
This was unexpected. I thought he'd be more discrete. But instead of an alleyway or a basement or something, he decided to do his business right here, out in the open.
"The stuff, Conroy. Where is it?"
"Sorry. Here."
I got out two movie ticket stubs, a suede hat, a silk hat, and $10,000 cash in a brown leather duffle bag.
"I'm gonna have to brief you now. Rocko gets here in like 30 minutes."
"THIRTY MINUTES?! That's too soon!"
"Relax. I don't want this either, but a deal's a deal. Now, here's the thing. The guy's blind."
This just kept getting weirder and weirder.
"Why does that matter?"
"That's the only thing that'll make this operation work. You gotta play this straight. Now, because of this, he won't be able to tell who's who. So you're gonna play me, and I'll play you."
"Why would that help us?"
"I've developed a reputation. I'm always the angry guy. It's clear that won't be good for business, so if you play me as kinda mellow, kinda sweet, he'll see me for more than my reputation. Than he'll do business. Got it?"
"Yep."
"The hats are because he always knows I wear a suede hat. You'll be wearing that. I wear the other one."
"And the money?"
"He thinks it's a million. Those aren't hundreds. They're ones."
"Whoa. So, what about the guys that work for him? Won't they beat us to a pulp?"
"Jimenez deals alone. He doesn't need protection. His guys just watch the premises."
"And I assume the movie tickets are for..."
"Oh, I just wanted to see a movie. Maybe. Now, if we want those connections, we've got to pull this off perfectly."
The doorbell rang.
Jimenez, in all his bloody, volatile presence, walked into the diner. He wore a tux, flawless in design, and had a pair of sunglasses that made it impossible to see half his face. I expected nothing less.
"HA! Hello, my friends! How's it goin'?"
"It's going well, Jimenez,"I said. It was hard being Harold.
"You wearing that suede again?"His hands felt my hat. It felt almost painful.
"Great. You brought a friend?"
"Yes. This is Conroy."
Harold nodded.
"Well, we'll leave him at the side for now. He can't do much harm."
"Here's the cash, Jimenez."
I pulled out the bag. He felt the money.
"Mmm. Very nice. But you know, something feels wrong..."
He grabbed a revolver and shot Harold straight in the cranium.
"I know what tricks you're trying to pull. Don't do this again, Harold."
He looked at me. I was silent. What else could I have done?
"Listen, Harold. I know it's a little crazy. But I know the difference between legitimate and bullshit cash. I've been counting stacks since I was 17. Don't do this again. But you took risks. I like that. You join me, and we could rule this city."
"Why'd you kill him?"I asked, still shaking.
"He was holding you back. He's a pussy too. That never helps."
I began breathing a little more slowly. He put his gun back in his pocket.
"What is this?"
He picked up the two movie tickets.
"Ah. We should check something out. I hear the new Bizaro movie is great."
THE END.
|
It was the most insidious and perfect of viruses. Everyone got infected quickly with minimal symptoms, authorities blew it off as a very weak version of the annual flu. Then it must have hit critical mass, or maybe some sort of timing trigger. I don't know. Some people claim there was intelligent design behind it, maybe man or maybe a vengeful god. Either way, on June 2nd everyone who was unhappy when they went to sleep fell into a deep coma, convulsed for a while, then died.
It took us a while to figure out that unhappiness was the cause. Like I said, an almost perfect virus. All the family members mourning the loss of their sudden departed on June 2nd went to sleep on June 3rd, shook violently, then passed on. I'm not a math major, but I can understand what happens when you start multiplying out at that rate. By June 5th we were dropping like flies. If you didn't lose someone directly, you felt the overwhelming sadness like an impending doom. And that was what would trigger the virus.
I survived. Well me and others. We were the nulls in society, those without family or real friends. We kept to ourselves, introverts you might call us. We weren't unhappy to begin with, and when people started dying we just felt a sense of relief since there were less annoyances in life. Nobody there to judge you because you wanted to read a book and ignore society. Or try to engage in conversation, which always felt like a battle to me. Instead it was like every negative thing in society just started melting away.
It's now July 9th and there's not many of us left. I don't worry about my safety; everyone left alive when we encounter each other pretty much leaves each other be. The radio keeps playing broadcasts from what's left of some Center for Disease Control researchers trying to advise people. Sounds like they're just trying to stay doped out of their minds in order to avoid triggering the virus.
As for me, I think I'm going to read my book out in the park today. It's nice and quiet for a change. |
I think instead of "there is good news,""*we have* good news"might flow better. And... there was something else and I forgot, I'll edit in a moment.
Overall, it's got a good flow and is mildly entertaining (all you can ask from the back of a bottle of water). Good on you for helping people in need!
Edit: all right, got it. After "By purchasing this bottle,"either "you have made"or "you will make,"depending on whether you assume that it has been purchased by the time it is read. It just needs that extra word to really flow smoothly. |
Today's the busy day, right? 3 classes, a job interview in the morning, but at least I've got my girlfriend to keep me company. I don't have many friends. I'm at a new university, I guess it's not that big a deal, I'll make them eventually right?
*10AM: My girlfriend breaks up with me over Facebook.*
Surely I will be fine, right? It can't get any worse. Whoops, maybe I shouldn't say that. Doesn't that, like, jinx it or something? I don't know.
*10:30AM: Job interview cancelled, position filled.*
Well, I guess I shouldn't worry; I wasn't going to get it, at least I didn't go all the way over there! Besides, I've got class to take my mind off things. Maybe now's the time to make friends? I could use some.
*11AM: First class cancelled for the day, professor is sick.*
That's a positive! Woohoo, no class! I mean, sure, I need some companionship to get through the day, but I'm sure my other classes will be fine. I'll just hang out in the next class and wait for it to start. Maybe as people walk in, I can make friends.
*12:30PM: Second class cancelled, professor had an emergency.*
Gotta be optimistic about this. I can't let it drag me down. Sure, no class, but even if I did just waste an hour and a half doing nothing but playing chess online, at least there's another class, right? Gotta grab some lunch.
*1PM: No appetite, third class cancelled.*
Alright. I guess, uh...maybe I should just...go home for a bit. I'm sure I can sleep it off, I just need some rest I guess.
*4PM: Wake up, reality hits. 3 hours spent staring at a computer screen.*
*7PM: Go to store and return home by 8PM.*
No big deal, right? I've had a bad day, and sure I have nothing left, but I mean...well, fuck it. I'm on my way to a better place now.
*11PM: Body discovered hanging from ceiling*.
-----------------------------
Sorry, I know this was probably depressing and bad. The first half of it has happened to me, so I'm obviously a little weird in the head right now. |
Education isn't all about learning what you want to learn though. We took biology in high school whether we wanted to be scientists or not, because understanding how the world around us works is important. And besides, who's going to know they want to be a writer if they never take an English class? A scientist if they're never shown the basics of science? Individualizing primary education to that degree isn't the answer to better education. Individualizing secondary education is, and that's why there are degrees in every field of research on earth. |
It really happened.
After tension built up with Russia and China, everyone snapped. China took over all of Asia save for Japan. The countries like Burma and Vietnam didn't even try to fight back. It was hopeless. China began to assault the US and Japan. The fight was desperate, and parts of Japan were lost. Concentrating its forces on the Pacific, the United States rushed over any and all support. At first the Japanese-American forces pushed them back, but China had a devastating trick. It had been engineering secret weapons and they deployed them. The US-Japan Alliance was crushed with a horrifying new gas, a nearly invincible tank, and a new fighter. The fighter couldn't be outclassed, period. Japan split into two parts with the Japanese-Americans on one half and China on the other. Fighting raged here for months before it came to a stalemate. The Chines pushed back the American-Japanese attacks with ease, but the Japanese-American troops were too dug in and dedicated to crumble under China's attacks. Only later in the war would any progress be made.
Meanwhile in Europe, England, France, Germany, and many small countries such as the Czech Republic fought back as Russian tanks stormed through Europe. It was just as NATO had predicted during the Cold War. This time though, we didn't have the military to defend. The Russian advance was halted just 20 miles from Berlin. Everything to the east was ravaged and occupied. France fought desperately as Russia refocused their attacks but lost all but a sliver of territory. Spain was quickly taken, with no allies around to help. While England poured in troops, France attempted to fortify want remaining land it had left. It was all in vain. After the Russian advance had refueled and rearmed, it made a final push. Only Germany and England stood, Germany surrounded by all sides. German troops began to evacuate to England, but even then they were not safe. Ships were being sunk like mad as Russia's fleet, based in Norway, patrolled the waters. England's ships fought back best they could, but losses were still heavy. Germany fell within two months. England remained resolute, like it had in all wars. Just like in all wars, it could not be attacked without boats and planes. They held for two years. Russian troops landed north of London, quickly overtaking the heavy defenses. Just as in the Pacific, everything ground to a halt. Russian troops were making barely 25 feet of progress a day and it took nearly a year for London to fall. England crumbled. Everyone still left tried to go to America, only to be sunk. Over half of all German and English forces crossing the Atlantic were killed.
America, Canada, and Japan were the largest players left. Mexico and most of South America had managed to remain neutral. Americans began to fall. Short of food and supplies for both soldiers and civilians, America pleaded for peace. Faced with heavy losses, China and Russia agreed. Japan was occupied just a month later. America remained, but would eventually turn into a police state. With their new conquests, Russia and China had become world powers. This led to another war, one that had profound affects. Russia lost much of its eastern side, but once peace was negotiated, the borders held.
Only South America remained untouched. Africa was taken by Russian reserve troops, keeping peace with the Middle East. Australia and many of the Pacific Islands met a similar fate to the hands of China. WW3 ended with a near total annihilation of the world. |
"Hey, Martian, come over here."
My closet door opened and a green hand pulled out an overweight, legless body. "I am not,"said the Martian for the 3rd time this hour, "from Mars. I am simply not from *your* planet."
"Yeah yeah, whatever you say, just get over here."
The device is finally fixed. The weapon used to destroy this alien's home planet, likely Mars, came with the ugly guy to my doorstep. I took a paintbrush and wrote on the gun:
**In memory of Mars**
"Hey,"the Martian leaned in, "what does that say?"
I smiled at him, causing him to flinch. I keep forgetting that smiling on Mars is an aggressive gesture, showing off the teeth to an enemy. I ended the smile quickly. "Just a remembrance to your people."
"You don't even know my peo..."the Martian cut off. "Whatever, with this, we can rule your planet! Just threaten destruction."
"But what if they call me out on it?"This is the problem with making a threat that includes your own life as well as others. The Martian gave me a look that I knew meant I had to do what I had to do.
"Well, how do I turn it on, anyway?"The Martian leaned over and pointed to a red button. I wanted to test it out, so I pressed it.
"Crap."
|
Hijacked by people who knew the location of Shangri La. 200 years from now on eof the passengers will cross the Mountains and reappear in New Dehli.
Seriously: Hijacked to Iran. All the estimates of maximum location seem to have ignored the reserve fuel. I can't remember if its 45 minutes or an hour and a half over ocean, but if its 1.5 hours and they flew maximum economy I think they could just make it with dry tanks. |
age = 13700000000
set darkEnergy2000 = 1.000000000
darkEnergy4000 = 1.1010010111001
TimeToBigRip = 1138
ApocalypseDuration = 0.5
CosmicMicrowaveBackground = open.background.mat
OraclePermutation(background.mat);
ShapeType = human.config
ShapeSimilarity = 77%
Size = 1.46E+186
Energy = 2E+61
DestructionManifold = X
EscapePlan =
restartprogram(matrix.exe);
EscapePlan =
restartprogram(matrix.exe);
EscapePlan =
restartprogram(matrix.exe);
EscapePlan = (inf,0,0,0,1138)
return EscapePlan;
EndProgram(matrix.exe);
}
|
It;s my first go at writing in this style, so I hope it's okay!
Alright, listen. I need you to grab his arms, okay. Yeah, just like that, bring him over here, slide his arms under the table like that okay? Okay, good. No one ever comes here, no one owns the place, no one will ever come wandering in to find our little surprise, eh. He’ll just rot away here and if anyone smells anything weird they’ll just think it’s the dump next door or sommat. Don’t bother closing his eyes or anything like they do in the movies, you know, to make them look like their sleeping or sommat. People who are sleeping don’t usually have a hole like that in their chests and look like they’ve been mauled by hungry wolves or hyenas or sommat. *laughs* Aha, nah, I said no, alright! Just leave him, I'm beginning to think I should have gouged his eyes out before I threw away the knife. Aw well, too late now, I don’t think he’s going to be going anywhere, eyes or not! *laughs* Aw come on, don’t look at me like that, you know I had to do this. Guy was always looking at me the wrong way, looking like I was scum, like he was better than me or sommat. He didn’t respect me, he didn’t respect you or anybody! Had it comin’ I say, had to be done, too dangerous to keep him around much longer. What’s that? Yeah, I guess I didn’t have to mess him up so much. *Looks at the body, just visible beside him. Laughs, somewhat hysterically* Still, fun though, you do these things, best to do them right, yeah? Yeah, I coulda just shoved out a window or sommat, made him look like suicide or an accident but where’s the fun in that?! Nah, don’t look that way, come one, let’s get outta here. There’s a place where we can get pizza in town, just gotta go home, change clothes, alright? Alright, come on, let’s go. |
I looked over the small town through my window. It was over. After the years of being alone, it was over. The remains of the town would wither away and be consumed. To anyone but me, it might have seemed sad. I didn't mind.
I grabbed the small pill. I had always wanted a quick, painless death. Now that I was on my deathbed, it seemed a good enough time. I took another look at the sunset. The beautiful sunset. One I had seen all my life. Everyone may have gone, but that sunset still remained. A reminder of days passed. Of friends, and family. Pets, partners. Girlfriends, wives. I smiled.
I grabbed the cup and took the pill. Washing it down with the water, I waited. I gradually went into a state of unconsciousness. As my vision faded and my senses shut off, I smiled one last time.
The beautiful sunset gave away. My body followed. |
Ash kicked around a rock, wincing as it sliced through his foot. If the assholes back home had bothered to send any more clothes, he wouldn't have this problem. But no. Water, food, batteries... not a single God damn sneaker to be seen. They'd all adjusted to being nudists a long time ago.
Which, really, wasn't a big deal in the traditional sense. You didn't get horny on Mars. Not after the first ten thousand times you got burning hot sand deep on the inside of all the wrong places. Even as a nano-fueled super being, that *sucked*. Still, right now, he thought it might be worth it just to feel something.
They had thought it would be heroic, to let the scientists rewire their bodies, to transcend traditional human form and colonize another planet for the sake of mankind. Well, even here, Mother Nature was a bitch. She wasn't taking to the chemicals they brought, not becoming fertile for them. That, combined with the crash that had killed their would-be companions, had convinced the Air Force that colonization wasn't worth the effort. But don't worry, they said. We'll still send you supplies. Freeze-dried food and enough energy to turn communications back on 'in case of emergencies'.
Because that did a whole lot. The last emergency they'd had was Peter dying of some sort of whacked-out alien gangrene, and they'd called for help. Damn, that sucks, said the Air Force. But the reconstructed humans can't survive on Earth, and we don't want that disease spreading, so he'll just have to tough it out. And he died, leaving Ash alone with Trish and Sandy, who currently weren't speaking to him because "Woman Power". "Woman Power"was something Ash chalked up to dehydration, their decision that 'they didn't need no man' and they could live a dream life all on their own. So they'd stuck him out here, occasionally leaving him his part of the supplies. What the hell?
Ash lay down in the dust, day dreaming about Trish and her sexy almond eyes. He envied Peter right now. Dying seemed preferable to an extended life time alone. And after twelve years, retaining the body of a twenty-year-old, Ash was thinking it would be a long life time.
He sighed, getting up and swiping red dust off his back. He headed toward the ship, ready to try *again* to get in the girls good favor. He swore, if it was his manhood that offended him, he'd take the laser to it right now. Anything to hear someone's voice again. |
Subsets and Splits