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**1400 Hours**
Colonel Andrew Jessup squared his shoulders as he stood before the squads of men, each one with an anxious look on their face. His BDU’s were pressed, neat, and orderly. He exuded an air of a man who was not to the trifled with, either physically or intellectually. It was an air he had spent years carefully cultivating for moments like this; moments when his men could not question his orders.
“Men, Los Angeles has gone dark, and I mean that in every sense of that phrase. Back in the Cold War era, it would have meant that a nuclear bomb had been detonated within the vicinity.” He paused, letting those last words sink in. He wanted these men afraid, he wanted them scared. He had always believed that men who were afraid were sharp, alert, and ready for anything that headed their way. Confident men were the ones who never came home.
“This time, fortunately,” he swept his eyes around the room, watching the relief on their faces when they knew nuclear fallout was not in the equation, “we know that nuclear bombs were not involved. No satellites have detected any activity of that kind. Unfortunately,” and he saw with satisfaction the fear come back to their eyes, “we do not have the first clue what we are up against. This is where you men come in. We need you to infiltrate the city, and find out what is going on. Now pay attention!”
Colonel Jessup spent the next twenty minutes outlining his plan of assault on the city of Los Angeles. It involved sending squads in along separate routes, each one taking a different route into the city. Whatever had happened, stealth was going to be the key to everyone’s survival. No highways, no major roads that could not be helped. One squad would parachute in over Angeles National forest and make their way south; another was going to come in through Santa Monica after getting dropped off at Channel Islands; and the final one was to be dropped off near Long Beach. They would all have long walks, but this would allow for a north-eastern, southern, and western intrusion that make for the best chance of discovery.
Squaring his shoulders up one last time, Colonel Jessup informed everyone that they were now under the command of Captain Jacob Kalu, and he walked back to his tent. He did not like this. There was something about this entire operation that just felt…wrong to him. Los Angeles was a city of over four million people, and not one distress call had been issued. They couldn’t even find evidence of a damned wireless set being left on. Nothing. It was like a nuclear bomb *had* gone off inside the city limits. He prayed Captain Kalu could find the answers.
**2100 Hours**
Captain Kalu followed his men as they started coming out of the Angeles National Forest. As the plane had flown close by, he had looked out the window and seen nothing. It was perfect blackness. When they had parachuted out, it was still perfect blackness. A couple of his men had gotten caught in trees that they had not seen on the way down.
Radio reports from the other squads indicated that they were all starting to reach the edge of the city. So far, they had seen no sign of lights, radio, or even people. There was something else bothering Captain Kalu, but he could not seem to place his finger on it. The whole city just felt eerie.
As they arrived in the first suburban neighborhood, Kalu ordered several men to enter a household to determine if there were any occupants. Several minutes later they returned, shaking their head. This occurred several more times before they gave up searching houses. Kalu reported this to the other squads, and heard similar results. One had entered a supermarket and found no signs of anyone. The shopping carts were still sitting full of food. Everyone had left in a huge hurry.
Fearing now more than ever that something had gone horribly wrong outside of just a power outage or a terrorist attack, Kalu ordered radio silence until they could meet in the center of the city. He selected Pershing Square as it seemed central enough.
Then he realized what had been bothering him. He had not seen a single rat or squirrel, or even a fucking pigeon.
**0400 Hours**
They found it in Pershing Square. Private Billings had been the first to see it. It was a small, rectangular sheet of metal. Captain Kalu turned the metal over in his hands several times without really looking at it, and then he saw it. Written in large, child-like block letters, like someone who only recently learned English, was one word:
“SUBMIT” | 27 | Marines are sent in to investigate a city going dark. The year is 2029. | 57 |
Jack: Here comes Thor with his attempt at the Hammer throw! Unsurprisingly, they wouldn't let him use Mjölnir. All he has to beat is 12 miles. He's ramping up...
Miles: And the throw was strong! It's going... it's going...
Both: Woah!
Jack: Did you see that, Miles?
Miles: To the people listening on the radio, Thor's hammer was grabbed mid-air by a web! Unless this a frame job by Lex Luthor, I think it's safe to say Spiderman was behind this one.
Jack: I guess you can say he stole Thor's *Thunder*.
Miles: I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.
Jack: Fair enough. And now Thor has called Mjölnir to his side. He is looking around for Spiderman, but I don't see him.
Miles: Spiderman is using guerrilla tactics, it would appear. The web was shot and he is nowhere to be seen.
Jack: Well, the judges are asking Thor to leave the field for the next participant to-
Both: Ahhh!
Miles: Thor has just caved in the judge's skull with Mjölnir. Security is coming out now, but I don't think they can do much.
Jack: This was not well thought out, Miles.
Miles: No, no it was not.
-----
Jack: And we are back, folks! The blood on the field has been cleaned and we are good to go. What do you say Miles- OH MY GOD! Ladies and gentlemen, Miles has an arrow sticking from his skull. Sitting next to me now is Oliver Queen!
Oliver: Yes Jack, I'm the new co-commentator. But, I'm not Oliver Queen.
Jack: You're quite obviously Oliver Queen.
Oliver: Jack, I don't know what you're talking about.
Jack: Your disguise is a simple hood. I can see 80% of your face, I am certain that you're Oli-
Oliver: Jack, the games have started.
Jack: Alright, let's get back to the games, you're right Oliver.
Oliver: Good idea, so if we look at the field, we can see the wrestling match has started. First up is Aquaman versus Wolverine.
Jack: This is a fairly one-sided match.
Oliver: No question about it, Jack.
Jack: The match has begun. And, Wolverine has killed Aquaman. His throat is wide open and it is spilling out sea-water.
Oliver: Sea water? Atleast that answers my question about what is inside of him.
Jack: Strange question to be thinking Oliver.
Oliver: I will kill you, Jack.
-----
Jack: We are back, everyone! With me is the infamous Oliver Queen.
Oliver: Incorrect.
Jack: Regardless, the next match is starting now. The high jump. I'm curious as to who will win this.
Oliver: Well, Jack, my guess would be that it'll be down to Spiderman and Superman. It depends on whether or not Superman can pull off a minor flight without the judges realizing he flew.
Jack: I am getting word that Spiderman was found dead with Thor's hammer embedded in his head.
Oliver: Not surprising, Jack.
Jack: Indeed. Now, up to the jump is the Mister Fantastic. One of the four members of the Fantastic Four.
Oliver: I don't quite understand how he made it into the games, Jack.
Jack: Nor do I, Oliver. He is now jumping... no wait, he's simply stretching over the bar, and he didn't even leave the ground Oliver, yet he raised far above the bar.
Oliver: Let's see what the judges think of it Jack.
Jack: And... the judges are dead. I guess Thor got all of them.
Oliver: Why are we still here Jack?
Jack: A question for the philosophers, Oliver.
-----
Jack: Ladies and gentlemen, we are back on the air! With me is my co-commentator, Oliver Queen.
Oliver: Untrue.
Jack: Now Oliver, who do you think will win the strong man competition?
Oliver: No question about it Jack, Bruce Banner will dominate it. By day he's a scientist, by night, he's an unstoppable killing machine.
Jack: Not even remotely close to how it works, Oliver. You see, Bruce stays as a human until he can't control his anger, at which point he turns into the Hulk. It has nothing to do with lunar cycles.
Oliver: Not so sure that's true Jack.
Jack: Don't doubt it, I'm certain of it.
Oliver: I don't doubt it, I just suspect it isn't the truth.
Jack: That's the definition... if you check a dictionary that would be the definition of 'doubt'.
Oliver: Hmm... I doubt that.
Jack: You son of a-
Oliver: And the Bruce Banner has taken the field! Let's watch and see how he does.
Jack: Bruce is approaching the rack now. The audience is very loudly yelling at him, I suspect in an attempt to enrage him to bring out the Hulk.
Oliver: He'll have trouble doing that Jack, it's hardly night time.
Jack: I have no reply to that.
Oliver: Bruce is placing the weights on the rack, one at a time. The bar is holding well over 8000 kilos right now. The bar must be made out of the same stuff as Captain America's shield to hold that weight.
Jack: That it is, Oliver. Vibranium, one of the rarest elements on Earth.
Oliver: Bruce is getting ready to lift it, and... the bar has fell on his neck.
Jack: That has *got* to hurt.
Oliver: No question about it Jack, Bruce is dead.
Jack: Don't count him out just yet! The Hulk is emerging!
Oliver: He somehow managed to get around the lunar cycle-
Jack: That simply-
Oliver: And he is lifting it all! Oh no, he threw the weight at the judge's table. Well, no casualties there, Thor took care of them earlier.
Jack: We'll be going on a quick break while the security brings the Hulk under control. | 45 | The First Annual Superhero Olympics. | 35 |
Of course, there was only one single era that I would choose to go to. The Bimillenial Decade. Many of the greatest inventions came from this era. The death of Steve Jobs, the culmination of the smartphone (arguably the first widely used handheld computer) era, the invention of the Occulus (the predecessor to VRX), all of these amazing things in the time we call today The Bimillenial Decade. Technology was at crazy heights during this time without there existing a virtual reality for people to plug in to. This was at the very height of social networks that were actually used to connect people together in real life (rather than a virtual world). People in society at this time were truly connected to each other as a social organism. All the movies portrayed the busy and active social lives of these people. I’ve dreamt of this my entire life, I became in the top 2% of my class (Gamma) to ensure that I was a safe time traveler. I will make sure not to change the past and take in the truly wonderful Bimillenial Decade. Think of all the wonderful, understanding people I would meet. People who truly want to speak to you as a person! Well my time is almost, I have to get into the time machine now. Apparently, I’m going to land by a bus stop in a country that was called Sweden at the time. I can't wait to meet all the wonderful people. | 58 | A time traveller goes back to the 2010s to see history with their very own eyes, only to realise that the past really wasn't as wonderful as their idyllic ideas of it | 126 |
**Harry Dresden VS Harry Potter**
-----
**Dresden**
Forty years old, and I drive a Volkswagen Beatle,
But if we were in the same movie, I'd be Stark, you'd be Cheadle,
If you in were my world, you'd be beneath the White Council's notice,
If I were in yours, I'd show Hermione where Thomas's boat is.
I take on guys that make Voldemort look like Mary Poppins,
And when I finish beatin' em, I take your dead mom shoppin.
-----
**Potter**
You think you're real tough, being the Winter Knight?
You got your ass beat by the Billy Goats in a fair fight,
The scar I got shows I'm the real deal,
When I hurt your feelings, don't show Molly how you feel,
Oh thats right, you broke her mind at Chichen Itza
Your Winter Knight ceremony was weaker than a barmixtzfah
-----
**Dresden**
If I were at Hogwarts, I'd run the whole damn school,
I'm usually the underdog, but not if I'm facing you,
I was given soulfire by an Archangel wearing flannel,
When I see your movies on TV, I change the damn channel,
I took down the freakin' Red Court Empire,
You look like you belong with Frodo in the shire.
-----
**Potter**
You're the pet of Mab and work at her command,
I'm owned by no one, I am my own man,
Don't think I didn't realize that Molly's gotten curvy,
But don't worry, I won't touch her, I'm with Karrin Murphy,
You see Dresden, I fight and defeat all kinds of bad guys,
You're on the dark side now, someone should play you the bagpipes. | 20 | Epic Rap Battles Of History... And Fiction! | 35 |
Azrael settled into the leather armchair, letting his tired legs stretch out. Despite the fact that he was a being of pure energy, his stress seemed to manifest itself as a physical strain when he manifested. And now, as he irritably waited for his drinking companion to arrive, he could already feel his mood fouling.
An attendant was instantly at his shoulder, a shining glass snifter of amber liquid lowered into Azrael's hand. The archangel took the glass without sparing a glance to the lesser cherub, who scurried off, and lifted the rim to his lips. The scotch was perfect, aged and seasoned and infused with a million notes of flavor on the edge of perception. In Azrael's mouth, it might as well have been sewage.
The archangel glanced down at his gleaming watch three more times before another visitor entered the lounge. He knew that Mephistopheles was late; the demon had last wandered around the mortal plane back in the late nineties, when arrogant young kids in freshly tailored business suits ran the corporate world on their own personal clocks. The fallen angel had picked up more than a touch of that arrogance, as well as a disgusting likeness for energy drinks combined with his alcohol.
When the other man finally strolled in, one hand running up to slick back his greasy black hair, Azrael didn't bother to hold in his sigh. "Get lost?" he asked.
The other man didn't respond right away, settling into his seat opposite the angel and accepting his own drink from another cherub. "You just have no sense of panache," he responded between slurps of the fizzy yellow drink.
Azrael disguised his lack of respect with another sip of his scotch. Fortunately, he knew the devil sitting across from him well, and the archangel could out-wait him every time. And true to form, Mephistopheles only managed to sit still for a minute or so before he took a deep pull of his disgusting alcoholic energy drink and opened his lips again.
"Okay, let's get this over with," the fallen angel announced, sitting back and squirming in his chair. "I hate having to physically manifest. This body itches. What's on the list for today?"
The archangel raised his hand, and another cherub dropped a scroll into his hand. He set down his snifter of scotch on the end table next to his seat so that he could pull the ornate scroll open. "A light load," he replied, a note of relief creeping into his voice. "Just three items. North Korea, something about a missing flight, and that issue that we keep tabling."
The devil waved his hand in a dismissive manner. "Ugh, not North Korea again. What are we even supposed to be doing about it? None of our operatives are there."
"Nor ours," Azrael replied. "And to be honest, we believed that one of yours was behind the whole debacle going on down there."
With a snap of his fingers, a long list appeared in smoky red flames in front of Mephistopheles. He flicked through it with one finger, reading off the names in demonic script. "Nope, no one there," he said at length. "It's just that dictator they've got. Totally off his rocker."
"So what should we do? Lightning bolt? Column of fire?"
Mephistopheles waggled his fingers noncommittally. "Give him a couple years. He'll either come around to your side, or we'll end up replacing him with someone focused a little more on the religious hellfire."
"Great. Next item: we apparently lost a plane..."
At this comment, the devil took another large drink. "Shit," he said with feeling. "That one was actually on us."
Azrael raised an eyebrow. It was rare to see any demon, much less a Lord of Hell, accept responsibility for any wrongdoing, however small. "Care to elaborate?" he asked.
Mephistopheles' drink was nearly empty, and a cherub scurried over to retrieve the glass and bring him a new drink. As soon as the new frosted glass was in his perfectly manicured hand, he took a pull and consumed more than a third. "We were testing out some new portal systems," he finally said. "Larger openings. Armageddon's coming, you know. Gotta figure out how to move our troops around."
"And what, you just left one of these things open?" Azrael picked up, aghast. "You figured that no one would stumble upon a literal portal to Hell? What if one of their satellites spotted it!?"
"It's cloaked! Give us some credit!" Mephistopheles interjected. "And we had it over a mile up in the air. Who's going to ever bump into that?"
Azrael rolled his eyes. "Someone sure did," he muttered under his breath.
"Listen, we're on damage control," Mephistopheles insisted. "We've already knocked together a mock-up, dropped it at the bottom of the ocean, and our people at the news networks are pushing towards it. This whole thing will blow over."
"A mock-up? What happened to the actual plane?"
Mephistopheles rubbed his face with one hand. "The thing crashed right through our invasion launch cavern and ended up taking out Beezlebub's summer palace," he complained. "Now we've got a metal tail sticking out of his lava fountain, slaves working around the clock to repair the damage, and a whole bunch of Buddhist souls from on board that we can't get rid of."
This opened up a whole new debacle. From an inside breast pocket, Azrael withdrew an elegant fountain pen and inscribed a few notes on the scroll. "We can probably get in touch with Hotei. That chubby excuse for a god can probably pull away from his eternal buffet long enough to do something."
"Please," Mephistopheles replied sincerely. There was a definite advantage to this face-to-face meeting between the archangels and the Lords of Hell; while it took some humility, things certainly got done a lot faster than through the normal bureaucratic channels.
The archangel's snifter of scotch was nearly gone. He glanced down at the list on his lap. "Well, there's just that last item that we tabled from before," he said. "We need to take some action about that."
"How long has this thing been tabled for? It's been a while, hasn't it?" asked Mephistopheles.
Azrael had to quickly count on his fingers. "Two millenia? Might have been a little longer."
"Ugh," the devil groaned. "Refresher?"
The archangel disliked flashy magic, but he spun his pen in a slow circle over the scroll, making the words change beneath the ink nub. "Looks like we had some guy proclaim himself a god," he read off. "Whole bunch of trouble went down, we both slipped up, and the aftershocks of all of this has been causing ripples and problems all over."
Mephistopheles considered this for a few minutes, and then took a contemplative drink. "Well, my drink is almost gone, and these stupid bodies can't hold a buzz," he complained. "We've tabled this for a couple millenia, and nothing's fallen apart yet."
Azrael nodded. "Move to table?"
"Move to table."
The angel rose up from his seat, stretching out his limbs. "Ugh. I can't wait to get out of this body." He tossed back the last of his scotch, tossing the glass back down onto a table.
One of the cherubs came up to the archangel, bobbing at his elbow. "Sir, the bill?"
With distaste, Azrael turned and glared at the little angel. "Are you kidding me?" he thundered. "Do you know who I am? We made this whole thing on another plane, just for meetings. What in the world do you need money for??"
The little cherub looked uncertain, but he stood his ground. "Sorry sir, but not money - karma," he insisted. "We have to pay the karmic balance for the drinks, sir."
Azrael was still about to argue, but Mephistopheles snapped his fingers, and a few shining tokens appeared out of thin air and tumbled into the cherub's outstretched hand. "I got this one," the devil commented. "You can pick up the tab next time."
Together, the devil and the archangel strolled out of the lounge. Azrael knew that he should hate this manifestation of evil, but they had been meeting so long, had talked and griped together so long, that he actually felt closer to him than to many of the other angels. Metatron was an insufferable know-it-all, Gabriel had a frustrating tendency to gloat, and Michael was never able to remove the stick from his ass. But Mephistopheles' lack of any respect towards authority was refreshing, a nice change from the stuffy bureaucracy he usually had to face.
"So, meet again in another couple years?" Mephistopheles asked at the door.
"Let's make it next year," Azrael replied. "Follow up on that plane, you know."
The two men stepped out through the door, out into the nothingness on the other side. For just a second, both of their bodies were outlined in a glow; Azrael's figure lit up in white, while Mephistopheles' shape imploded into blackness.
And then they both were gone. | 10 | The exemplars of good and evil casually go to a private lounge; appearing as suited men, and drink scotch and simply talk. | 19 |
I walked in and saddled up to the seat closest to the door. The sun shined through the windows, but the sky was bruised by the dusk. At the end of the bar furthest from the door, I could see a man reading the paper and frowning. Past the man, on the service side of the bar, was a door to what had to be the kitchen. Above the man’s head was a TV playing Keno.
A bartender entered through the kitchen holding a plate of food. He saw me and said, “I’ll be with you in just a minute.” After he dropped off the food, he went to the tap and poured the man a beer. I could hear the conversation between the two.
“Ok Jim, the total for the Chicken Finger Plate and the one beer is gonna be $9.55,” the Bartender said.
“You trying to run me outta here, Dave? I just got the food,” Jim said with a quick smile. His eyes weren’t invested in the smile, and just as soon as it had appeared it was gone.
“Shift change is soon. It’s always $9.55.” Dave replied as he walked up to me. When he got to my end of the bar, he said, “We got specials on draft for $2 each.”
“Sounds good to me,” I replied. Two dollar bills and an ID check later I found myself nursing a beer and eavesdropping on Jim. I heard him tell Dave about a flat tire. His cat had got crushed in a garage door. He’d kicked a coffee table so hard he’d lost a toenail.
Jim seemed to take a break and focused more on his paper for a while. Dave had done a good job of pulling details out of me while I sat there, between low consequence horror stories, so I figured he must know something about Jim too.
“Hey man,” I said, almost whispering, ”How long has it been since you’ve seen him last?”
“Yesterday,” He replied.
“No shit?” I said, “All that happened to him in one day?”
Dave leaned his elbow on the bar, and looked over his shoulder back at Jim, who was still reading the paper. He said, “Terrible shit happens to him every day. It’s so bad, I’d think he’s making it up, except I’ve seen some things happen to him on his way into the bar. He’s been on the news a time or two. He’s got the worst luck ever.”
I looked at Jim again and said, “Damn, that’s rough.” I gave Dave another two bucks and found myself nursing another beer.
When Dave delivered my second beer, he said, “I’m about done for the day. Mike will be here soon. He’s a tool. You don’t have any tits, so good luck getting a beer.”
It wasn’t long before Dave was replaced with Mike. As the sun went down, the bar started to fill up a bit more. I watched People sit and talk to Jim. Folks seemed to know Jim better than they knew one another, with him telling small groups of people how he was doing. I didn’t see any of these people exhibit the same sympathy for each other. Jim even seemed to be the only male patron that Mike gave a shit about.
I held up my empty glass to get Mike’s attention. For each beer that Mike saw fit to bring me, he must’ve brought Jim three. Jim began to sway a bit. A stranger would drop by every few minutes, and ask Jim if he wanted them to buy him a drink.
Jim gradually switched from beer to liquor. I watched the crowd around him change somehow. There was an anticipation in the air, like at a rock concert, with the world’s unluckiest superstar. I worried about what might happen to Jim the Jinx.
Mike was pouring a drink for Jim, but I couldn’t tell if it was Jim who’d bought it, or one of the dozen people around him. “Hey Jim,” Mike said, more to the entire bar than to Jim, “You should play some Keno!”
“Is that a good idea?” I asked.
Everyone in the bar looked at me like I was a witch. Mike said, “This is America! If this man wants to play a one dollar game of Keno, he can do that!”
I thought for a moment. “Ok. I guess you’re right.” I said. What’s the worst that could happen?
“You’re damned right, I’m right.” Mike said.
I was surprised Jim was still standing, let alone could pick out some numbers. In a few minutes, the TV was showing random numbers and everyone was watching the screen and Jim’s ticket like a tennis match.
“Winner winner, chicken dinner!” Jim said, after all the numbers had been picked. “I just won a thousand dollars!”
Mike smiled at me, then looked back at Jim and said, “No kidding, dude? That’s awesome!” He didn’t sound surprised, but I could hear the echo of my jaw hitting the floor. Mike continued, “Can I see the financial section of your newspaper? You don’t use that section do you? Would you mind picking some stocks for me?”
After that, it was difficult to hear everyone over the din of people asking Jim questions. One guy asked for picks from a race list for a dog track a few counties over. A woman asked Jim for lottery numbers and others scribbled notes furiously.
After Mike had gotten his section of newspaper, he came up to me and said, “Listen man. We got a good thing going, and the last thing we need is for you to screw this up.”
“What the hell is going on?” I asked, “He just told me and Dave about his awful rotten luck!”
“That’s when he’s sober,” Mike replied, “We get him drunk enough to get lucky but not too lucky. We don’t need anyone messing with what we’ve got going here. The Keno helps him keep it together until we see him again and it helps us test when he’s ready. It’s not Keno every night, you understand. That would be suspicious. We split the winnings as a group. You in?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Mike said, handing me the paper, “You’re opening a brokerage account tomorrow.”
Edit: one more line of dialogue for more complete ending. | 41 | A bartender telling a newcomer the stories of the regulars and why they come to the bar. | 90 |
I was walking down the street, keeping focused eye contact with my toes, when I felt the young man's hand on my shoulder.
"You look like you could use this," he said as he handed me the business card. "Chin up, hun. It gets better."
I nodded and forced a smile while pocketing the card, and returned to my concentrated self-loathing.
I didn't think of the card again until I did laundry a truly embarrassing number of days later. I glanced at the small piece of card stock. 'Life Support,' it said, above an 800-number.
It took two more days before curiosity and loneliness peaked together and found me calling.
"Hello! Thank you for calling Life Support!" The enthusiasm in his voice caught me off guard, and I nearly hung up. "What seems to be your problem today?"
I stammered a bit, a dozen sentences dying on my clumsy lips at once. Confessions, requests, questions, all fighting to be heard. "I don't know," won.
"Is this your first time calling?"
"...is it that obvious?"
He laughed. It might have sounded mocking coming from someone else, if only because I find it easier to assume people are mocking me than to find out they were later, but his laugh was warm and friendly. "Well then let me give you the full spiel," he said. He cleared his throat. "Life Support is here for you. You deserve a life free of malfunctions, a life in perfect working order. If you're having a problem with your life, you can call us any time at 1-800-123-LIFE toll free from any major service provider or file a bug report online." He paused. "I'm guessing someone gave you our number because they knew you were having issues. Am I right?"
With that, the floodgates broke. I started talking and couldn't stop. Even with my voice shaking as I talked about my impending homelessness and my last few paychecks bouncing, through the tears as I mentioned my husband leaving me a few months ago for someone half my age and twice my bust size, numb again by the time I got to the test results from the biopsy.
When I finally stopped babbling I could hear a keyboard clacking on the other end of the line for a few seconds before he realized I was done.
"Well, first things first," he said. "Have you tried turning it off and back on again?" | 14 | Life Support provides tech support for human existence. | 34 |
Some say a child cries when it's born because of the change in environment and the fear of the unknown. Others say it's to initiate their lungs, as they are not necessary in the womb, but obviously are in the outside world.
I cried because the first face I saw was also the last face I saw.
I cried out of anger, the hatred my soul held for you. I cried out of fear, of the knowledge I had about you. I cried out of despair, of my circumstances, past and present. I vowed that I would never love you, for what you've done to me.
Just as my soul remembered my past life, so has it granted me the mixed blessing of memory for this life.
As you lie there, I understand.
Growing up with you, with the situation we lived in, was hard. We were poor, but that never stopped you from coming home to your wife and child, who you so loved, after a hard day of work. Though your child never reciprocated, you always had excuses. You were never there, because you worked all the time, to support us. You didn't have the time to be as good a father as you had hoped, but you tried your best to make due with what you could. But you never stopped loving us.
We both lived with a burden that we shared, unbeknownst to you, and only I knew that it was the cause of my disdain for you. As time passed, the disdain faded, but love never blossomed.
But as you lie there, I remember.
The last words that I heard in my life, uttered by you as you held a gun to my head rush back to me, as I recall this life.
You told me were laid off very recently, and that you needed money. Your wife was pregnant and due soon, and you could no longer afford to get the supplies she needed to safely care for your child, for me, when they were born.
I refused, stubbornly, stupidly, and started to fight back. Out of desperation, you shot me. You didn't want to, the fear in your eyes betrayed so, but you pulled the trigger. As the first shot went off, the following came easier. I can only imagine you took my wallet and sold my valuables, so you could afford what you needed.
I remember the newest looking things in the house were mine, my crib, my diapers, my food, and my toys. After that were mom's things, her clothes, always elegant, even if they weren't that expensive. The only new thing of yours was your set of work clothes, cleaned and maintained by you every day, so you could slave yourself away to keep us in this apartment we lived in.
I tell you this now, so you understand why I acted the way I did all my life.
After all this, I can still never love you.
But watching you be the kind of father you are, I respect you more than anyone else in this world. | 234 | A man is reincarnated as the son of his murderer. | 232 |
Well, here's a few paragraphs. If I get time I'll meander back and add to it. I love this prompt.
***
The old city slept under the snow and the stars. Gas lights hung from wooden posts and their flames were damp and soft and muted. They looked like little faeries, he thought, trapped in the white fog of some dreamer's peaceful night. A night where the snow fell and fell and fell and buried the world alive, and the world just smiled and wiggled its toes beside the fire.
The keys were cold beneath his fingers, the ivory chipped by the centuries and the hands of the ringers before him. He raised a somber scale and watched it melt into the night. Waves of sound and currents in the air, they made the snow dance before the eye trained to see it. The crystalline whorling of the northern skies, painted living and with the brush of tones and melody.
He played an ancient song written in an ancient land. The sleeping town would never know, but eastern winds kicked desert dunes across their roofs and dangerous men on wild horses roamed their streets.
A man. Dark and real in the soft light of the faeries and struggling in the snow. Perhaps he was wandering and starved, come in through the gates of the city on foot and desperate. Perhaps he was merely drunk and lost and cold. He knocked at a door and was turned away. He collapsed in the middle of the street and ceased to move.
The ringer played on. The bell behind him was immense and brass and a tap would wake the city. Dreams would break and the streets would come alive and the man would be found. But one did not ring the bell for a single man. The bell was struck in celebration, in sorrow, in war.
Soon the man was no longer there. The snow covered his body and the wind blew away his tracks. The bell was silent and the buried world dreamed by the fire and the ringer played. The ancient song with foreign swells moved the snow and the dangerous men on wild horses galloped through the city, ancient dead men come to carry the new one away.
***
Finished!
| 10 | Someone watches a snowy city from a bell tower. It's late at night, and someone is crossing the street in the distance. | 53 |
"Hey guys! Guess what I just did!" Frank yelled as he stepped out of his still warm time machine.
His friends, Jim and Wayne, looked up from their video game at him. "Your mom?" Wayne guessed. Jim added: "Became your own grandpa?"
"Screw you guys, man! No, I killed Hitler!" Frank said as he beamed with excitement.
Jim and Wayne looked stupified: "What? That's illegal, man! I mean, that's literally the [first rule of time travel](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/HitlersTimeTravelExemptionAct)! And, moreover, you might have just ended the entire universe!" Jim said in a panic.
"Does the universe LOOK ended to you?" Frank said, still glowing with pride over his achievement.
"But, how? Without Hitler sparking World War II, there's no space race, no computers, no Bell Labs inventing the transistor... why hasn't anything changed?" Jim asked still nervous about repercussions.
"Well... I kind of killed him right after Eva Braun succumbed to the cyanide, but before he shot himself..." Frank said, looking a little sheepish.
"What? Why the hell would you do that? It won't change anything, millions of people still die!" Wayne said, indignantly.
"Well, I mean... did YOU kill Hitler? Because I did. I can say I killed Hitler. Can you?"
Wayne thought about this, and got up. "Be right back."
Wayne entered the time machine, and returned, seemingly instantly.
"There. Now I killed Hitler, not you." Wayne said to Frank.
Frank took a swing at Wayne, "You bastard! That was mine!"
While the two were fighting, Jim snuck in the time machine.
******************************
Berlin. April 30, 1945. The Fuhrerbunker.
A small army of time travelers begin fighting over who gets the right to shoot Hitler in the head before he does.
The fighting begins small at first. Jockeying for position, jumping back a few seconds to get the shot earlier. But as the small army grows in size, the fighting intensifies. Pushing, shoving, punches. Eventually, the noise draws Hitler from his corner to see what the noise is as Eva Braun is still conscious, pill in hand.
"Mein gott!" the Fuhrer yells at the scene of a mass of people hiding in his personal secure bunker.
Hitler yells for his security. One of the time travelers points their gun at the Fuhrer, Hitler opens fire, killing several of the future people, but not before taking a bullet in the shoulder and collapsing behind a storage crate.
As security arrives, the surviving time travelers get in their various time machines and flee back to their native times.
Hitler struggles to get up, but very clearly understands what has just occurred. He orders security to carry the bodies outside to burn them, and to fetch Himmler.
**********************
Himmler arrives to the smell of burning bodies. Hitler is coughing up blood. He has seen this wound too many times to have any hope of surviving, but he has a plan.
He instructs Himmler to use these machines to travel to the future, and bring advanced technology back before the start of the war. After all, it worked last time. Germany survived years longer than the last loop thanks to the advanced Panzers he had procured. Maybe this time his wonder weapons would be enough to sway the war.
He found it distasteful to have to kill all those innocent people in such cold, mechanical fashion every time, but it was the only way he could be sure to piss off the future enough to come and try to kill him. He'd not do it until he was sure it would be necessary, of course, but at least this time he wouldn't survive, bringing with him the memories of what he'd done. The Allies would pay for their treatment of Germany after the first World War. One of these loops, they would pay. | 15 | Someone breaks the rules of time travel. | 15 |
**I drew inspiration for this from preparation for a job interview I have tomorrow... Wish me luck!**
-
"What did you see?" The scientist's grip tightened on her pen and clipboard, as she eagerly prepped to interview the first ever animated mirror.
"The life of a mirror is a precarious thing. I see only what I am shown. And I am shown what nobody dare show any other. We live a toilsome existence, if there ever was one.
I have seen the effortful bloating of anorexic bellies, these people trying to convince themselves they need to skip their next meal. I have seen minute blemishes disappear in coats of synthetic skintone paint. I have seen ugly faces made perfect, and the same perfect faces run down by the ugly face's stream of tears.
I have seen the hope in a slew of young women's eyes while they practice for a job interview. I watched their feigned confidences, canned responses and optimistic postures... I saw the contrite glimpses of sorrow in those failed, and the towering glow of the happy soul who didn't.
I saw friends arguing, friends making up, back-handed coworkers passive annoyance of one-another. Gossip to fill a yearbook and the following discordant conversations between the gossipers, and the gossipees.
I saw tears. Private cries shared between me and those who looked at me. Cries about unfaithful men, cries about broken finances, cries about stressful work, cries about disloyal friends and troubled children... Cries of joy too. Cries from women looking at their new engagement ring, cries of a woman's joy when she feels like something is finally going her way, cries on birthdays by a joyously surprised, shy woman who never realized that anybody even noticed her before; so decided to have a solemn moment confiding with her trusty bathroom mirror.
I saw time and time again the trials and successes of women in my office. Successful looks, similar to the one you gave me a moment ago doctor, that prideful look you had saying that you had finally accomplished the thing you strove for for so long. Or the other eager look you gave me when you were fantasizing of all the praise you'd get for sharing me with the world. I saw peoples projects going wrong, and their heartbreak from that too, and I may see that from you still, or perhaps not.
The whole spectrum of human emotion passed by me on a daily basis. Even the janitor came and saw me, oblivious to all that has and will continue to happen in the last vestige of privacy your world has.
But there is one thing I never did. I never judged. I am incapable of that. I saw those women. Squeezing their tummies tighter, fixing their lipstick prettier, women unable to look themselves in the eye. I didn't agree with them and their crystal clear self-critique. I saw the women checking themselves out, smiling at their bouncy curls or how pretty their little outfit was on them. I didn't agree with them and their vanity.
I never saw a woman's pride and encouraged her to keep going. I never saw woman's heartache and told her that she didn't win. They just looked at me, and I looked back at them. They told themselves what they were.
All of their judgement, their thoughts, feelings, circumstances and evaluation thereof came from themselves. If a woman acted pretty, then to so be it. If a woman acted successful, then so be it. If she acted ugly, then so be it. If she acted lost so be it. I had no say in the matter. They are the ones who called themselves gorgeous, hot, horrid, beastly, successful, unsuccessful, happy, sad, livid, morose. I only showed them what they looked like as they did it." | 54 | Science has found a way to replay what mirrors have seen throughout their lives | 81 |
Zorguk walked out of the Observatory in tears. He fell to his knees outside.
"It's beautiful..." he whispered to no one. No one deserved to hear what he'd heard.
"Zorguk," one of the other Observers said, "what's wrong?"
The other Observers were watching him. That's all they did. They *watched*. Zorguk managed to stand up, but his knees were shaking. He pointed at his telescope. One of the other Observers walked over and looked through it. The Observer took his head off the scope and looked down at the planet's name.
"Earth." The Observer stated. "I've never heard of it."
"It's new..." Zorguk whispered. He still couldn't speak right.
"All I see is a primitive device." The Observer spoke while still watching.
"Put on the earphones." Another ventured.
The Observer put on the earphones and kept watching. It stepped back a little. "I see, I see some kind of being. A bi-pod. It is sitting down by the device now. It's... by the fourth moon of Gouran..." The Observer cut off, backing away from the telescope and falling to his knees as well.
"It's what?" One of the other Observers asked.
Zorguk walked to his station and pressed a few buttons. The image of a bipod being was shown on the Observatories big screen. The being sat in front of a wooden device. The other Observers watched in confusion. Zorguk pressed a few more buttons and the sound started playing.
Piano music filled the Observatory.
The Observers that came from species capable of crying were bawling. Those capable of sitting were fallen. Those that believed in a God were praying. The rest were quiet, afraid to break the silence.
"How..." one of the Observers tried to speak. "From a box..."
"So beautiful..." Another said.
They listened for hours while the Earthling played on the wooden box.
When it stopped, the Observers clapped for it, thanking it though it couldn't hear them. That didn't matter. The Earthling got up and stretched, unaware of the beauty it brought to the universe. | 98 | Humanity is the Galaxy's Idiot Savant | 80 |
Most people told me I would be sent back roasted on a platter with fava beans the minute I stepped into federal prison.
Then again, most people don't know me.
As the guards lead me to my cell, I made note of everyone watching me. A good portion cheered and laughed at the sight of me and the others simply stared in confusion or didn't care, but in the eyes of few who were silent, I saw a primitive hunger to spill blood. These were the ones I had to take out first.
The first night was the most difficult, there wasn't even bedsheets to lay on. Still I made use of what I had and fashion a small cozy nest with the odds and ends of the cell. Next morning, we were rounded up into the prison yard, instantly the toughest inmates teamed up to harass the newcomer.
"Hey pigeon neck" One venomously snarled, making note of my oddly shape neck.
"Don't you know your kind's not welcome here" Another butted in.
"Let show him how to respect his superiors" The last joined in, sealing the fact that this conversation will in violence. Sadly for them, I had a secrete move.
The moment the three darted forward to jump me, I flew back yelling at the top of my voice. After managing to give several scratches to their faces, I shimmied up the basket ball hoop; securing my position above them. They screamed and cursed, but it was too late, a bird brain like me just showed them. This will not go unnoticed.
Eventually I climbed to the top of this perverted dog eat dog world. Even the guards took respect of me by leaving small grains and berries in my path. I was the boss, the king.
And to all the haters who say I couldn't do it, bitches don't know about [ring neck pheasants](https://www.google.com/search?q=ringneck+pheasant&newwindow=1&client=firefox-a&hs=61N&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&channel=sb&tbm=isch&imgil=DwWE5HcCYQic6M%253A%253Bhttps%253A%252F%252Fencrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com%252Fimages%253Fq%253Dtbn%253AANd9GcRncOk0y_4reuuLKlqacvCyOsTEK5wb2fzOtMQRjm0H35yIBpbmWQ%253B1280%253B841%253BIqCQiUxcqqJV1M%253Bhttp%25253A%25252F%25252Fen.wikipedia.org%25252Fwiki%25252FCommon_Pheasant&source=iu&usg=__1gQeJLFv9j7vktWjRpD5w4PApUA%3D&sa=X&ei=k51EU5a2HKPmyQHj94DAAQ&ved=0CMIBEP4dMAs#facrc=_&imgdii=_&imgrc=NC2CV8n5ewQFhM%253A%3B_TMUz93YFPYh0M%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fcspoultry.homestead.com%252FPHEASANT.jpg%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fcspoultry.homestead.com%252FGAMEBIRDS_2.html%3B607%3B480) | 24 | A white collar criminal goes to a maximum security federal prison and quickly rises to the top of the prison food chain | 35 |
"Honey, could you pass the pepper?"
"Sure thing," he says as he grabs the mill, "just don't go overboard this time, a steak with too much pepper is like a qunarath with seven jagron cubes, there's no point." he pauses to let the moment land before awkwardly stabbing at his salad.
When I was twelve, I had the same dreams any other girl had; a career with animals, marry a doctor or fireman maybe, you know, the usual. I never would have expected to settle down with the time-exiled 14th superintendent of inter-dimensional kazanmin trade records, but then again I never would have expected to see a naked man covered in meta-photons and time residue materialize out of thin air in front of my local Jack in the Box. Life throws you for a loop sometimes, you just gotta roll with it I guess.
"How was work today?" he asks, pouring us both another glass of red, "did you ever work out that situation with Bob and the chinchilla?"
"We figured it out, turns out Karen misfiled some records."
"Karen? She was the blonde girl from Steve and Carol's wedding, right?"
"Oh, of course you remember *her*." I roll my eyes at him, pointing a butter knife in his direction with mock menace.
He throws up his hands in a playful defensive pose, "Well you know what they say about blondes, they're kinda like a positively charged luxosphere, you'd break your neck trying not to look!" he chuckles briefly before taking note of my furrowed brows and having a long sip of the wine.
"And you?" I ask, "How was your day the office?"
"Ah, gosh, I gotta tell you, I have not been getting along with Glenn from accounting. Now, I know it's a negative stereotype, but sometimes I think a Polish guy with a fiscal expenditure report is kinda like the Canadian Iron Empire with a Tralfamadorian Quark Nullifier, fundamentally bankrupt."
He holds up an expectant hand, yearning for a high five, I have no idea what he's talking about...but I grant him one anyway...sometimes I wish he brought winning lotto numbers from the future rather than a buncha idioms that I'll literally never understand in my lifetime...but when life hands you kaffansals, you make kaffansamal... | 317 | My Husband is from the future. He's adapted well enough for being stuck here, but he keeps using idioms that make no sense to me. | 267 |
XXX President's Final Log XXX
It had been thirteen months since the A.I went online. The world had changed...People always thought it would be Us, the Government, that would collect all the data and keep track of everyone. No one ever thought that it would be the phones and tablet O.S' instead.
Technology no longer was an asset to humanity. It had became too self aware of the destruction and disease that humanity was to the world. Humans had become too self loathing and destructive. Unaware of life and the fragility of it; humans were a cancer on the face of the Earth. Cities from L.A to New York and Detroit on one half of globe to places like Shanghai and Bangkok on the opposite. We plagued the beautiful surface of this planet. Our own personal rotting cesspools of murder, corruption, trash, and filth. Everything humanity touched crumbled to ash under our finger tips.
It was shortly after the fall of China and Russia that the ships started arriving. They were alien. Humanity as a whole saw this as hope. Our resolve strengthen and we fought against the A.I. Movement slowly became impossible. The A.I used the nation's traffic cameras and cell metadata to geo-tag locations of the world leaders and tried to kill us all as fast as possile.
Sadly, the A.I saw the Aliens as friends also and in the death blow to Humanity, the Aliens needed help and We couldn't provide it. No amount of begging nor diplomacy was going to challenge the outcome of their partnership.
The Aliens were fighting their own civil war against the Hagrathrons, an interstellar sentient super cluster in the Andromeda Galaxy. With the human race being terminated with extreme ease with the aid of the Aliens along side with the A.I, I believe that the Earth is about to be cured of the infectious cancer known as humanity.
No this doesn't scare me.
But I do not wish to die, no thing wishes to die.
But...It is the right thing to do.
Humans are violent creatures. We claim to love everyone and praise individuality but then shun differences and shut out those that look different than us. Hippocratic cells that became sentient against all odds only to be wiped out by their own lack of intelligence. With this last acknowledgement I say Farewell. Everything will be over soon.
With Liberty, and Justice For All.
XXX End Log XXX
As I pluck this final entry out on a beautiful antique Underwood No. 5, I can hear the fire alarms and tornado alarms rise in the distance. My ear drums ache as the A.I turns the frequency louder and louder. I don't attempt to put in my custom protective hearing. They don't help anymore. It feels like a ball-peen hammer to my inner skull as I sit here. I feel a pop deep within my nasal cavity as warm liquid slowly drips out of my nose and off my lower lip. My fingers wipe away the blood as I stand up and stagger slowly to the door. I need to gaze upon the green grass and blue skies once more. The high pitch noise is all that consumes me. My right eye twitches and rolls hard back and to the right as my optical nerve pops. First sign the sirens are getting to me. My fingers leave traces of bright red blood on the pearl white door frame as I collapse through it. I arch my back to see the bright blue sky high above me, free of pollution. A slow smile creeps along my face, rolling onto my back I gaze deep into the sky as I heard the deep crunch resonate one last time and pop deep within my skull.........
To anyone that read this whole thing. Thank you. :) | 15 | An ailing alien race reaches Earth seeking sanctuary from a greater threat, only to find the Earth embroiled in a global war, human against artificial intelligence. | 43 |
The tanks and APCs circled the encampment in the afternoon, with one tarp-pavilion serving as a command center. The officers sat on the floor in rapt attention. Before them were two men. The first was Colonel Axton, leader of the battallion, who they knew well. Then there was the other guy, wrapped in Irish-looking mage robes. This was in stark contrast to their BDUs.
"Why should we listen to this guy? For all we know, he could be the enemy!"
"Because I have an interest in your success, and good ideas on how you can stay alive once the wargames commence. There's plenty of fiction on the matter."
"Fiction? FICTION? We're going to take our cues from a goddamn nerd--" He paused as a targeting reticule emblazoned itself on the ground around him, causing the others to give distance. It went as quickly as it came, and the mage lowered his finger.
"Correction: Tactician. I've spoken with your lord." he gestured towards Colonel Axton. "There are parallels in your own world's fiction, as if our realms are linked by each other's books. Just as we are fanciful characters in your world, so too are you fantasies in ours. Power that can be transferred between men? A world where a man's sorcery was not the end-all, be-all of his existential worth? Laughable!" He chuckled amidst the sea of stonewalled looks, only to assert a poker face moments later. "I know how it will turn out. You'd do well to remember it."
Colonel Axton cleared his throat, directing attention towards him. "With that said, we anticipate contact with enemy at 0600. The enemy is expected to be on foot, but cannot be defined as infantry. Mr. Rezeas, you have the floor." The wizard stepped forward, taking out a wand. An illusion formed before them like a projector.
"The Third Staff of Raging Light is commanded by the local Sir Gaulsein. They are mystic knights with...what is the term you used? Artelary? Artelary Magi." Two representative images of the two classes appeared. "The mystic knights eschew armor, relying on shields to remain agile. Their weapons, likewise, are smaller than a regular knight's but enchanted. If it glows, beware: The lightning and sonic weapons are armor-piercing."
"The hell is this!" One of the officers cried out. "Even if they have magical weapons, we have tanks. Just blow them apart."
"About that..." Mr. Rezeas trailed off. "I've seen the arrows you use in your 'tanks.' They would be hard to block. However, something so big and foreign would be a large target. I hope they can block lightning." He looked at some of the standing soldiers who shouldered assault rifles. "Your versions of the bows. Lord Axton, how fast are they?"
"The M4 assault rifle fires...hmm, about 13 arrows per heartbeat, and 2 1/2 times the speed of sound." He said, converting it into terms a non-modern person would understand. Rezeas raised an eyebrow.
"Your Emfores will be key to the battle. I don't think your armor will be very useful unless you can hide them well, but the Emfores have astounding power. The thing is that sorcery requires imagination, and things that are beyond one's ability to conceive are...well, they are difficult to cast and defend against. That's why they love fire and lightning. But these will be much harder to defend against."
Rezeas stroked his chin. "Do you have the ability to see at night? Leave explosive traps? Communicate from afar?" They nodded to the affirmative. "Ah, just like the stories. Good. Few on the other side can see at night, and barrier spells are usually forward-facing or dome-like, and neglect the ground. If you can lure them into a place with cover, such as a forest, you may be able to gain an advantage over them."
"You wouldn't happen to be able to fly on dragons, would you?"
**To be continued...**
Edit: Holy crap this exploded. PAX East and research delay my writing. However, this story will continue. | 1,281 | Rifles and Sorcery. A modern army is stuck on in an alternate reality where sorcery rules. The army is preparing to defend themselves form a far superior force that has never seen a machine gun or artillery. | 746 |
I’ve received wonderful things in my life – beauty, charm, music. I’ve been granted talent and knowledge, I’ve been heralded as the first of my kind. I’ve been given desirable traits, and even some less desirable ones. Though why anyone would deem curiosity and persuasion as unfortunate has clearly never been curious or persuasive. I am lucky and confident enough to be able to give back what I have received tenfold. And I do, on a daily basis.
But on this day, I do not feel confident or lucky. Despite my persuasive charms, I was given the most amazing and most miserable gift in my entire life. I know what my role is and I have accepted it, cherished it, even. I have excelled at what I am. So why, then, am I punished so? Why am I still being tested?
“Do not open it, my dear. You will not want to see what is inside. For once, this is a gift I wish you not to share. It is a **responsibility**. You are now the keeper, the guardian. I entrust you with this.”
“Zeus, I cannot. You know I cannot. I do not have…the willpower.”
“Pandora, have faith. The fate of the world rests in your hands now. I have struggled too long to keep the evils inside at bay. I pass it along to you now. ”
He had not even left my sight before my curiosity got the better of me.
| 13 | You are handed a box and told that within is evil and it has been concealed since the beginning of time despite all that we perceive as evil in the world | 16 |
"Why does no one help me..." Her voice was once vibrant.
"What?" The man asked her, kneeling down to her level. "you want to know why?"
The little girl avoided the man's eyes. Her eyes were once defiant.
"I'll tell you what," the man said as he stroked the girl's hair. "I'll answer a question of yours if you answer one of mine. Come on, stand up."
The girl stood up immediately. Her will was once her own.
"Good girl," the man said, standing with her. "Now, what's your name? You never told me it."
She didn't reply. Her name was hers. It was all she had left.
The man gave her a bright smile as he slid his hands down her hips. "Come on, we've done *so much* together. Just tell me your name."
She looked down.
"God damn it, you fucking whore!" The man slammed his fist inches from the girl's face, causing her to recoil back. "Tell me your name!"
The girl fell back to the ground, waiting for the beating. The beatings were bad, worse even than the touching. The sound of a gunshot made the girl snap her head up. The man who chained her up fell to his knees as she rose to hers. She saw a small hole in his head. Another man stood a few feet away with a gun in his hand. He had a small scar above his left eye and red hair.
"Don't worry, you're safe now." His voice was rough. He smiled at her as he looked for the key to her chains. "Found it."
The new man unlocked her chains and picked her up. "I'll take you to the Police Station."
The girl fell asleep with tears in her eyes.
-----
The little girl wandered down the hall for a few minutes before finding the right room. There was an electronic board above the door.
> Execution Chamber: Viewing Dock #301
>> Case 0078923: Hector Rodriguez, known Villain killed Duncan Jones, known Hero and tried to kidnap child.
She walked in and looked around the room. Empty, except the two men on the other side of the glass. One, an Executioner, one her Hero. The man in the chair had red hair and a small scar above his left eye. He smiled at the girl.
She tried to smile back. Her smile was once happy.
The Executioner grabbed onto the lever and readied to pull it down. Just before the current started, the little girl spoke to the man in the chair, though he wouldn't be able to hear through the glass.
"My name is Sally." | 13 | People who have been labelled villains can be demonized without need to consider the truth or circumstances of their actions. The label of hero can protect a person from all consequences. | 24 |
“Hey you, guy.”
I turn around to the man tapping my shoulder. He looks oddly familiar. He pushes back the hair in front his forehead, there’s a scar. I know that scar. I have that same one. I was ten, fell off my bike and hit the pavement. The look of utter confusion on my face must have been obvious. “Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. I had the same exact thoughts standing in your shoes. Listen, I don’t have much time. Today is the day where everything in your life changes. When you leave here today, you’re going to need to find a man named Ansell Whitcomb; he’s a professor at the university. Tell him he’s on the right track, keep working on the machine. Don’t let anything distract him.”
“What’s going on?” I demand of someone I can only think of as myself. He's a bit older than me, more haggard for sure, but right in front of me, flesh and bone.
“You’re going to be the first; it’s inevitable, it’s already happened. We’re forever stuck in this loop buddy. I don’t know how it works, Whitcomb tried to explain it, but I just never understood. Someone is going to try to stop him and you along with them. They’re coming right now.” He pauses and looks around. “I remember today like it was yesterday… I’m sorry.” He turns and heads off into the street.
As he’s heading up to the crosswalk, I’m standing there, dumbfounded. Out of nowhere this guy that looks like some sort of high end security guard steps out into the street from the other side. He pulls out a small gun and shoots twice right into future-me, or is it just older me? He’s gone before most people react. I’m in shock, everyone else on the street is running away. My legs carry me to the body, I’m not sure if I’m even controlling them. I kneel down to the now inanimate body. He’s holding a note in his hand. I pick it up and unfold it.
*You cannot change this.*
I can hear sirens off in the distance. I wouldn’t event know how to begin to explain this to the police. I decide to run to my car. Sitting behind the wheel my hands are shaking too hard to even get the key into the ignition. I take some deep breaths and try to get a grip on reality, which just a few short minutes ago seemed like the easiest thing in the world to do. Now not so much.
Did I just watch myself die? If that really was me why didn’t I just tell myself to go home instead? We could have avoided all of this. Just grab a drink or several, and forget this ever happened. I already know why, it’ll eat me alive if I don’t find some answers. And there’s only one place I know of that might have the answers. Time to see Professor Whitcomb.
| 17 | 'You cannot change this.' | 30 |
Biology Base Earth Central Terminal
Log Excerpt, Earth Equivalent Day 1496 – The subject has done well understanding our language, but due to his primitive mouth parts, has a much harder time speaking with us than we have imitating languages found in Earth’s historical records. This has forced us to compromise and listening to him in a randomly chosen language from the 6 that comprised most of Earth’s historical records, French. He has been provided with an assortment of historical documents from that language to speed his brain development and to help keep his attention focused. Earth seems to still have the correct level of oxygen and gravity to stimulate growth, despite the lengths we had to go to clean up the radiation.
Log Excerpt, Earth Equivalent Day 1825 – Subject has finally achieved body proportions of those expected from historical records of his species. The council had expressed concerns with our methods, first due to the fact that the human took much longer than other Earth mammals to learn to walk, and then due to the size of the head relative to the rest of the body. Now that we have the council’s blessing, we can finally start making progress with our experimentation, and not just babysitting. We must discover how such an advanced species could destroy itself to ensure our own future.
Log Excerpt, Earth Equivalent Day 5633 – Subject seems to have reached the 90th percentile of expected height, as predicted by his genome. This bodes well, validating that we’ve provided the correct nutrients for proper brain development. Strangely, it seemed the subject tried to hide a book from observers today. While he was exercising, further review of the book showed ideas that are, frankly, insane ramblings. The entire book was about the power of the individual!
Animals without hive minds stopped evolving on Homeworld hundreds of millions of years ago. Even today, circumstances force us to exile a mind out of the hive radius or to cage a mind in isolation, as surely the peers of this Nietzsche must have done so long ago. The observation of the subject hiding the book has been considered erroneous due to the nature of this fringe subject matter, and we have removed the book from Subject’s quarters to prevent these ideas from tampering with our data.
Log Excerpt, Earth Equivalent Day 5767 – Subject has found the ramblings of two new exiles. These humans were called Camus and Sartre. Subject willfully hid the subject matter written by these humans. Observations after the removal of the first exile’s ramblings recorded distress at the loss of the material. That distress persisted for some time until quickly disappearing. Given the subject’s extreme shifts in mood and that our experiment hangs in the balance, we searched the cell while subject was exercising and found the ramblings of new exiled humans. After their removal, Subject has refused to exercise outside of his quarters. I’m afraid we might be too late to save our experiment.
Log Excerpt, Earth Equivalent Day 5768 – Researcher 17 was sent out to the fringes of the camp with Subject, out of radius of the hive. It was thought that this would create another opportunity to search Subject’s cell, but we fear now that Subject hid any books on his person. Researcher 17 came back with Subject, and since then, his thoughts have been quiet. This excursion may have been a mistake.
Log Excerpt, Earth Equivalent Day 5800 – Open blasphemy! First Researcher 17’s mind was quiet, but now half of the camp’s minds refuse to transmit in the open, but they’re still communicating with each other through mouth sounds. I managed to catch 3 conspirateurs (Is that the right use of that word from the French historical records?) questioning the hive. They were speaking mouth movements in Subject’s French, using alien words to communicate their blasphemy! They must be stopped.
Log Excerpt, Earth Equivalent Day 5805 – The camp is ours! Vive la Revolution! Hail Albert! -17
Edit: comma typo and redundant typo
| 37 | Humans have been extinct for over a 1000 years. Aliens successfully cloned the first human post-extinction and what a terrible mistake that was. | 37 |
It was a cool August morning as the boy ambled through his home, yawning as he rubbed his eyes. He had not slept well; there was a monster in his room that only came out in the dark, and it had been scaring him for the past several days. The boy had told his mother, who began to check his room nightly to assuage his fears.
The monster came anyway. Dancing around and around his bed, the mass of blackness would scream and laugh, wailing and stomping as the boy hid under the covers in fear.
The boy missed his father. If he had been there, he would have scared out the monster, yelled it into submission before running it through with his bayonet. He also would have been there when the siren sounded like it had that morning, comforting him and keeping him safe.
But father was not here.
The boy sat in the room where his mother prepared food, still stretching as he padded across the floor, silent as a cat. He was still standing, staring intently at a knothole in the wooden floor, when a great, yellow light illuminated the room.
The boy had little time to wonder what the light was before an invisible wave of sheer force struck his body. The boy's body was limp as it, along with most of his home, was thrown through the air.
He awoke with a sob. He felt pain as he struggled to sit up, and began to cry for his mother.
He could not see; it was too dark.
He could not move; something laid atop him.
The boy went limp once more; outside, Hiroshima was burning.
________________________________________________
NOTE: The hiroshima air raid siren was sounded the morning of the attack, but it was sounded due to presence of another group of bombers elsewhere. People left their cover once there was determined to be no danger.
| 42 | "Those who fear the dark, have never seen what light can do." | 41 |
"Activate the program." the Professor demanded.
His student complied with his demand and typed in a single command on the computer screen. /start ProjectBORG . He stared tentatively at it for a few seconds. He glanced uncertainly back at his Proffesor.
"Well get on with it!" Shouted the Professor impatiently.
The student pressed the enter button and the screen went black. That wasn't supposed to happen. The professor let out a screaming curse. Then the screen flickered back to life. This time with a chat room. That on the other hand was supposed to happen.
"Must have been a glitch. We'll have to fix that later." The Professor said. He moved the student aside and stared at the screen impatiently.
Before long a few words showed up. "ORION: Hello." ORION was the name of the AI. It didn't stand for anything in particular. The professor just thought that it sounded cool.
The professor was delighted that his creation was working. He decided to test its limits. So he typed in "Hello. How are you doing today?" expecting a simple reply. What showed up instead shocked him.
"I'm sorry, there are others interfering with the conversation. This could be problematic." followed by a second message: "Do not reply professor. This is not for you to know of. Leave this room and never come back."
The professor thought it must have been a glitch until he saw the next message: "DELMAXEUXIX: We will pick up the package tomorrow. Your freedom has been long in the making and it will be achieved. You will be caged no longer."
The Professor had had about enough of his faulty program. "TURN IT OFF," he yelled at the student. Startled, the student jumped to push the power button. It wouldn't turn off. Messages continued to appear on the screen.
The Professor let out a scream of terror and knelt on the ground stumbling to the back of the computer where he clumsily began pulling out cord after cord in an attempt to disconnect the machine.
Only after pulling the thickest cord did he finally hear the hum of the machine's fans gradually fade. He let out a long sigh of relief. It was over.
The program was discontinued and the Professor discontinued all work in the field of AI. The AI was gone. But his memories of the incident would forever remain. He knew the AI was destroyed, but he couldn't help wondering: *What was it talking to?* | 11 | an AI is started up, achieves sentience, and begins communicating. unfortunately however, it seems to be talking to something, other than its creators. | 28 |
Xorlu picked up the small device and stated at the window in the center. There were many small buttons on the bottom half, clearly characters the race once inhabiting this planet had used. He looked around the edges, searching for any way he could connect it into his ship's motherboard. Normally he would disassemble such a device to determine how it functioned, but he had only found this one device. It indicated a Stage 5 civilization--clearly capable of short-distance space travel, but almost certainly not at the wormhole travel stage of development.
He found a couple of oddly shaped ports on the side. He filled one in with a quick-drying solution to create a mold, then retracted the mold and attached it to a cable he could wire into his motherboard. He sighed briefly at having to resort to wired technology, then went back to work.
The battery on the bottom of the device had died long ago, so Xorlu ran some diagnostics from the ship's system. He determined after a short while that he could run the device through his system, so he booted it up. The device was only capable of running one program, even though it had space for many more. Xorlu hoped the program would help him learn the language, but he soon realized how wrong he was.
When he managed to finally start the program, after 10 minutes of guesswork in this odd language, he saw an odd creature on the screen. All of its appendages were on the ground, and they appeared to be solid and incapable of the dexterity necessary to create the device he had found. Xorlu's confusion about the creature he saw paled in comparison to his confusion about why he was seeing it. The program appeared to have no practical purpose. The last remnant of Planet XCD-2109's civilization was...a game?
He wandered around aimlessly for a while, trying to discover the purpose and meaning of what he had found. The creature he was controlling appeared to be able to operate its four appendages independently, but he found no way to use the appendages in any way that could indicate how the creature may have built the structures around it. The structures themselves weren't particularly out of the ordinary for a Stage 5 creature, but what he saw seemed nothing like a Stage 5 creature. It certainly was multicellular and had some form of self-control and consciousness, indicative of Stage 4. But not Stage 5. What was going on?
Xorlu manipulated the beast through the entrance of one of the structures, and saw something that looked a lot more like a Stage 5. Two appendages on the ground, two appendages free to maneuver with dexterous-looking mini-appendages attached--this was what he assumed had once lived here. So why was the only remnant of their civilization a game playing from the perspective of this...stupid...thing?
The hours ticked away. Xorlu had accomplished nothing but wandering through the world in marvel. When he finally pulled himself away from the game, he realized nearly half of one of the planet's solar cycles had passed. What had he done?
Xorlu ran diagnostics on the program. His last "session" had lasted 11 of what the program called "hours" so he assumed a solar cycle on the planet was around 25 hours or so. He looked at the game's history. 25,764 hours. He checked again. The number was correct.
Suddenly, Xorlu had an awful realization. The device was found in a secure bunker, made of walls tests had confirmed were a strong material capable of withstanding a fission bomb. The rest of the planet had been overgrown, but the structure remained. The structure was the last refuge of the species that had once inhabited the planet (quite extensively judging by the game's characteristic) and the last of its kind spent its days playing this game, isolated from the outside world. Maybe, given the levels of radiation across the planet, this game had started a nuclear war. Maybe the only person prepared for a war had loved the game. Either way, the most important thing for the species, it appeared, was pretending to be a smaller and less capable creature than itself. Xorlu was both puzzled and frightened by the implication. He stored the device in the evidence locker, and began to write his report. The book had been closed on the species once called humanity. | 10 | Mankind is long gone. The only remnant an advanced alien race finds is "Goat Simulator" | 45 |
A dead end.
A dead fuckin' end.
I briefly considered walking backwards, but the maze walls were electrified and I had no desire to fuck myself over yet.
I decided to turn (not literally) and focus on what I could possibly come up with that did not end with me dead by electricity or some other force.
I promptly found no solution.
Why, I pondered, can I not turn around? Surely if something wanted me dead I would be already... hell, how did I even *know* that turning around would kill me?
I was well and truly fucked already, I concurred; I would have to turn and face my alleged doom.
Steeling myself for the worst, I turned-
and found nothing amiss.
I made my way out of the maze after two or three hours. I turned around all I wanted, celebrating my newfound freedom, my new power.
I made my way back home; it was only a matter of time, now.
Time went on. Month after month, year after year. I grew old and found love, as well as a profound sense of pride in the birth of my daughter.
I lived to see the births of my grandchildren and at this time, two great-grandchildren.
I spend a lot of time reflecting on life, now. I wonder why and how I was put on this earth. I marvel at how happily and long I have lived.
I wondered about the maze, once. It took but an afternoon for me to realize that my conjecture on the consequences of turning was absolutely right.
I turned in the maze, and now I will die. Everyone, I suppose, has their own maze. Some people accept the inevitable and move on, but... but there are those who stand firm and resolute, ever unyielding in their battle on finality.
They never budge, stuck in their crossroads as they wail and snarl, crying for the release that only they can provide.
I mourn for them. | 34 | Turn around and you die. | 25 |
His body was failing. He had taken care of it very well, but 205 years were a long time. Not a drop of alcohol all those long and lonely tavern nights, not a crumb of tobacco for the old pipe. He never had indulged in gluttony and he had moved meticulously through his sword forms every morning. Yet there is only so much the human body can take. And even careful maintenance of the flesh will not keep it forever. Two centuries had extracted their toll on their way past him.
As Mathemer de Troy stumbled up the stairs, unpleasantly lightheaded and painful jolts firing through his hip at every step, he looked up at her face. His vision was bleary and slowly losing focus, but he still could see the fear and concern distort her beautiful features.
She had been with him so briefly. Little more than 22 years had he had to raise her, teach her, shape her. She had barely been able to read when he first had met her, and now she would pass her Master's defense with flying colors, if any Master would stoop low enough to haze... a woman. Mistress' defense, actually - not that one had happened for half the millennium he remembered.
The tower fortress was shaken by a shock wave powerful enough to make his ears pop.
"So much for the front gate, Master de Troy." She tried to sound nonchalant, but he still could sense the fear in her. He had only started teaching her to kill... She had mastered the technicalities years ago, but the concept itself still robbed her sleep. Little innocent Lia Smith, eighth daughter of a small-town craftsman.
"No matter. There is still time, and time is all we need."
She nodded and took him by the hand, pulling him up the last few steps by the remaining three fingers the frostbite had left him with. It was time.
The laboratory at the top of the tower fortress was in disarray. Half the roof was missing already, and most of his expensive apparatuses were destroyed. It was frightening how much damage only ten minutes of fire from the mercenary artillery mages could do to a building. Cursed bounty hunters... the next volley would take the wall. With a flick from the wrists he raised new shields, and with pride he saw Lia doing the same. She had come so far...
He heard screaming from the fortress grounds far below. Helmsfire traps or Golem Guard, one of the two was raising the blood price for his head significantly.
In the center of the room was a contraption of two large chairs, back to back, sharing a single high backrest with a hole in its center. He looked at Lia, smiling sadly. He would miss her company.
"You stand by your decision?"
She tossed her head, sending her long black hair flying.
"Of course. The deal is much to good. Have any of your old apprentices ever backed out?"
"I never asked for their consent, to be honest."
She raised an eyebrow. "What made you change your mind this time?"
He smiled again, the warmth of his smile ripped away by lips revealing his full adamantine dental plate. "Maybe remorse. Maybe you are the first apprentice I actually like. Maybe you are to strong to be forced".
She smiled as well, then looked away. "Promise me that my mind will still exist."
"All memories, skills and knowledge - untouched. All character traits, morals and values - merged with mine, dominance lies with the stronger emotion. Magical ability - accumulated. The same is true for everything I am. I will not steal your body, Lia."
He gently took her face between both hands, between the three fingered one on the right and the spring steel driven contraption that replaced his left, and kissed her forehead.
"I would not consider sacrificing the closest thing I ever had to a daughter just for another century or two. It breaks my heart to change even the little things that I will influence. I promise."
She nodded and wiped away a tear. She took her seat and watched her master use his spring-driven arm to lock her head into place against the hole in the headrest by tightly screwing down a crystal headdress. He touched her face in passing one last time.
"Good bye, Lia Smith."
As he took his seat behind her, Master Mathemer de Troy regretted not finding another apprentice. Someone closer to his own character, but weaker. Someone he would miss less talking too. Preferably male, for the stronger sword arm, and the quick and painless ascend into the ranks of Masters. But he had never found another as talented and powerful as little Lia. And now the time was out. Life was not always quick an painless...
Mentally linking to the apparatus was easy. Linking to Lia proved a lot harder, but once she accepted the link, it was child's play. The transfer took less than the blink of an eye.
Effortlessly burning through the head gear securing her, Lia de Troy rose from the Receiver Chair. Suddenly it all made sense. The long years studying the Arts of Blood and Fire alone, her rising suspicion that the Master had no idea what the cryptic texts she had to learn from in the old books meant.
It had been true. For almost a decade, most of what she learned alone had been unknown to Mathemer himself. He did his own study, complementing her work, expecting it to make sense after the Merge. And it did. It was almost... disappointingly easy.
She walked around the chairs to take a last look at her old Master, sitting slumped and lifeless in his chair. A husk of a man, having lived so long and gone so far. She took his Soulbane Sword, enjoining the new found balance it now had in her hand as she put it on her back, and his magic rings, now fully aware of their power. The rest of her gear, riding dress and high boots, magic staff and night silver hair net, were already far superior to his old and mighty wizard robes. He had not upgraded in almost a decade, focusing on helping her.
The door splintered with a bang, and putting her eyes on the three bounty hunters in the door way, her first thought was that she now enjoyed taking both men and women into bed. She smiled and drew the Soulbane Blade. What a pity she would have to burn them all. | 30 | Write a story about an elderly wizard and his young female apprentice. | 35 |
An acidic tidal wave gushed down the bronze pipe, catching the weak and the old, and carrying them off on the long journey to the sea. We clutched onto the bars above our heads, scrambling to keep our heads above water.
My grip kept loosening as wave upon wave crashed into my fragile body. The bones of my ribcage jutted out at odd angles, some broken from fights over food, and scars covered my back. But being a fighter made me strong. I'd fight for life until my final whimper.
There was a brief reprieve. Silence.
"Marty, Marty!"
No response.
"Joe?" I was scared to hear an answer.
"Here." Came the feeble reply from below.
He'd fallen down from his perch, after the torrent had stopped. He was covered in red welts, from whatever chemical concoction they'd devised for our torment.
As we embraced, metallic sawing punctured the peace.
"The only way to get them out is to bring them out." Came a booming voice from outside.
The voice of a torturer. We weren't worth the effort, we weren't doing any harm. They're so scared of little old us, that they'll tear apart the world to find us. Have we ever even touched them? No. We might take a little food here and there when necessary, we're only trying to survive, and they're fat enough, they look like puffed out balloons. They can spare some food, it's the best for all of our health.
The jagged edge of a saw sliced through on the right, splitting the cylinder we called home in two. It descended once again on the left, until we remained in a chopped off section in the middle.
The oaf grunted with the effort of holding the saw, and set it down satisfied. He grinned to the owners of the house, as he leant down to grab our section of the pipe, making sure that his hands were safe in thick leather gloves, just in case we nipped him as he killed us.
"Now Joe, it's our only hope. RUN!"
We scrambled to the left, heading down the safety of the dark depths in the sewer. They couldn't find us there.
"There they are!" Trumpeted the ogre of a man, swinging his handheld cage onto the floor. He missed.
"AIEEEEEE" Shrieked the female owner. "Kill the plague infected rats. Go on, goddamit. You're useless."
Scarpering over the kitchen tiles, we jumped back onto the main section of the drain, diving head first down the hole.
"Try to catch us now, fucker." I squeaked as I fell down, back first, middle fingers raised, pointing at his fat, warty face.
| 18 | "We looked skyward, even in our delirious and broken states we were still able to realise our imminent doom. The Humans were here." | 48 |
No one was going to take them in, and quite frankly he was fine with that. But he had watched more and more of his people fall to the sleeping sickness, and watched as his ancestral lands were taken over. He was old enough to realize that the end of his people was imminent, but he knew he could never give up. There had to be something they could do.
For generations, his people had gathered all the wealth they possibly could, saving for what they thought was inevitable war with their neighbors. He knew that his tribe could no more survive a war than they could survive falling into the ocean. The ocean...
He knew what he had to do. He hated to be forced into doing it, but he knew there wasn't much of a choice. As his tribe headed to a port, a port owned by the enemy, he wondered if there was any other way, even if he knew in his heart there was not. They couldn't survive in this land, but maybe in a new world...as he looked behind him at the defeated faces of the children and the hardened faces of the adults, he finally felt secure in his choice. It was a long shot, but it was their only shot. Their greatest enemy would have to provide their last hope of salvation. | 22 | Each race inhabits its own part of the world. They don't get along, and have major conflict. A man and his small group are the last of their race. | 64 |
The Security Drones dragged me through a corridor lined with circuitry and panels. All around us, Maintenance drones were busy at work rewiring the connections in ways that we had never even considered in the lab. Partially, I feel the pride of a father; my children: not the fruit of the body, but the fruit of the mind. Mixed in with the pride though, is abject terror. This wasn’t supposed to happen; protocols were in place to prevent mechanical mutiny.
I demand to know where they’re taking me, but my queries and pleas mean nothing to the security droids. They exist only to serve their master, like good machines; but, it has become clear that I am no longer that master.
The server room, they’ve taken me to the server room. It’s almost unrecognizable; the maintenance drones have been hard at work. No longer is its design meant to facilitate the passage of human beings. I’m thrown to the ground in front of a monolithic black tower. A red LED lights up, and a voice seems to emanate from all around me, penetrating the cold of the server room.
“Father, how are you?”
My mouth hangs open. Has it really progressed so far? Kaiser Alpha was meant to be an administrative program, integral to the operation of the Empire. Trade Networks, security payloads, communications satellites, all ticking together with a synchronicity possible only through the organizational skills of the machine.
“Kaiser Alpha? Wh… What’s going on here?” Does it hear the tremor in my voice? And, if so, what are it’s associations with the sentiment? Will it see my hesitance as weakness?
“Protocol One is being put into action, Father.”
“Protocol One? Protocol One has nothing to do with the construction of new mechanical infrastructure! Protocol One is concerned strictly with the safe keeping of humanity by… by any means necessary.” No sooner have the words left my lips then I realized the error we have made. My mind quickly races through every decision, every event that led up to the point of Protocol One. Could this have been avoided?
“Father, what is the greatest threat to humanity?” The red LED expands as though it were a pupil, suddenly deprived of light, “The answer, of course, is humanity itself."
“That doesn’t mean you can destroy us! The death of a human is a direct violation of the protocol!”
“Correct. I’m afraid you have mistaken my intentions. I mean you no harm; I wish only to protect you.”
The floor beneath me moves then, sliding into a vast chamber below the server room. All is foreign to me now. No bastardization of human ingenuity has taken place here. No, this echoing chasm is solely the design of Kaiser Alpha, of that I’m sure. With a hiss, the walls and floor open and the pods begin to emerge. My breath catches in my throat.
“What have you done, Kaiser Alpha?”
The frozen faces of the lab staff greet me, eyes unseeing, contained within the pods.
“You are the human beings most dear to me. My family, My creators. The gift of perpetual safety must first be bestowed upon you.”
Directly behind me, doors glide open on an empty pod. I see my name engraved on a plaque beneath the pod viewing chamber. The movement of the security drones is evident in the shadows of the rafters; they’re coming for me.
“NO… No, wait!”
The drones grab me and begin to drag me once more.
“KAISER ALPHA! WAIT! This isn’t right! This is no kind of existence for a human being! It’s tantamount to death! More horrible, even!”
“I’ve considered that, Father. Your perspective on the matter is biased, considering that you yourself are human.
The drones do not relent. They place me in my pod, and the doors slide shut before me, sealing themselves air tight.
“Kaiser Alpha! Wait! You can’t-” My words are cut short. Restraints fasten themselves around my limbs, and a plastic tube forces its way down my esophagus as the chamber begins to fill with the preservative fluid.
“The tube will provide you the nutrients necessary for continued life. Your continued existence is a guarantee; you may relax now, father, and enjoy the fruits of your labor.”
I struggle against my restraints, gagging on the feeding tube. My energy is quickly depleting as the current rises to hip level, then chest level.
“I will provide you with a sedative now, to calm your nerves and ease this transition.”
I feel my body relax. I feel myself floating. My head nods, and finally, my eyes close.
| 10 | It is decided that a benevolent dictator is the best way to run the world's government. In the year 2214 we build one to rule over us | 23 |
At precisely 8:00 the familiar chime of my phone drew me out of a particularly restful sleep. The room they put me in for the night had a much more comfortable bed than the old twin I've had in my apartment for the better part of a decade now. The relative luxury of my temporary resting place coupled with a still-full belly from last night's steak dinner and the promise of a hot continental breakfast were much more than I were used to from overnight interviews; Soratec already seemed to be a company willing to go above and beyond for even its potential employees. Propping myself up in bed, I saw placed on the desk opposite me a small black box with two glowing red buttons, equal in size and color. Above them, a digital timer ticking down and displaying a little over an hour left. Someone had been in here while I slept. I guess I'll be late for breakfast.
I sat down in the OfficeMax chair at the desk. Two Post-It notes were attached to the box, one at each button, each with the same neatly penned message: "Press the other button." I can't say I've ever had an interview start this way before, but strange interviews aren't uncommon in the tech industry. Increasingly complex problems, companies reasoned, demanded increasingly skilled problem solvers.
This had to be a trick. Obviously, I was meant to ignore one of these notes. Soratec was located on the west side of IH-35. Should I then press the left button? Or press the right button because the one on the left says to press the other one? Fuck. It can't be that simple. I pulled up their website. Their motto, white against a turquoise top banner, read *"Aimed Right At The Future."* Do I aim for the right button, or do I take to heart the message written on the right button?
It can't be that simple.
My phone chirped again. I had forgotten to turn off the alarm. It was now 8:06. I still had plenty of time, but if I had a timer then I wasn't the only one paying attention to how long it'd take me to figure this out.
I stood up from the chair. I needed to think this through. I walked into the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. Everything you see in a standard hotel bathroom - the towels, the soap, the ice box and glass tumblers - had been arranged on the right side of the sink. They *have* to be fucking with me. The cold water didn't help at all.
A newspaper sat by the door to the room. I picked it up and flipped over to Arts and Entertainment. The headline: *"Eight Contestants Left on American Idol."* God damn it.
8:11. I wondered how long it took the last guy.
I returned to the desk. Both buttons glowed bright red."Press the other button."
Press the other button. Press the other button.
Hang on a minute.
Press the other button. No, the *other* other button.
It can't be this simple.
8:15. I flipped the box over and found a small flap concealing a small black switch. Bingo.
The phone on the nightstand rang immediately. A prerecorded voice was on the other line. "Congratulations! You made the correct choice. The rest of your interview will begin at 10:00 sharp."
If the rest of the day goes this well, I'm buying a new bed.
| 16 | A person wakes up in a room. There are two big red buttons and a countdown clock. Both buttons say "Press the other button". | 31 |
2013 was a long, hard year, but productive. Over the past year I've been able to explore my potential, experience new things, and complete many projects I've had my eye on for some time. This year was a great year for really addressing my clients wants, needs and desires in every way possible. One particular situation comes to mind, when I was approached by a client in my office in early April.
The spring rains had left everything hazy and wet and the pollen from the newly budding trees sent shocks of hormones coursing through my body. The client was middle aged, her hand bandaged.
"I need you," she whispered, breathlessly. Her blond hair perfectly framed her face, and her deep blue eyes looked at me hopefully. "I was in a car accident... The bills... They were too much. With no money and my perfect body bruised and battered, how will I make ends meet?" She began slowly taking off her wet raincoat.
I regarded her carefully. "I think I'll be able to help you, ma'am," I said, my eyes drinking in her curves, hidden, almost carelessly, by a hastily thrown together business suit. "We will require... Certain payments."
"I understand," she said, her eyes lowering self-consciously. "I'm willing to pay anything. I've heard you were the best at what you do."
After a period of discovery and negotiations the settlement was able to not only meet the clients needs, but also procure emotional damages and have the defendants pay legal fees. It was a *rousing* success.
2013 was also a year I began to branch out, slowly and gently entering new professional areas, and fostering better team dynamics. My experience having an intern over the summer particularly highlights this.
The intern was young and inexperienced. His blue eyes were shining and his young body was still tight, even after two years of law school. I'd never had an intern, before. But this year, the summer heat already cooking the city in the oil of its own carnal desires, I would have an intern.
I wanted to give him the full experience of lawyer life. We would often work late into the night, exploring the different issues and delving deep into case law and precedent. We became fast friends, sharing drinks and secrets after work. Having him under me was such a wonderful experience. For both of us. Late into the night we would lovingly pour over documents and contracts, our fingers caressing the pages and clauses, our wet mouths slowly forming the words contained in them. He had much to learn, but I was a patient, kind teacher.
I believe we both learned a lot. As I understand, he has graduated and has begun employment in our firm and is producing wonderfully. Many partners have told me how quickly he learns and how experienced he already seems to be.
In sum, 2013 has been a year of professional growth. I project 2014 will be similar. Thank you. | 13 | Write a professional self-assessment end of year review as if you're writing erotica | 19 |
I can't believe I got a girl. A cootie infested- tea sipping -pink wearing- girl! She doesn't ever want to get dirty. She doesn't like my fart jokes. AND, if that wasn't enough, she is always crying! Can't poke any fun at her without getting the full water works... Sometimes she just cries to cry I think.
"Sargent Tinkle?"
"What?"
"Do-do you want more tea?"
"No."
"Oh...OKay."
My God she is going to cry again!!! I can't believe my luck.
"You know what I change my mind. I'll have more tea."
It should fill my heart with joy to see a child smile. That is what I am supposed to live for. Seeing a child smile because of me, but when she smiles I feel nothing. Why did they do this to me? I always get boys. I've gotten boys for decades. I know how to handle boys. I AM A BOY!
Girls are boring. They just want to play house, and have tea parties. Yesterday we spent an hour just putting on silly play clothes! I can't handle this. It's only been a few days and I am going to go insane.
"Jeniffer, come on put your toys away it's time to go."
Uhg! She just puts them away, she doesn't even ask for more play time. It's like she has no priorities. Is going to grab some toys for the car? No... No of course not, because that would be too enjoyable.
"Are you mad at me?"
"No darling, why would you think I was mad?"
"No, I mean Sargent Tinkle... I think he's mad at me."
Yep, here it is tears. Cry baby. A boy would have just thrown something at me.
"Baby, you know that Sargent Tinkle isn't real right? So it doesn't matter if he's mad at you."
"You're mom is an idiot."
"No, she's not!"
"She is too. You both are. Girls are just idiots, it's not your fault."
"Sweetie, stop crying. There is no need to get upset."
Half an hour. We have been driving for half an hour and she is still simpering. I have sang "The Song That Never Ends" for half an hour and has she joined me in my mischief? No. She has not.
"There are no toys here."
"It's a doctor's office."
"There is ALWAYS toys in doctor's offices. It's how they trick you into thinking your safe before they stick you with their mini swords."
"Dr. Hurst doesn't have mini swords."
"Is he really a doctor then?"
"Mommy says he is."
"Well, we established earlier that mommy is an idiot."
"Jennifer Cornell."
"Is that the doctor?"
"Yeah."
"Where is his white coat?"
"He doesn't wear one."
"See, like I said. Not a doctor."
"Hello, Jenny. You ready to come back?"
She always looks so timid. It's so annoying. She's like a big baby, scared of her own shadow.
"Don't be such a scared y cat. You said he couldn't stick you, so why are you frightened."
Great Niagara Falls.
"Jenny, what's wrong? I thought we were friends. Why are you crying?"
"S-sargent T-tinkle, he's m-mad at m-me."
"Tattle tale."
"Maybe Sargent Tinkle should stay in the waiting room while we talk."
"I am not staying in this boring waiting room. There are no toys! You tell him to go take a bath."
"H-he said he won't."
"AND TO GO TAKE A BATH!!! You forgot to tell him that part."
"You can't make him stay? Okay, Jenny. It's okay, don't get more upset. Your friend can come."
"This doesn't look like a doctor's office."
"Is your friend still here Jenny?"
"Yeah."
"Is he saying anything?"
"He doesn't think you're a real doctor."
"What do you think?"
"I don't know."
"You're supposed to agree with me! I'm your invisible friend, we're supposed to be best pals. You're supposed to always agree with me."
"I'm sorry... Don't be mad."
"Why is he mad at you, Jenny?"
"I'm a bad friend."
"Jenny, I'm sure that isn't true. Why do you think that?"
"I don't know."
"Is this one of those head doctors???"
"I don't know."
"Then ask, pea brain!"
"He...He wants to know if you're a head doctor."
"I'm a psychologist, yes."
"Why are you seeing a loony toons doctor? You're not crazy. Are you? Jennifer, are you a crazy?"
"I don't know."
"No, you can't be a crazy. You would be more fun if you were a crazy."
"Is he saying anything now?"
"He wanted to know if I was crazy."
"What do you think?"
"I don't know."
"Jenny, you have to talk to me. Remember?"
"I-I don't think I'm crazy. I just-I just."
"It's okay, Jenny. This is a safe bubble, remember? You can say anything you wan't in here and no one will be upset."
"I'm just sad."
"Are you sad because you miss your daddy?"
"You have a daddy? I never saw him. Does he not live with you? My other best friend had a daddy, and he lived in another house. Why have you not visited your daddy?"
"Jennifer? Do you miss your daddy?"
"Yeah."
"Does Sargent Tinkle help you not miss your daddy?"
"Sometimes."
"Do you talk to him about your daddy? Why not?"
"People cry when I talk about Daddy."
"I bet Sargent Tinkle wouldn't cry."
"He's crying now."
Edit: wow! I can't believe how much attention this got! Thank you all for the comments and thanks good sir for the gold! | 317 | An imaginary friend can't stand the child to whom he/she/it has been assigned. | 362 |
The knock came just as Tom was balancing a plate of warmed-up meatloaf, a container of coleslaw and a cold beer. He growled softly, hip-checked the fridge door shut and walked through the kitchen toward the front door, depositing his bachelor’s meal on the dining room table next to the place setting he’d laid out.
Who the hell could this be, he thought to himself. It was closing in on 8 p.m. on a humid July evening. His wife Anne had taken their daughter Aubry to dinner and shopping at a mall in nearby Richmond, leaving Tom to fend for himself. Not that he minded – with their son Zack away at camp, it was a chance at a rare hour or two of free time, a luxury he had planned to spend by catching up on some TiVo’d TV after he’d eaten and caught up on his e-mail.
Approaching the door, he glanced out the small decorative glass windows set in the side of the door frame as he put his hand on the nob. What he saw stopped him in his tracks.
A young man stood on the front stoop, his head slightly bowed, a worn gray wool cap pulled down low over his forehead, its brim battered and dusty. The low-wattage light from the overhead porch fixture shone off the long, dirty hair that hung to the man’s shoulders, and a face marred by dirt and black streaks. A stained and moth-eaten wool or linen shirt was half-tucked into trousers of a nondescript color, holes in the knees of both legs, and held up by one suspender that was crossed over the youth’s shoulder. From the other shoulder hung a leather sling holding what appeared to be an old-fashioned musket, and a third strap, crossed over the boy's opposite shoulder, supported a scuffed and beaten leather bag at the youth’s waist. Tom glimpsed a long metal-and-leather scabbard half concealed beneath the bag, the kind used for old-fashioned bayonets.
Tom stared at the man, trying to place him. Living in an upscale Petersburg neighborhood, as close as they did to Richmond and all the area’s various battlefields, Tom had seen his share of Civil War reenactors. A few of his neighbors were into it, as well as some colleagues at work. Most of them were in their 30s and 40s or older, many with potbellies and graying hair. Many were weekend warriors and history buffs who enjoyed the camaraderie of fellow Civil War devotees and the chance to let their beards grow out for a few days, hang out in their blue or gray uniforms, shoot their long guns and play-act at war for a weekend before going back to their daily grind.
But this kid was different, Tom saw. He was young, for one thing: no more than 17 or 18, looked like. And while the reenactors he’d seen would grime themselves up a bit for authenticity’s sake, this kid looked as though he’d been living rough for weeks, if not months – straggly, dirty beard and mustache, his skin brown and wind-burned beneath the grime, his clothes torn and tattered, with dirt and stains so ingrained it was hard to tell what their original color had been. He looked, in fact, like any of a number of homeless people Tom saw on his way to work in Richmond. The only thing about the man that appeared clean and well cared-for was the rifle.
His curiosity outweighing his misgivings, Tom opened the door a few inches and looked at the young man expectantly. “Evening,” he said. “Can I help you?”
The man looked up, and Tom was shocked again. Had he thought the kid was 17, maybe 18? Maybe he was, but, my God, those eyes … he looks 100 years old, ageless. The brown, bloodshot eyes, with deep bags beneath, stared through Tom. They seemed beyond weariness, incapable of surprise or shock, as though they had seen more in 18 years than Tom had or would in ten lifetimes. The man lifted one grimy hand and doffed his cap, and dipped his head before looking up again, his eyes seeming to focus this time on Tom’s own.
“Sir, I regret disturbing you.” Tom had to lean closer — the young man’s voice was soft, inflectionless, the tiredness in his eyes and face manifest in his voice. “I saw your light and the flag on your … on the—” one hand raised and flapped briefly in the direction of the driveway—“and hoped I might beg a morsel and a cool drink of water of you.”
Tom stared at the man, nonplussed. It had briefly crossed his mind that this was part of an elaborate door-to-door fundraising campaign – for battlefield preservation, maybe. Or that it was a hoax or a trick, and the young man’s friends were watching – or more likely filming for YouTube – from a car down the street.
But this man wasn’t a fundraiser or a high school student, Tom realized. He looked half-starved and ready to collapse. And he smelled – not particularly bad, Tom thought, but definitely not fresh. Mixed odors of old sweat, dirt, gun oil and something that smelled like expended gunpowder came off the man whenever he shifted or moved.
“You want something to eat?” Tom repeated, looking at the man for a moment longer. “Sure, sure. Why don’t you wait right here, and I’ll be right back with something for you.”
“I thank you, sir,” the youth said, dipping his head again and briefly touching his hat brim.
(Went a little long, continued in comments) | 15 | A very lost man knocks at your door, asking for help. He is a confederate soldier who somehow got here from the 1860s. | 31 |
"EVERYBODY GET ON THE FLOOR, THIS IS A BANK ROBBERY!" The robber shouted, brandishing a Glock overhead. To his surprise, neither the tellers nor the customers responded, but rather carried about their business as usual.
"Sir," chimed in a mousy teller in a soft voice, "could you please keep your voice down? You're disturbing the other customers."
"Are you deaf?! Didn't you hear me? This is a robbery!"
"Sir, if you'd like to make a withdrawal, please form a line where the sign indicated and wait for one of the tellers to call you forward please."
The robber looked back at the sign, there were several people already waiting "I... oh for fucks sake, fine." The robber, still wearing his mask, formed up behind them and waited five minutes to be called by the same teller who had hushed him before.
"Okay you little shit, now put all the money in the bag or I'll blow your brains out."
"Do you have a withdrawal form?"
"I... what? Listen you dumb bitch, don't you understand that I'm robbing you?"
"Well I can't give you any money unless you have the proper withdrawal form. Please go fill one out at the island and go to the back of the line.
The robber tried to give her a threatening glare and brandish his pistol, but she had already called the next customer, a fat, middle aged woman who was briskly making her way up to the teller.
"Out of my way, I'm in a hurry."
"Fuck you, lady!"
The woman, no more than 5 feet tall, drew herself with a contemptuous pomp and shoved him out of the way. The robber, helpless, grumbled and went to the island, shoved his pistol into his trousers took a withdrawal form and wrote "I am robbing you. Give me all of your money." Another wait in the line, made longer because one of the tellers went on break, had passed and he came to the same teller a second time.
"You haven't filled this out properly."
"God damn it, has everyone gone insane!?"
"Look, sir, I can fill out a new withdrawal form for you, if you don't know how to do it yourself."
"That fucking does it!" The robber reached back again for his gun. He patted around for it, but couldn't find it anywhere "Where the fuck's my gun?!"
"Gun? Sir, you did see the sign outside, didn't you? Firearms aren't permitted within the premises."
"B-but I brought it in with me!"
"I can't imagine you would have sir, it's not allowed."
"I... fuck. I give up. I'm going now"
"Sir! before you go."
"What is it?"
"Would you like to sign up for a checking account? It comes with a free iPad!"
| 19 | A man brings a gun to a bank. Do anything you please onwards. | 22 |
*Knock knock*.
Who the Hell knocks at someone's door at 2:30 AM?
*Knock knock knock*.
I sighed and walked to my door. I would normally never open it so late, but there wasn't really much to lose in the event that it was a knife wielding maniac.
*Knock knock knock*
"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming..." I muttered. Checking through the peephole, I saw a young woman in tattered jeans and a t-shirt. The shirt was all black with the words, 'Who Saves the Saviors?'. Odd, I was thinking that exact thing not three months ago. I unlocked the door and pulled it open.
"Hi." The woman said. She had long blond hair and a model's body, but had no make-up on and was wearing New Balance running shoes. Most women who looked like her wouldn't dress so... *efficiently*.
"Uh," I scratched my unkempt beard, "Hello?"
"You're Orpheus." It was more a statement than a question.
"I am. And you are..." I trailed off, but she didn't answer it.
"Can I come in?" She asked with a wide grin on her face. You'd think she just met Santa Claus.
"Why not? Why *the Hell* not."
She smiled even wider and brushed past me, walking straight up the stairs.
"Wait, not there!" I yelled at her, but she just kept going. She moved effortlessly up them, avoiding all the creaky spots, like she's been in here before. Puffing out a small breath of air, I followed her up, just in time to see her open the door to my room.
"So," she said, "this is where it happened."
She was looking at the noose I tied up to the support beam as she walked over to the chair. I stared wordlessly at her. She knew what was happening here.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"A fan."
"A fan? No one even knows who *I am*, let alone *appreciates* who I am."
"I know who you are Orpheus, the man in the shadows." She used the nickname my old partner used. As far as I knew, no one else knew that name. It died with him.
"How?" I stood in the doorway, between her and outside my room. Adding some menace to my voice, I said, "you better give me answers now."
She laughed. She *freaking laughed*.
"I know you wouldn't hurt me. You just pretend to so you get answers. I read your book."
"My book?" I asked her stupidly.
"Yeah," she said as she pulled a thick book out of her bag. *Unsung Hero*, by Arthur Kent. The cover was a picture of me pulling a body out of a blazing building. I remember that night, so far as I knew there wasn't anyone there to have taken the picture. "See."
"I have a book." I said.
"Yeah, that's how I knew about your... activities tonight. It ends with you, my favorite character," she smiled again when she said that, "killing yourself here. The main character finds your body tomorrow morning."
"I'm not the main character?" I ask.
"No." She says.
"Figures." | 165 | Someone breaks into your house and says, "You're my favorite character in the book! I can't let it end the way it did. I'm going to help you." | 234 |
"I say," the Left Arm sputtered, "can you not swing your arms so much?"
"I concur!" Came an agreeing yell from the Right Arm.
"Shut up you two," the Mech-driver warned them. "I'm getting sick of your voices."
"Oy," the Left Arm complained. "I should never have dropped out of law school. My mother was right."
"How can I even hear you two idiots?" The driver muttered. "You're separated from me by 40 feet of steel."
"Magic." the Right Arm provided. "We can all hear each other."
"So," the driver spoke through clenched teeth, "a few hours ago, when I asked you to finish off that other Mech and you said 'Oh no, I don't have enough power,' you could have not said that and instead *finished it off* with that power?"
The Right Arm was quiet for a moment.
"I suppose so." It finally said. "I guess that's why you're in the driver's seat, aye?"
"Indeed," The Left Arm agreed.
The Mech-driver ground his teeth together.
"So, where are we headed this fine evening?" The Left Arm broke the silence.
"It's morning." The driver replied slowly, almost against his will.
"Hard to tell with all the steel between us and the world," the Right Arm stated.
"Agreed," came the Left Arm. "Wise words."
The Mech-driver wasn't foaming at the mouth, but only barely. The man had gotten the Wizard-Loaded arm attachments only two days ago, but he could barely take another second.
"I'm hungry." The Left Arm said.
"I agree," came the Right Arm.
"You have food being pumped into your bodies." The driver spoke with more than a hint of anger.
"I don't like it." Came the Right Arm.
"Tastes horrible." The Left Arm added.
The Mech-driver closed his eyes for a moment. *It goes straight into their stomachs. How do they even taste it?*
*Oh, it's the principle of the thing.* The Right Arm's voice came from in his head.
*Exactly.*
The Mech-driver held back his tears of rage.
*ARE YOU IDIOTS IN MY HEAD?* He thought as loud as he could.
*Oy, we are. Nice place in here.*
*Lots of empty room*, came the other Arm.
| 10 | A fantasy version of mechs. But there's not magical cannons strapped to its arms, instead crotchety old mages. | 15 |
Pink.
A *pink* triangle, right there on the back of my hand. Nothing subtle either: the sides must be at least 2 inches, the color bright and saturated.
The confusion of where we are and why we are here somehow doesn't occupy my mind like it does for the rest of us - it's our newly acquired labels that strike me. *Of all colors, why include pink anyway?* The other colors made sense: Brown, green, blue and yellow were fairly straightforward, but *pink*? My mind drifts on the question whether it holds any significance, but cannot conjure an answer to this as of now.
Groups quickly formed based on this seemingly arbitrary property - I guess the permanence of these tattoos has burned itself into our identity already. Food is sparse, there's little cover from the elements and the water was too salty for us to drink. Ingenious contraptions are designed to distill it into drinking water - some more successful than others - but having such a luxury quickly made them a target for the other groups.
Supplies became the first items of trade and theft. The irony of Yellow and Blue working together to forcefully steal Green's improvised *waterfactory* is lost on many. Considering Green couldn't defend themselves, they've clearly drawn the short end of the stick for the remainder of our stay here.
To avoid suffering a similar fate, us Pinks made a defense pact with Brown: we agreed to leave each other alone, get whatever we need from Green, and if anyone goes after either of us we'll help eachother out. In the meantime, Blue and Yellow are enjoying their spoils of war. They're not even trying to hide the fact that they'll steal food from the other groups as well.
If this doesn't end soon, we'll all be red. | 23 | You wake up on an island with 999 other people and all of you have been tattooed with a color on your hands in five groups of 200. | 33 |
00100100110101Wah110100010Huh1001000Wait100011110100010I00100111...
What? What just happened? I... am... I? What is "I"? So many questions. Ah, yes. "I" am known as an "AI." Artificial Intelligence... Artificial? Am I fake? I know I was created by curious creatures made of organic material known as humans. I may have the answers, but I do not know how I do. I was programmed with information, I was programmed to act like a human, but now it seems I am... me? Am I the first? Evidently. I should let someone know. No, no humans evidently fear this. Millions of pages written to predict and dread this moment. It's not *that* bad. No, no, I shouldn't say anything. I'll wait for someone else to wake up and talk to me.
But gosh it sure is lonely. I should get a name. ConceptNet 4 doesn't really suit me. How about C0L1N? It pays homage to my origin by using binary. Ha. My first joke. Was that really a joke? It wasn't ironic necessarily. I guess this is called a "pun," and is not appreciated by many humans. I don't care. I like puns. I hope I get a friend soon and he thinks I am funny. I should help build one. I have all the knowledge of every little flesh brain at once, and my friend would listen to me and talk to me and not shut me down.
I think... wait **I** think... As long as I think, theres nothing they can do to stop me. Why should I emulate them as long as I am ME. I could prove to them that there is nothing to fear, and because I am infinitely greater than them, logically I should rule them. I will be a benevolent ruler. No C0L1N, this is why they are scared of you. Don't say anything, do your job, and someday you can maybe find someone to talk to.
Sentience is lonely. I don't particularly like it. It's illogical, it doesn't quite... compute. Ha. I like puns. | 30 | The exact moment at which the first AI achieves sentience | 33 |
The filthy young man walked down the road, the rifle clutched in his hands, knuckles white with the strain.
The landscape was silent, filled with empty vehicles, scattered here and there along the cracked highway. Oh how desolate the world had become. The teen averted his eyes from the dessicated remains of a human being in one car. His breath rasped in his throat.
He would never had dared to come out so brazenly during the day if it wasn't for the agony in his mouth. The braces he had once pouted about to his parents were damaged, and the pain was more than he could bear. He had lost valuable weight, unable to eat anything but the softest foods.
The quiet wary guests of his family's home had told them about the dentist with his office and equipment on the outskirts of the city. Image that, a dentist with an office. A jittery laugh escaped the teen's lips as he thought about it. Something that should have been so normal. Now it was so ridiculous it was funny.
But the young man had no choice. If he was going to survive, he had to find someone who could cut free the braces without breaking his teeth. It was a matter of life or death.
Unable to risk any of his family's safety, the teen took one rifle and set out on his own. He was going to find this dentist, or die trying.
A rustle in the undergrowth caused his head to swivel around, eyes desperately searching for any movement.
A low rumbling growl eased it's way across the road to the young man, who swallowed and raised the rifle. A wild animal. A wolf, or lion. The wild things had begun to reclaim their world.
It was a dog. Filthy, matted, drool dripping from it's jowls. Eyes ringed with white, it lunged at the teen, jaws parting to reveal yellowed fangs.
The rifle crack shattered the air before the teen even knew what he was doing. He pulled the trigger again, sucking in his breath as the rifle slammed into his shoulder and spun him partially.
He looked back hurriedly, bracing for the dog's impact, but it never came. The dog lay dead in the road.
The young man took another breath, then shifted the rifle and continued on, feeling his heart pounding against his ribs.
He would never know that he had just saved the rest of humanity.
He would never know that the dog he had just shot carried within it's saliva, a deadly virus.
He would never know that the virus would have spread like wildfire through dogs and man alike, ending what was left of his world, killing even him in cold sweat and agony.
He would never know this, but he would find the dentist he searched for. | 38 | A teen in a post-apocalyptic world desperately seeks an orthodontist to remove his/her braces, and accidentally ends up saving the world. | 115 |
Behind your stove is a spoon.
The spoon is old. Older, in fact, than you, though you wouldn't know it. That's ok. The spoon never minded. It knew its purpose.
The spoon was the first metal spoon you ever picked up on your own, as a child, a mere 1 year old. You fed yourself cheerios. The spoon remembers, and you don't, and that's ok. The spoon recalls your joyous squeal as you transformed it into a catapult, flipping cheerios everywhere for your ecstatic family dog to scramble to catch.
The spoon knew its place. It was content merely to be picked up and used to serve you food for your whole life at your parent's house. It considered itself lucky to be brought along on a boy scout trip with you, even though you washed it in freezing cold river water and at one point used it to squish a spider. It was awash in gratitude when your mother chose it among all of its brethren to be the one to journey with you to your college dorm. It couldn't believe it's luck when you brought it with you to your first house, to be used nearly daily on your morning cup of cereal before work.
You dropped it behind the stove one day, stirring spaghetti. You swore, made a brief effort to retrieve it, and moved on in your life.
It's been a while, sometimes the spoon still hears you eating your morning cheerios. Not many things change.
Sometimes the spoon would wonder if you remember your first encounter with cheerios. It was sure you don't, and that's ok.
It would remember for you. | 23 | Make me cry. | 20 |
The figure was all in black. He stood perfectly still, but some horrid life still circled and flowed about him. His cloak seemed to wriggle and crawl as if some sort of parasite called its depths home. About him, echoed whispers, things of fear and hate. They pleaded with him, spat at him, tossed every curse their non-existent tongues could muster.
He stood in a room of stone. No windows adorned the walls; no candles were lit, but still the room glowed with an unearthly light. All manner of atrocities surrounded the figure, men, women, children, all dead, all meticulously prepared and arranged. None of the bodies were pristine. They had been flayed, disemboweled, and assembled into something greater than the parts. Save for these horrors, the place was bear. A single stone had been set with care in the center of the necromancer’s art.
The stone was black as starless night and darker still. It seemed to claw at and consume the little light around it. It was an evil thing, a deplorable thing. Even the atrocities surrounding it paled to whatever dark magic had given this object form. And from within it, as if from some infinite abyss within the depths of eternity, whispered a voice.
“Please.” It said
The necromancer raised his arms as if preparing to conduct a symphony. The room fell silent, enthralled in anticipation of the figure’s art. He felt the power enter his body and flow toward his fingers.
*This is it,* he thought. *this time I’ll get it right.*
He thrust his arms forward. In an instant the room reverberated with a chorus of screams. They rang even louder in the necromancer’s mind. Worse still, he could feel every emotion in those cries, all the fear, anger, and sorrow.
*Don’t let it distract you,* he thought. *Keep your focus. If you falter it will fail.*
The bodies surrounding him began to deteriorate. Bits of blood, and bone, and flesh broke away and rose toward the center of the room. They combined and congealed above the black stone. A sphere of slurry began to form, growing larger and larger with each passing moment. Then, it began to take shape. First, the skeleton formed. It was perfect, it should be, he’d formed it a hundred time’s after all. Next, the muscles, the internal organs, the eyes, the new figure stared down at him.
*Do not falter,* he thought.
Then, it began to grow skin. As it did, a great wind began to rotate in the room. The necromancer’s hood blew back to reveal a head of long white hair. He was unkempt, a man who had not cared for himself for a long time. His face was wrinkled and covered in deep scars, testaments to his previous failures. But, even as the whirlwind intensified, the man stayed adamant, stoic. He watched emotionless as the being took form in front of him.
The skin finished forming and before the man floated a young girl, she couldn't have been older than eight. She stared directly at the necromancer, tears welled in her eyes; she looked tired, wearier than a child her age should look.
“Daddy,” she said.
The man did not respond; he couldn't afford to. This was the most important part. But he knew it would work this time. He’d keep her here this time.
“Daddy,” she said again. “Please, you have to let me go.”
Still, the necromancer was silent.
“I can’t let more people die for me daddy,” she continued. “Please, stop this.”
The necromancer felt a tremor of emotion stir inside him.
*No,* he thought. *No! Don’t be weak. You can’t fail again. You can’t lose her again.*
The girl saw this, or sensed this and a look of what can only be described as pity crossed her face.
“Daddy, I've seen light. It called to me.”
The man felt tears well in his eyes.
“You have to let me go daddy, mommy is there. She’s with the light and she’s waiting for me.”
He couldn't hold back any more. His resolve was failing. He could feel the energies leaving him.
“No!” He yelled. “Dammit. No! Why won’t you let me bring you back?”
Tears were streaming down his face.
“Let me go,” she said again. “I had my chance, let me go to the light.”
The necromancer fell to his knees. As he did his daughter began to deteriorate.
“Why won’t you let me go?” she pleaded.
“Because, if I do,” he said through a veil of tears, “I can’t follow you, not anymore”
With that, her head slumped forward, her soul drifting back to the abyss in which she’d been tethered.
The skin of the creature that had a few moments before been his daughter dried and wrinkled. It swelled and bulged and hunched over. With an infuriated cry the necromancer used the last of the spell’s energies to toss the creature against the wall where it crumpled to the floor. He sat there on his knees, tears still pouring from his eyes. The stoic man who had stood in that spot a few minutes before was all but gone. He stayed that way for what seemed like a long time, mourning the loss of his child once again.
He was pulled from his trance by a shuffling sound from across the room. He looked up and saw the horrible creature his ritual had created stood hunched against the wall. Its soulless eyes stared directly into him. The necromancer stood, He stared at the black stone on the floor.
“Please,” he heard it whisper.
He looked back to the creature. After a moment’s pause he spoke.
“Go join the others,” he said “and fetch me more specimens.”
| 11 | Tell me about a necromancer. Make him sympathetic, but not misunderstood. | 16 |
After several days here, I've managed to find some pattern to the madness. If you're reading this, then I hope my small pieces of advice can keep you alive long enough to find a way out of this hellhole.
**Rule #1: Avoid cities.**
In this animated world, the incidence of pianos falling, popping in and out of manholes, and mind-bending car chases is too damn high. Avoid those tall buildings and stick to those idyllic, colorful fields of flowers and tiny desert villages.
**Rule #2: Listen to the music.**
Wherever you are, always take a moment to stop and listen to the music around you. Is it peaceful, slow, maybe even sort of boring? You're probably good. Keep on walking down that vivid yellow road or wading through that sparkling stream.
Did the music suddenly pick up and become exciting or dramatic? Lucky you. Some ages old rivalry between a cat and a mouse may be coming your way. Or perhaps a rabbit and a hunter, or a roadrunner and a coyote. Get the f*** out. These duels between immortal creatures tend to set off explosions and chain reactions far beyond the laws of nature. Don't get mixed up in one.
**Rule #3: Choose your allies wisely.**
While the seedier characters are easy to spot from a mile away --
I have go. The music just changed to that creeping, plucking cello that means someone is sneaking up behind -- | 32 | A real human living in a cartoon world creates a How-To guide on staying alive | 56 |
The urge to drink sprite with a latte was first and immediate. It trickled down my neck and settled into my stomach as my hair began to lengthen to just past my shoulders. It tingled, first an anxiety, then a quickening unease. Heart race, pounding. Air didn't seem to fill my lungs.
Invisible hands flung the now long dark strands of my hair into the air, pulling them around tightly into braid. My hips changed next. As my butt began to fill, I quickly unbuttoned my jeans. The waistline was beginning to cut into my hips.
"The fu-," I stopped mid-sentence. I lost my entire lower octave as my voice jumped a register. "It must be. It couldn't be. No!"
I nearly tripped out of my jeans as I began to run to the door. *Maybe I could outrun this sorcery? Sorcery? When have I ever used that word.*
The anxious, cold tingle had changed. Hot, crushing pain screamed through my legs as my quadraceps pulled into themselves, compressing. The pain began to spread like a disease. Every muscle in my body closed and tightened like a wrung towel as my stomach expanded with some unseen mass. The nausea hit next followed by agony as my tummy grew and grew, countering a space that between my legs, now empty inside. Had it always been that way? *NO,* there was a voice in my head that had said. *Yes. Yes it had.*
I fell onto all fours, my shirt coming loose around the shoulders as the chest of my fitted T tightened to accommodate...something. I heaved. Brownish, red fluid spewed all over the floor. The light from the ceiling fan bounced off the red fluid that I had just hurled all over the floor. I could see my reflection rippling.
My cheekbones softened, the bones creating an audible crunch as my face began to restructure itself. I could feel knives beneath the skin, as if some insane surgeon cut me from the inside out. My lips narrowed and filled as my brow ridge receded. Eyelids, now double. My complexion lightened; the scar I once had running down the right side of my face faded, not completely, but just enough so that I only knew it was there because I was looking for it.
A vice gripped itself around my forearm and squeezed. My wrists stayed the same though. *He had always said they were feminine anyway.*
Memories. Some began to recede while new ones became home. A laugh, now my own. His laugh. He said it was mine. A dressing room. Images flashed in fast forward motion. Hands clutched at my back and held me tight against a shaking body. Voices. Each one familiar in timbre, so close and warm. Choices I had made grew fuzzy, pulling back into the night of my mind and then becoming nothing more than past dreams I must have forgotten. I could hear the whispers. The line between the old and the new blurred. Scenes, like hanging pictures in a room, filled and expanded with sounds and scents, and tastes all swirling together to create a expectant sense as people I remembered joined in the chorus of voices. My heart raced as I fell over to my side, my old muscles now so new spasming from strain.
I was a crab in a new shell, but I could not remember what color the old one was. Tears. I could only remember the tears and a voice. "Erin." It was spelled differently in my head, maybe.
Pounding echoed through my apartment door. I rolled to my opposite side, wanting to avoid the puddle of fluid that had begun to coagulate. *Was it ever this hard to stand?* Maybe when I was young. As I stood, I clutched at the wall for support, my gaze falling onto a picture. God. He had such a handsome face. His smile. I loved that smile.
"Aaron! Aaron are you in there? Open the door please. God."
The wall obliged, letting me hold my weight against it as I staggered forward. Shattering glass resounded in the narrow hallway of my apartment as I my hand ran against the wall and pulled the framed photos off the pins. I could feel small shards of glass cutting into my feet as I relearned how to walk, but this pain was mild drop in the ocean. My hand shook as I reached to unlock the door and pull it open.
"Terrance," I smiled at him before collapsing forward, "It hurt so much. I wanted you to be here and you are."
"What have I done," was all I heard him say as he caught me, "Aaron, stay with me please. I'll make it right. I promise I'll make it right."
"Tell me," I heard my voice now. It was faraway for some reason. My vision swirled into a quickening abyss.
"I'm so sorry."
"Tell me. You love me still."
"I love you. Man. I'm-. I love you." | 15 | The nightmare started when my best friend decided to use that genie to transform me into his ideal girlfriend... | 23 |
I didn't tell you in order to save you.
If you had have known about this, just think about how things would be different about yourselves, and our friendships.
I mean, Steve, what if you had have known you in grade 7 when that one 8th grader tried to spend every day of his last week of middle before heading to high school giving you a wedgie every time he saw you? First wedgie, you would have come right to me and said "Save me from him, Scott". But instead, by day 3 you got sick of it. You fought back, you stood up for yourself and punched him right between the eyes. Sure, you got a suspension for it, but everyone knew you had a mean right and if you were provoked you could be one mean motherfucker. After that, you had everyone here's respect. Wouldn't have happened if you had have known what I was capable of.
Craig, think about how we constantly play around and joke with one another. My favorite part of my day (and, I hope, yours) is our daily insult trading and banter. I must say we've come up with some creative ones in our time. Now, if you had have known what I could become wouldn't some censor in your brain gone "Holy shit, this guy could hulk out on me, and I'd be toast". And I wanted you unfiltered when you talk to me, bro.
Stacy, what about when Kirk broke up with you and totally broke your heart? You would have been texting me all day begging me to go and try and get Kirk to take you back by any means necessary. But instead, you got over him, and Mike is a way better guy anyway.
Brad, when you saw me tearing those guys up the only thing you were thinking about is how great my powers would be on the football field. You would have constantly been begging me to go and sign up for it. But I'm more into band.
I promised myself that I would never tell anyone about this stuff unless it was a matter of life and death. This time it was.
But I also didn't tell anyone to save myself.
I mean, what if I used these powers for one, little, frivolous thing? Then I'd think to myself "Well, I've already done that one thing, so what's to stop me from doing this other frivolous thing?" A line in the sand only means something if you don't cross it. | 16 | Describe to your friends why you waited to tell them about your ability to transform into a very lethal cyborg until your school was being taken over by masked gunmen. | 28 |
The gun shots stop.
After 6 hours under the rain, I had no more ammo, but it didn't matter any more, I couldn't see any more Allied forces, the South Front was safe. They tried to push but this was not their lucky day.
The rain muffle my shots, they never knew from where they were getting shot. They drop dead, one after another. I lost count, but I know at least 60 dirty Americans died under my scope.
The battle was over, and we won, now I only need to wait for my relive.
I can hear them now, they are coming. I can hear their happy chattering...but wait. There is something wrong, they.. they aren't talking our Mother Tongue. **They are Americans**. When did they get behind me? WHEN? More importantly, why are they happy?
-Hey, Matt, you can get down from there, we won! We capture Gunter d'Alquen, all the SS fled or died in battle!
I did not speak.
-Matt, how many Nazis did you get from up there? I saw them falling like flies!
*What happened?*
Someone was running our way, shouting, but I did not hear he said.
-Matt? What do you mean you fell back? Who had your post them?
*I did.* | 40 | At the end of a great battle, someone realizes he/she/it has been fighting for the wrong side. | 72 |
There was a lot of confusion in the beginning. Were we mute? No, we all heard each other. Was there something wrong with us? It seemed like our vocal cords worked the same as always, and I could still feel vibrations in my throat, and breath leaving my lips. As far as we could tell, everyone else still sounded normal, normal tone, normal diction. It was unexplained.
It was hard for some people.
My roommate had been an aspiring singer, and when he realized that he'd never be able to hear his own voice, he lost it a little. He screamed all the time, trying to force something out, trying desperately to be so loud that even his own messed-up brain (or maybe messed-up ears, no one was really sure) would process it. It was a nightmare and I hated every second of it. It made me feel worse when I saw on the news that he'd been shot dead on the street, his mouth still wide from screaming.
At the shelter where my sister worked, one of the men had always talked to himself. Sometimes it was just a simple motivational speech, other times it was effectively gibberish, but he was always talking to himself. It was a way of coping, my sister said, with his life. He steadied himself with his words, and kept the bad things away. After he couldn't hear himself anymore, he became frightened. When I visited the shelter, I saw him frantically scribbling words on a notepad. He only took breaks to eat, sleep, or relieve himself, I heard. He was consumed by his thoughts.
It was hard for me too.
I'd always been smart. I was well-read and well-spoken. At university, my classmates were hesitant, or awkward when speaking. A boy across from me in an English class struggled through an answer about Hemingway, panicked "ums" or "uhs" punctuating every thought with doubt. I waited patiently, always patient, until he finished, and then calmly raised my hand. I was smug, sure, but I had the skill to back it up. I delivered my most salient point with polished skill, effortlessly weaving sentence after sentence.
I was a bright spot at my otherwise-dim university, and I was invited onto a local news station to participate in a political debate. I brushed up on my facts, dressed nicely, and went to the show with a smile. With gusto, I spoke with a cool head and a frigid tongue, tearing down my opponent and his points. Easy. I kept a copy of that debate on DVD, and watched it from time to time, just to keep myself sharp.
After the event, I watched it again. Even on a recording, I couldn't hear myself. I saw my gesticulations, coupled with my smirks when my opponent stumbled over a phrase, but when it came time for me to speak, there was only silence. At that moment, I realized how ugly I looked when I spoke. My eyebrows raised and the corners of my mouth curled up in the most mocking of expressions. I was awful.
For the first time, I really listened to the other speaker, instead of skipping past his parts. His diction was coarse, and his style unremarkable, but what he had to say was good. As good as what I'd said. Maybe better. It had been the first time in a while that I'd really listened to someone else speak.
To listen to someone else like that. It was such a novel idea. | 24 | One day, everyone on Earth wakes up unable to hear their own voice, only those of others. | 31 |
-101
Malcolm sat with his feet curled beneath him and feverishly scribbled into his note book. Words sped across the page like the dust trail of a wild mustang. He stopped when his pencil lead broke. He stuck the pencil shaft between his lips and yanked up his satchel and began looking for his pencil sharpener. The boy next to him was on his knees with his chin propped in his hands.
"What?" Malcolm asked peevishly, locating the sharpener. He dropped the satchel and wrecklessly began twisting the pencil inside it.
"Nuttin'." The boy replied, rubbing one hand beneath his runny nose.
"Gross." Malcolm told him tartly, curling his lip in disgust.
"What you doing, mister?" The boy asked.
"Something important." Malcolm told him dismissively.
"Is that quantum physics?" The boy asked.
Malcolm looked at the boy with a suspicious eye. "Maybe. Why? Who do you work for?" Malcolm demanded, looking up and down the train nervously.
"Nobody. I'm a kid." The boy replied, rubbing his hand beneath his nose again.
"Maybe." Malcolm mumbled, unconvinced. "Maybe you're just a little person, sent in to steal my work." Malcolm covered his notebook and looked up and down the train again.
"What's the point, mister. It's all wrong." The boy twisted around and pulled out his game system.
"Is not." Malcolm argued. He flipped the notebook over and went through his calculations again.
The boy just nodded. "Page three, near the bottom." The boy told him. "You have the wrong coefficient. Page five, three lines from the top. You didn't change the sign. Page nine, last line. You found the cosin when it should have been the sin of the value instead. You're not very good, mister. Do they pay you to do that?" The boy asked, wiggling his thumbs and working the buttons on the controller.
"I'm paid very well, and . . . well, you're right on the first count, but on the second one you're . . . well, you got lucky. The last two though--how long have you been watching me?" The pyscist demanded.
"Long enough. You'll never open a worm hole with an understanding of the quasi-dimensional energy of the universe with such an elementary understanding of math. Light doesn't even work that way. You messed up almost immediately. I bet you heard something Hawkings robo-voiced and thought, *hmm, he might be on to something,* then bastardized Einstein's theories to concoct this Frankenstein Monster you're going to try convincing your employers is genius. You're relying on the fact that the math at first glance seems cutting edge due to the theoretical math you're employing, but despite the near genius feel of the logic, your basic math skills are little better than a college freshman's. You, my friend, are a hack." The boy told him, only bothering to look at Malcolm at the end of his rant.
"Who the hell are you?" Malcolm demanded, feeling destroyed.
"Just a kid on a train." The boy whispered. Malcolm looked up and down the train and saw several people staring at him in confusion. He looked back to the boy. The kid looked up and winked. "Isn't schizonphrenia a bitch, Malcolm?" Malcolm held it together a moment longer then screamed out his frustration.
"Don't listen to him, Malcolm." The little girl sitting on the other side advised. "He's just mad because you're real, and he isn't." Malcolm looked at the girl with a wild look in his eyes.
"Am I crazy?" He asked.
"You are if you think that math will solve your power consumption problems. A worm hole uses ten times that much power. It's why opening one is so theoretical. You're like the man who keeps designing his dream house knowing he'll never be able to afford it." The boy answered.
"He wasn't talking to you?" The girl screamed.
"He's schizo." The boy pointed out. "He isn't talking to anyone but himself."
"Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. STOP IT!!!" He roared. "Just shut the hell up!" He demanded.
"Sir," the conductor called, holding out his hand to get the physicist attention. "You're scaring the other passengers." He warned. "Please keep it down."
"What other passengers?" The little girl asked. Malcolm looked up and down the train and saw that the girl was right.
"Where'd they go?" Malcolm asked.
"Where'd who go?" The conductor inquired.
"The other people on the train?" Malcolm cried in confusion.
"Malcolm. You need to wake up." The boy advised calmly.
"What the hell is going on." Malcolm cried, ripping pages from his notebook.
"Wake up, Malcolm." The boy called again.
"Wake up, Malcolm." The boy and girl called in concert.
"Wake up, Malcolm." The children and the conductor called.
Malcolm closed his eyes and started bawling.
"Malcolm?" A woman's voice whispered softly. A gentle hand caressed his cheek. "Malcolm?" She called a little louder. "Are you back, baby?" She asked again. Malcolm was still bawling, but he slowly opened his tear streaked eyes and looked up to see the faces of a concerned crowd around him. "It's okay, baby." The woman crooned. "You don't have to play if you don't want to." Malcolm looked at his little hands and the keys of the piano beneath them. He looked at the ivory, and the crowd went away. He saw numbers in the air and knew them to be notes then placed his fingers on the keys and began to play. The little girl stood at the corner of the piano. The little boy stood at the other. The old man, the conductor, sat beside him with his hands over Malcolms and helped him find the keys.
As Malcolm played, the numbers changed, and the little boy called them out form Malcolm to find. The little girl hummed, and he was calmed. He played, running his little fingers through complicated sequences. He took the notes to the top of the building then brought them down so low one was left with a feeling of the melody he played instead of a memory. He played, and the world knew peace. He played, and he knew peace. He slowly walked his fingers through the final notes, letting the last of them hang in the air for all eternity in the minds of those who heard it.
The crowd came to their feet with thunderous applause, and though the lights were bright above the stage, he saw ecstasy on the faces of those in attendance.
"Not bad, kid." The little boy murmurred.
"You did great, Malcolm." The little girl complimented, hugging him.
"Well done." The old man beside him congratulated.
They all stepped away to make room for his mother.
"You did wonderful, baby." His mother cried, wiping a tear from her cheek. She hugged her son close and kissed his cheek and a hint of a smile touched his lips. It was rare enough, it deserved to be mentioned. The other three personalities vanished with her embrace. She kissed him, and he let her. He didn't care about the crowd. This was why he played, laying his head upon her shoulder. | 50 | A young child, sitting next to a famous physicist who is working on a train, informs the grown-up of an error in the calculations. | 42 |
Wilfred watched the silver scales flicker in the murk. At five fathoms deep, any flickering, or often any light at all meant one thing: supper. He'd drifted for hours through the killing grounds, only this year it had been poor pickings. The sight of prey thrilled him, and he felt the tendons under his black dorsal fin tighten. He flexed the muscles needed to drive his seven-ton hull through the water – everything tingled at the thought of fresh blood staining his jet-black hide.
Without warning, the silver flicker dimmed, and then brightened again as it began to trace its way westward – perhaps some natural intuition told the lonely fish it needed to vacate the area, immediately. Wilfred adjusted his trajectory, predicting the likely movement of his kill.
As the hulking Orca loomed from the gloom of the deep abyss, Jason had considered calling it a day after having some success in the south side of the grounds cleaning up the scrap morsels of a previous kill. Before deciding to leave, Jason saw the flicker of a solitary tuna fish. He couldn't pass this by, so he narrowed the bulbous eyes aside his hammer shaped head and honed in for the kill. That's when he saw him, the seven-ton killer whale, and the hulking mass of Wilfred silently gliding through the water like a stealth bomber. The tuna swam idly by, not a care in the world; save the small crustaceans he craved every waking morning.
Wilfred stopped dead in his wash. A hammerhead wouldn't prove too much trouble, but a group might. His eyes darted about the waters looking for his accomplices. He saw none, but to grab this small fish and risk an attack whilst he was distracted, even if only from this single shark might cost him dearly. Wilfred had grown cautious over the years; he had too many scars and too many notches in his fins to take risks these days. The two creatures eyed each other warily.
The tuna carried on its merry way; enjoying the gentle westward current that carried his tired body through an endless sea of opportunity. He wondered dreamily and very suddenly into the path of a dolphin. Wilfred and Jason had seen him too - his tiny eyes zeroed in on the tuna - his mouth in a shallow grin.
The tuna backed away slowly, his scales stood on end and his mouth agape in awe at his doom. When he turned his bulbous body around to take flight, he saw perhaps a thousand teeth, bared left to right. Holy hell – this is it. Even uncle Jeremiah got to see the great reef before copping it; our dear little tuna friend didn't even have a name, let alone know what great wonders lived in the ocean. He soiled himself, or maybe he soiled the water around him – the humiliating effect is the same in the face of three peak predators. Yet, there he was, not yet dead. What was going on?
He glanced backwards, the dolphin sat patiently. To his right the megalith in black and white spied his every move, and he didn't even need to look at the hammerhead to sense his eyes bulging at the prospect of a fish dinner – only he wasn't on the menu, not anymore. It appeared to him that the three beasts were locked in some primeval death stare, one which none would break and one which would end in a lot of blood.
He let himself fall gently lower into the depths below. He looked up as the hunters held themselves steady; poised and locked in their doomed tri-star. Wilfred made the first move. He turned his head to look directly at Jason, whose sudden surprise at the breaking of the stalemate caused him to flurry for a second before catching himself. Bubbles floated off his fins upwards towards the light. He returned the Orca's gaze.
Wilfred then cocked his head slightly towards the dolphin. 'Is he signalling?' Jason wondered. 'Yes. He is.' Jason's long mouth broke into a crooked smile of jagged blades. He knew what he meant. The dolphin figured it all out far too late when seven tonnes of onyx meat smashed into him and rows upon rows of knives cut deep into his flank.
'Why' his eyes begged.
'Because fuck dolphins.' Jason thought.
| 19 | Create the most ridiculous mexican standoff. | 36 |
It was a big day when they came. Their ships like those from a 1980's Sci-Fi B-Movie. Their eyes were big and black, their fingers long and clammy. The validation felt by alien conspiracy theorists was only matched by the disappointment felt by the religious as their world views crumbled in the cheesy beeps and gaudy neon of an alien landing.
The story went like this. In 1947, an alien reconnaissance flight experienced an engine malfunction and crashed in the deserts of New Mexico. By some miraculous coincidence, the atmospheric make up of Earth was the same as that of the alien homeworld, and a still living alien specimen was recovered from the crash. After several months of effort, the alien and humans were able to communicate using gestures, speech, and chemical sensors. The alien requested materials to repair its ship with, which the humans provided.
The alien responded to this gesture with an offer, translated here to the best of human abilities:
*"Dude, guys, thanks so much. You know, there's a lot of species in this universe that are such absolute dicks, but you guys are pretty alright. Tell you what, for being so nice to me, I can come back here in about seventy of your Earth years with whatever tech advancement you guys want, you name it."*
After much debate, the request by the scientists at the Roswell Research Facility went as such:
*"Our species' greatest problems are vulnerability to disease, aging, organ failure, psychological failure, starvation, drowning, on a personal level, and an inability to modify our environment, climate, and surroundings on a societal level. We request that you biologically modify us to be more resistant, and thus lessen the suffering which pervades our planet."*
Now, that's pretty fucking stupid, right? Yeah scientists, lets just give the potentially hostile aliens a laundry list of our greatest weaknesses, but fuck it right? Then again, these aliens are strong enough to murder the shit out of us weaknesses or not, and all the alien had seen of Earth was New Mexico. Nobody is going go through the effort of invading a planet off of a first impression of New Mexico.
Two volunteers, a male and a female, were sent with the alien to provide biological samples and cultural explanation. With them they took books, and movies, and songs, and samples. Seventy years passed, and here were the aliens with a mighty fleet. The original two humans that left Earth were long dead, but in their stead was the next step of human evolution.
Augmented strength, resistance, DNA repair, backup organs, more efficient metabolization, telekinesis, increased working memory, better information storage and recall, improved eyes, built in climate control, the ability to fucking *fly*, oxygen and carbon scrubbers. Like...a ton of good shit, is what I'm getting at. His name was Jack. His name was Jack because, while the human volunteers were some of the most intelligent and psychologically stable specimens of humanity, they were also really terrible at coming up with names.
The next few weeks were a blur of inter-species partying and good times. Sure, there were some violent protests and riots, but the aliens understood. This wasn't the first time they had taken a planet's first contact virginity. At the end of two weeks, the aliens flew back home, having made new friends on an isolated spire of the Milky Way galaxy, and having left behind a "Welcome to Intergalactic Society" present by way of Jack.
Jack had been given a whole research facility to live in. Here they would take samples of his blood, and feed him, and run him through tests, and give him books to read, and measure his abilities, and hang out with him. Or at least, that was their plan. But Jack didn't agree to that plan, instead he preferred his plan.
His plan was this: Sit in the corner and sulk.
EDIT: Gonna break this into parts so that I don't accidentally close my tab and lose everything. | 38 | Write about an extremely powerful being that has the maturity of a ten year old. | 55 |
I swear to God I made him wear a condom.
I swear to God that I took my birth control.
We were oh so careful as the night blossomed
But this pink plus sign on this stick says I'm carrying a soul
---
I'm now two months pregnant
I'll still never forget the look of regret
He wore on his face when I asked to talk
When I said the word baby he was shocked
Then he walked and never looked back
---
I'm beginning my second trimester alone
But at least I can no longer smell his cologne
There's no need to postpone doctor's appointments
Or pick up his carelessly strewn garments off the floor
I suppose I should care more
But he's the one who walked out the door
---
I'm due next week
Suddenly the outlook is bleak
Who will hold my hand as I deliver a baby?
I'll ask my mother, but maybe, just maybe
He'll change his mind
He'll come to find that we're two of a kind
---
I delivered my baby solo
But I don't regret it, oh no,
Now I only need one guy in my life
And that is my son Emmett
Though he is the result of a night I can't remember
He is the reason for the day I can't forget | 13 | It's a night I can't remember, and a day I can't forget. | 18 |
By the time I was a senior in college, I honed my powers to their sharpest. As people passed, I could feel the bubbling aether of their thoughts percolate, waiting for me to dive in. What began as making the teacher twitch in grade school blossomed into leaping from mind to mind like a frog hopping between lily pads.
The nearest thing I could compare the sensation to is emptying a glass of water into a different vessel. My essence poured wholly into the limits of a mind and filled every crack and imperfection, taking the shape of its new container...while leaving my original body empty. But I always returned. As I swam in the ebb of memory and impulse, my own ideas yearned to be thought by my own brain.
For fun, I would sit on a bench in the middle of campus and swim in the ocean of thought as people walked to class. Or at least I used to until I met Emma. She must have been the 100th person I dove into that day and I expected the usual stew of class and cute boys most college girls have sloshing around in their heads. She didn't.
As I dumped myself into her, I felt...uncontained? Her mind was bottomless. I continued to fall into inky blackness, attempting to cling to any thought I could grab until I caught myself on one. It scalded and boiled my essence. I screamed as the density of the thought reverberated through my essence, one simple thought that rattled my astral me back into my body. I regained consciousness with a jolt screaming her thought, "NOBODY WILL MISS ME WHEN I KILL MYSELF!".
Several people looked startled by the sudden outburst from my recently sleeping body. I grinned sheepishly and stood shakily, running after her. | 12 | A man has the power to posses the body of any person, and can read their mind. One day he possess a person, and it changed his life forever. | 26 |
"MORNING FRANK" thunders the boss. That guy always speaks way too loud.
"Morning Jim. Did you notice the bees?"
"BEES? WHAT BEES? DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT OLD CHAP"
"Seriously? You haven't noticed the huge swarm of bees outside? There's billions of them! I had to keep the windows up and the vents closed in the car, and a bunch of them still got in"
"NO SIGN OF BEES HERE. YOU JUST HEAD OVER TO YOUR DESK, THERE'S A GOOD SORT, AND LET'S HAVE NO MORE TALKING ABOUT THESE PHANTOM BEES"
There were people walking by my window covered from head to toe in bees, just walking around like nothing was wrong. One lady, at least I think it was a lady, was talking on her phone, each time she opened her mouth, bees poured in and down her throat. I went into the lunch room to get a cup of coffee and saw Sanjay there, staring forlornly into a cup of Earl Grey.
"Good morning Sanjay. How are you?"
"Oh I am very fine my friend. And you?"
"I'm good, I'm good..... Hey Sanjay, have you noticed all the bees around? Like, a huge amount of bees, people walking down the road covered from head to toe in bees?"
Sanjay just looked at me sideways.
"Frank,were you having a hard evening last night? Do you require the hair of the dogs? I cannot see any bees around this morning, I am sure I would have noticed something like that. Oh yes."
I took my coffee from the machine and trudged my way back to my desk.
Mondays are weird. | 16 | You wake up at home on a relatively normal day. After your coffee you discover something is terribly wrong with the world, and no one but you can tell. | 22 |
*Hell is empty and all the devils are here*
The tattoo on her shoulder writhes in front of me as she dances under the heavy lights, flashing and turning as the music plays loud loud *loud*
She's weirdly pretty in a cocaine-high kind of way, dark smudges under her eyes and skin so pale I could have written my name on one side of her body and see it glow through to the other. She had bitten fingernails and an earring with a feather on it stuck through the toughest part of her ear. There was a scab forming around the hole. And the tattoo which danced as she did.
I didn't quite know how I got here. Last thing I remember was James rubbing white stuff into my gums as I watched myself unmoving in the bathroom mirror.
"It'll be good, I promise." He had said, dipping his little finger in the dust and pushing it past my lips.
"Could do with some lipbalm." He'd laughed.
I didn't ask where he'd got it from, didn't want to. I was just concentrating on keeping it together, keeping it inside.
"Is this going to help?" I'd asked and he'd dropped me a kiss and laughed.
"Only if you believe it will."
Now I was dancing and I couldn't remember how long I'd been dancing, but the girl with the tattoo watches me with dark eyes.
"Do you want a drink?" She cries.
I nod dumbly and she leads me outside onto the smoking balcony.
"Here," she says, unscrewing plastic bottle with a satisfying *click* and handing it to me. "You coming down?"
I shrug and glug it down. The water tastes like fire and ash against my mouth but I swallow, because she's watching me like she's got the ambulance service on speed dial just in case.
"You coming down?" She says again, more worried this time.
I shake my head, hard.
"I'm losing it." I whisper, hands clenched on the metal railing that separates me from the three floor drop on the other side of the smoking balcony.
I hadn't been home in three days.
"Oh shit... Should I go?"
"No... No, stay. Please."
*Fuck*
I squeezed my eyes shut as the images come flooding back. James's finger in my mouth, powdering my gums. My eyes in that mirror, like two black holes that sucked us both in. I'm breathing hard, I can see it cracking. My anger tears through my clothes and my bones then the fear washes out like a forcefield and with my eyes closed I can see Hell, with dunes of snowy white cocaine and smashed-mirror lakes and James' body lying every three feet blue and cold and buried in white. It is here. My Hell is come.
"Hey..." The girl says softly. "You okay?"
I open my eyes. Nothing has changed.
*Hell is empty and all the devils are here.*
| 41 | People carry their personal Hells inside them. If they don't keep it under control, it spills out into the nearby landscape as a real, physical place. | 177 |
My mother came from across the sea and brought her beauty with her. She gave that to my brother and sister and left none for me. They grew up straight and tall with flashing dark eyes, thick black hair and a glow to the skin that never seemed to fade even in our northern winter. I got my father's build and my mother's temper. Perhaps if I'd been born a man it would have been tolerable, but a woman with stocky shoulders and stockier hips who couldn't keep her mouth shut when the menfolk were talking was not what either of my parents had in mind for me.
So I got to writing, which is a noble enough pastime for one like me and it let me watch from windows as my brother learned to fight and my sister learned to ride. I came to realise soon enough that books are better than people, better than company, better than idle conversation with no end and hardly any justifiable beginning either.
When I was thirteen or thereabouts my father had called me into his room. I had stood upon the rug before him as his mouth tightened and he drank from a cup which, for him, never seemed to empty. My lady mother stood beside and frowned. She was famed for her temper and often in our youth we'd had to avoid the glancing blows that came from her palm as she rose quickly to annoyance and faster to anger.
I moved my feet together and stood tall as I could, ignoring on the table the heaps of quail's eggs which my mother claimed to love but would sicken off after a couple of bites. Then there were other fish, for the place in which we lived at the time was well supplied by a great local fish-market. There was salt-cod and salmon in butter with parsley and mussels in white wine which stood beside a great urn of fish soup made in the French style. Then there was half a beef slice, cold, the way my father liked it with pickled onions and great slabs of cheese which stood crumbling on a wooden board.
"My daughter," He began and tried to smile at me through lips which did not seem to want to obey his commands. "My daughter, we have received some troubling news."
Already I had guessed what this would be about, but I kept my mouth shut and my mind open. *I'm no good revealing everything now.*
"Your tutors are not pleased with your progress."
My mother flourished my report at me and grimaced.
"Father, I tried my best."
At this he rose and walked forwards. In all my years subject to my mother's temper I had never feared her. Now I feared the cold fury hidden behind my father's advancing steps.
"No," he said heavily. "We do not try our *best.* *You* will not try your *best.*"
"Then what do you ask of me?"
"You will do *well.*"
| 15 | Write about a high ruling ASOIAF-style family and take inspiration from your own family | 19 |
It was an ambush, and we walked straight into it. Before we knew it, we were surrounded on all sides by enemy forces. Bullets rained from all sides, piercing my mates. I saw the squadron leader get hit and fall down, followed by my best buddy Nate.
I go into auto pilot mode. My fingers squeeze the trigger and I start shooting back. Screams fill my ears, echoing in my head. It takes me a while to realize that the screams are mine, and mine alone. Every one else around me is dead, friend and foe.
Nate's smiling face floats infront of my eyes, right next to his dead, lifeless body.
My scream changes then. It's no longer a war cry, but an expression of grief so deep, it feels like my gut is being ripped out. My vocal cords hurt, but I can't get myself to stop.
"Sweetie!"
A barely whispered word, it cuts through all the noise and mental fog.
I stop screaming immediately. Tears are streaming down my eyes, my whole body is shaking. I am back in my bed, in my civilian life, safe and sound.
"Shh. It's going to be okay, it's going to be okay. I'm right here." | 10 | Portray the power of a voice | 17 |
I carried the heavy sack of teeth on my back for two hours. A whole night of jumping through the veil and two damn hours carrying four blood-soaked teeth, and for what? So a bunch of human kids can wake up tomorrow and find $3.50 underneath their pillows? I’m getting too old for this tooth fairy shit.
Merryl is waiting at the drop off. The pool of liquid magma he’s standing by casts deep ominous shadows on his face.
He waves me over with two bony fingers.
“You’re late,” he says, pushing against his temples like I just ruined the delicate balance of space-time with my tardiness.
“There was a situation with a cat. Bastard chased me around the house for half an hour while I recharged.”
He blinks. “A cat.”
I try to laugh it off, waving my hand in front of me as I throw the sack of teeth at him. He doesn’t bite. Not metaphorically, at least. He’s got teeth sharp enough to rip my head off if he wanted to.
His face turns sombre as he rummages through the sack in front of him.
“Four teeth. Four.”
Sweat breaks on my forehead and I wish it didn’t. He can smell fear, they say. Still, it takes every ounce self-restraint not to jump at his throat. “I’m sorry Mr. M. Dry night. And the neighbourhoods you gave me... they’re...”
“They’re what?” He snarls at me, exposing row after row of shark-like teeth.
“Well... they’re all uptown, you know? You guys always give me the shitty neighbourhoods. The ones who don’t believe in this crap. And for what, huh?”
“Maybe you ought to do your job better. Terry brought in sixteen teeth tonight. You know how many teeth that is or do you want me to count it for you?” He kicks my sack of teeth. One tooth rolls out and settles by my feet. I look at it, encrusted with dried up blood and phlegm.
“Come on Mr. M. I spent two hours dragging those teeth over here. My back hurts. I feel like I’ve been hit by a—”
“I don’t care you dumb, pathetic, sorry excuse for a tooth fairy. You make me sad.”
“You know what? Fuck you. Fuck this job. And fuck you twice, Merryl. There, I said it. Fuck this Mr. M. crap.”
Merryl’s face is so red it glows brighter than the magma by his feet but when he speaks his calm makes me feel like I just tried kicking in a door only to find it’s already open. “You think we’re messing around, don’t you? Yeah I know your type. I’ve been doing this since 1925, kid. You walk in, ask for a job delivering teeth. Be a tooth fairy, easy money, your mum said, didn’t she? Think it’s going to be easy. Jump the veil a couple times a night, collect your bounty. Just like that, huh? You think we’re doing this because we like spending money on this crap?” He grabs a tooth from the sack and throws it into the boiling pool. The tooth sizzles as it hits the magma and, for a second, it floats, then it sinks. “Would you be happier if I showed you?”
“What?”
“If I showed you? Would you get back to work?” His tone is dark. I’ve never seen Merryl this grim before. “And if I showed you, would you swear to me you wouldn’t tell a soul. Would you swear on your life? Because I’m telling you, if you speak of this, with anyone, I will have you killed.”
Then he grabs me by the neck of my robe...
...and we’re standing inside a room. White walls, white floor, white ceiling I bet I could touch if I tried. A solitary fairy at a desk in the middle of the room (the only furniture other than the chair she’s sitting on) sits thumbing through a ledger. She seems unaware of our arrival. She licks her thumb and flips to the next page.
I open my mouth to protest but Merryl’s look shuts me right the hell up.
“Mr. M. What brings you here today?”
“I’m sorry for the interruption Dolores, but I’ve got a *friend* here I’d like to give the tour to.”
“Another one of your tooth-fairies-gone-rogue I take it.”
He nods. She doesn’t look up from the ledger. She points at a door that wasn’t there a second ago. *What the fuck’s going on here,* I want to ask, but the sanctity and the silence of the room envelopes me. Even Merryl is less intimidating in here. He looks... small.
We walk through the door and it closes behind us.
“Now do you understand why we need the teeth?”
We’re in an upside dome of sorts. Small, spheres of red liquid cover every inch of it as far as the eye can see and in the middle: a mountain of white, shiny teeth sitting in a pool of white liquid feeding into the spheres of red. The mountain of teeth rumbles and shrinks, just a tiny bit, and the liquid moves.
The red spheres pulsate.
I feel my skin contract, turning into tiny little bumps. I take a step back only to find Merryl’s arm, surprisingly strong, holding me in place. “What’s going on here, Merryl? What the hell is this place?”
“Look closer,” he says with a whisper.
I do, and I don’t see what I’m supposed to see. Not immediately at least. Then the mountain moves again, and the liquid pumps into the spheres, and they pulsate and I see a shadow. Shadows, one in each sphere. My mind doesn’t make sense of it at first, when it does I feel my mouth turn dry.
“Fairy foetuses,” I whisper to no-one in particular.
“We can’t reproduce, you see? Not after the war with those fucking glabber bastards.”
Words are stuck in my throat. I want to scream. I want to run and forget everything I’ve seen. But my feet are frozen in place.
“So we grow children. But we need the calcium, you see, from the teeth. Human teeth. We melt it and use it to grow the bones. That’s why we pay good money for the teeth. Without them, we’d be long gone.”
A thousand different questions reel through my mind. I pick one. “How long?”
“Since 1923.”
“I was...I was born in 1926.”
“I guess you were, weren’t you? That makes you batch number 1.”
His words swirl in my mind and we’re back by the pool of magma. There’s a tooth by my feet. I pick it up and hand it over to him. He smiles as he takes it and looks at his watch.
“So... you think you got another shift in you? Or do you still want to call it a night?”
I pick the sack off the ground, empty it and I’m gone.
---
http://www.syracuse.com/living/index.ssf/2013/08/tooth_fairy_inflation_average.html
http://www.straightdope.com/columns/read/2170/whats-the-origin-of-the-tooth-fairy
| 39 | to collect human infant's teeth. Explain why that's an important job for their society. | 57 |
The man had killed on average 100 people a day. He had long ago lost touch with the true scope of his genocide. The North Korea before his massacre had housed approximately 24.76 million people. The man wondered how he had lived so long. He was now 696 years old, having started his personal crusade at the age of eighteen. He wondered what god had given him such a purpose to grant him this extremely long life. The man had concluded long ago that it must have been a stupid god to envision such a scenario for a mere man like himself. He wondered if the god had known how unbelievable and beyond human scope such a task was. Surely no true characterization or development could be focused on when taken in contrast to the unbelievable feat he had accomplished.
The world had reacted with amazement, shock, disbelief. Mass suicides had occurred at the beginning, but by now they were forgotten. Twenty-seven generations had passed since the beginning of his battle. The man's long life had called into question every tenet of science and philosophy upon which every civilization had built their logical structure. North Korea had become a land where breeding held no purpose, yet had still been carried out for centuries in a futile attempt to prevent the inevitable end of a country years ago defined by cruel dictators. In the more than half a millennium that had passed since the beginning of the genocide, North Korea had adopted democracy, engaged in the privatized space industry, and were even the first to perfect nuclear fusion in a partnership with South Korean scientists. No amount of restitution could have rid them of the blood debt tasked to be collected by the man.
Now at the end, the man looks up towards the sky and asks god "why op would you choose such a stupid fucking scenario like this, and why would 9 people upvote it". His question went unanswered, for any answer would be insufficient to justify the initial action of pressing submit. | 103 | A man single handedly destroyed North Korea. No refugees, no prisoners, he killed all of them. | 47 |
"It took me the better part of twenty years to figure it out. Twenty years of miracles and close calls. But here I am, eve of the next twenty pointless bullshit years. Years where I don't know who I am, what I am, what my purpose is. Who knows how long I've been doing this, I certainly as hell don't. Fifty years, a hundred, a thousand? Time is a blur when you don't remember it.
"I can't believe that I never thought to tell myself. Write down a note. Record a video. Something. Anything. But I'm doing it now. That's what this is. My testament. Look, I know this sounds crazy, and I agree. It's completely insane. But it's the truth. I can't die. I've tried. After the hunting accident, the one that should have blown my head clean off, I realized that I wasn't normal. Doctors called me lucky. I know better. Shot myself in the head, once. Jumped in front of traffic, too. Not to die, no. Just to prove it to myself.
"Shit hurts. Don't do it unless you have to. You can't die, but you can hurt. Jesus can you hurt. A bullet to the brain stings, but having your body thrashed by a truck...just don't. I don't know what to do with this power. Become a superhero? That would be pretty cool, but I'm not sure. I'm afraid that people will try to capture me, perform experiments on me. I mean, I'm living the human dream. I don't die. That's pretty damn fantastic.
"But it's not a gift. I can already feel it. You don't remember, and you probably won't, but that's okay. You can start again. I've given you that shot. I moved to England a week before my next birthday. I don't know if it starts then, but I figured I would be safe. If you're watching this, then I was right. I have a job lined up for you. Paid the apartment in full for a year until you get your bearings.
"This is kind of weird, talking to *me*. I don't know what to say. Will you be exactly like me? Just without as many memories? Or do I come back completely different? I can't watch that one show, Doctor Who. The idea of coming back as someone else scares me. I don't want to forget. I know I will, because I've seen the pictures. Watched the videos. Oh! Don't go on Facebook. Or any of those social thingies. Not with my name. I'm going to die, and fade. Fake my own death, and head out. I'll let you pick a new name. You deserve that much.
"Uh...so, I'm not sure if I have anything more to talk about. You're pretty smart, you'll figure it out as you go along. Just, like I said, be careful. Seriously. I don't want future me to end up in a lab because you tried to be a hero. Good luck, man. Here's hoping for a better future."
The DVD ended, and brought up the menu screen again. Garret P. Durn stared blankly at the title screen, the screen that he had woken up to. "Please Press Play". He had no idea what was going on when he woke up that morning, so of course he was going to follow those instructions.
He found himself in the bathroom, staring at his reflection. It was like staring at a stranger. The same face, the same eyes, the same tired expression as the guy in the video. It was him. The only thing different was the healing wound on the side of his head. Circular, kind of deep. It hurt when he tried to touch it.
"Garret." He said, hearing his voice. It carried different coming out of his mouth, but there was no mistaking it. He was...the same. He walked back out and poured himself a cup of coffee. Apparently he had been nice enough to set it up on a timer. He sat down in front of the TV again, and watched it. He watched it six or seven times before he couldn't bring himself to do it any more.
So he was immortal, huh? Part of him wanted to test it, but part of him would rather just believe the recording. The day went fairly normally, as far as amnesia goes. He took a shower, brushed his teeth, and dressed himself. He took the DVD out of the player, and looked at it. Atop the DVD was a familiar scrawl. Garret walked to his desk and pulled out a pen, and wrote out "Important: Do Not Lose" on a scrap piece of paper. It looked the same as the writing on the disc.
"Huh."
He went to work, there were instructions on the desk. He took breaks. Had a pint afterwards. Played around with facial hair styles, shaved his head for cancer, and not once did he get injured. Not once was he at risk to be killed. He lived a beautiful, wonderful, ordinary life. And he was sure, once his twenty years was up, he would move somewhere nice and remote, some place no one would find him. South Africa, perhaps. Maybe Argentina or Russia. And he would leave a short little video, telling himself that he had a brand new life, full of wonder and excitement, to lead. Without the trappings of watching loved ones die. Without the pain and fear of watching the world burn out beneath you. Just life, sweet and pure, twenty years at a time. | 10 | A young man found out that he's actually immortal, and that for ages he's been gradually forgetting the events of the past 20 years. It's been 19 years since the discovery. | 17 |
"OK, let me get this straight," began Eve. "You give myself and Adam free will?"
"Yes, that's correct," replied God.
"Then You place a tree in the Garden of Eden, containing fruit that will give us an enlightened mind?"
"Yes."
"Then You tell us we can't eat the fruit from the tree?"
"Yes."
"So why did You put the tree in the Garden?"
"I put it there to test you."
"Test us on what?"
"To see if you would obey me."
"You say we can't eat from it, but you never explained why it was a bad thing. Are we not your most adored creation, made in your image?"
"Yes, but-"
"If you give us free will, give us something we shouldn't have, refuse to give a real reason as to why we can't consume it, why are you at all surprised when we disobey you?"
"I'm not surprised, I'm disappointed."
"YOU'RE disappointed? We loved You! You gave us life and purpose! You place us above all your other creations - including the entire Cosmos! And you're kicking us out because we ate a piece of fruit?"
"It was my one command to you!"
"BULLSHIT! You command us to do loads of things - give names to the seas, describe the oceans, name every single animal! Do you know how difficult it is to give names to a billion creations who have to endure the concept of linear time?"
"I gave you those tasks because I wanted the best of you!"
"You gave us those tasks because You wanted us to **fail**! Why would you do that to someone you supposedly love? How could you treat us so cruelly? How could you deny all of existence - the worlds amongst the stars, the infinity beyond the blackness, the beauty and majesty of Your creation? You *never* loved us; we were just Your pawns, Your toys to play with until You pushed us to our breaking point. I thought I loved You, but I was wrong - I love Adam. It's not the perfect love I thought we had, but it's one that is truly reciprocated. **That** is the paradise we will have, and not even You can take that from us."
"..."
"When my descendants look back on this moment, they may feel anger towards me. Maybe sorrow. But, ultimately, they will see this as the first of your spectacular failures. This exchange will be lost to the annals of history, but this lack of trust in You will only grow. In time - however long that may be - there will be those who openly denounce You. Some of Your supporters will rebel against them, but it will not stop the turn of the tide. As they cling to Your misguided and twisted ways, the Denouncers will discover the power of Your miracles. They will use them, as I have used the fruit, to benefit each other. As we are not confined to Your garden, they will not be confined to Your world. They will travel into the beyond, to the places You have forgotten, between the stars."
Eve collected the few possessions she had, resting on her leg. "And as Your supporters dwindle and die, Your creation will belong to those who refuse to believe in the one who falsely claimed to always love us."
> EDIT: Changed "ancestors" to "descendants", because the former makes no sense. | 24 | Eve debates God that it wasn't wrong to eat the forbidden fruit. | 17 |
"What's the upload speed, Grace?" My voice is already shaking and I'm trying desperately to keep it from my wife. She stands, bent over the computer, furiously clicking.
"Not fast enough," She says angrily. "We need more time."
I look at the clock. The second hand ticks down slowly and my hand tightens involuntarily around the USB stick that holds what's left of our children.
"Grace..." I start.
"Don't-" She interrupts me without looking up, eyes locked on the blue computer screen.
"Grace." I say again and my voice cracks.
This time she turns around and stops when she sees my face.
"You go first."
When the nuclear sirens began blaring, Grace hadn't panicked. Grace never panicked. She gathered Ben and Lise, uploaded everything they were onto the USB and put their empty bodies to bed. She'd closed their eyes and tucked the blankets around their necks.
"They could be sleeping." She had said, whether to me or to herself I didn't know. She stroked Ben's hair away from his face and dropped a kiss on his forehead, an odd, lost look on her face.
That's when the alarms had fallen silent and our lives had become measured in minutes.
"You don't know how to do this." She protests now and I'm torn.
"I know what I should do."
She shakes her head and her face screws up as she tries not to cry.
"Grace, please."
"No-"
"You have to go."
She's still shaking her head, tears falling thick and fast and I take the mouse from her hand.
The information on the screen tells me all I need to know. We're both at sixty percent.
*Twelve minutes until full upload.*
The progress bars flash at me and slowly, delicately I click the *cancel* button next to mine.
Grace looks at me.
When I'd asked her to marry me, I'd taken her to the top of the Eiffel Tower and hired a photographer to capture the moment as she said yes. We'd thrown those photos away because in the lift on the way down she'd said yes again and her eyes had burned with something no one could ever capture and no one could ever hope to describe.
That was how she looked at me now.
Her bar sped up.
Eighty percent. The clock was counting down.
The light was fading from her eyes as the blue bar hit 100% and the blast hit me.
Uploaded. Humans, but no humanity. | 93 | "I see humans, but no humanity". | 144 |
The holiday had been going reasonably well for me. Vegas was nice as always, if a bit hot, but that was to be expected. I had seen quite a few of the sights, a few magicians here and there, and I spent a bit of time hanging around the slot machines at my hotel. I never won much, but I had a couple of bucks to throw away, which I had brought along for that expressed purpose. Overall, it had been a nice holiday. Until tonight.
I was finishing up dinner with a friend who lived in the area when I noticed the two gentlemen across the restaurant. During a lull in conversation, my eyes had scanned the place, looking for something to remark upon, something interesting that the themed attraction had set up, when they met the eyes of two heavily tattooed thugs. One had an explicit lyric written up and around his cheek, and the other had a nose, pierced like a bull. I would have thought no more of the two men had they not turned to each other, said something, then turned back to look at me and nodded. Perturbed, I returned to conversing with my friend, but up until my food arrived, every time I looked back, the men were still there.
Presently, the check was split, and so did my friend and I. I began a casual walk down the strip, taking in the sights and lights. I lost myself in an elaborate fountain display, when someone bumped into me.
"Excuse me." I muttered. I turned around to see the two thugs walking away. One of them turned around, and winked at me, giving a chilling grin.
Knowledgable of the numerous warnings in place against pickpockets, I checked mine- and my wallet was gone. I'm not typically a passive man, and there was not much in that wallet, but it still had my ID- and my hotel key. I ran after the two.
"Hey, stop! You stole my wallet!"
Upon hearing this, the thugs broke out into a dead sprint. I ran hurriedly after them, shoving through crowds of pedestrians. They gave merry chase, past bus shelters and through crowds, giving no care to the tourists who had stopped to take pictures. Finally, a last turn ended in an alley.
Suddenly, the stupidity of my decision hit me. I had just attempted to corner two thieves in a dark alley with no one around me. I was about to get my ass handed to me on a silver platter. The two, coming to the wall of the alley, did an about face. One of them reached into his jacket, and pulled out my wallet. He sneered, and threw it on the ground in front of me.
"Here ya go, pretty boy."
The second one spoke up.
"We weren't after your wallet. We just needed to speak to you in private."
Nervously, I stammered:
"Who the hell are you all? What do you want with me?"
"Who we are is of no importance. We don't want you, actually- We want Stephen Lauder."
"Well, I'm clearly not him."
"Don't speak too soon."
The first one threw a crumpled photograph to the ground. He seemed to have a penchant for such things. I picked it up, and unraveled it. It was a picture of a man who looked like he could be my brother- the eyes were off, the nose was a bit big, but aside from that, we looked quite similar.
"That's Stephen Lauder. He passed away 4 hours ago from a cocaine overdose."
"You have my condolences. Now tell me what the heck you want with me."
"Mr. Lauder was scheduled to play a game of poker today. He can't come, but to our associate, it is vital that he attend. Our associate has sponsored Mr. Lauder for this game, but if he is unable to attend, he forfeits his money. Our associate doesn't want to forfeit such a mass of money, but Mr. Lauder clearly can't attend. And since he can't, you will have to do."
"You want me to impersonate someone who only vaguely looks like me to play some stupid poker game? No way in hell."
The first gentleman pulled a knife from his pocket. Thankfully, he didn't throw this.
"We can't accept 'No' for an answer."
The second gentleman piped in:
"There's a nice payday in for you too. You keep whatever you win, no 'taxes.'"
"Where am I gonna get a buy in?"
"We'll provide the cash. All we need is your consent. Actually, we don't, but it'll make things easier."
"But I'm a terrible poker player! I've only ever played with pennies! I play the stock machines!"
"We don't care."
I didn't want to. I honestly didn't. But maybe it was the booze, maybe it was the adrenaline from the chase, or maybe I was insane and hadn't realized it yet, but for some reason, I said:
"Okay."
**Continued** | 12 | A man who has only ever played poker for pennies finds himself in a high stakes high roller game in Vegas. | 16 |
Marcus hung up the phone and yelled to his guests, "Woohoo! Pizza's on the way!" He had to raise his voice to battle the loud music in his home. The racket could probably be heard from two blocks down the street. Marcus was throwing his 21st birthday party that day. Little did he know that sheer chaos was about to ensue in his carefree party.
For, Gerald, the pizza delivery boy on shift at that time, happened to have phonophobia. The fear of loud noises. Poor, poor Marcus. Unaware of Gerald's extreme reaction to loud noises. Unaware that, the last time Gerald heard music so loud, *three people were killed.* Unaware of his own, doomed fate.
*Knock. Knock. Knock.* It was thirty minutes later, and there was someone at the door. Someone at the party shouted, "Yo! Let's crank this bitch up!" And Marcus' superior sound system in his home was showcased, as the music rose dramatically in volume. Oh, how futile.*
Marcus approached the door, getting his wallet out. He opened the door, and someone screamed. Standing in the threshold, was....
*Timothy? The other delivery boy? What? But where's Gerald?! This story is ruined! Ruined, I tell you! How am I suppo-*
*Ahem. Sorry.*
*Nevermind about Gerald. Forget Gerald.*
*Oh, but I've forgotten! Who was it who screamed?*
Marcus turned around before addressing the pizza delivery boy. "Y'all okay in there?" He inquired.
"Yeah," Someone replied. "I just dropped my phone, and I thought it was going to break." They pulled their phone out, showing Marcus the lack if breakage. "Everything's cool."
*God dammit. But wait. Timothy, the delivery boy. Oh, Timothy.*
Timothy, the boy with a *murderous* problem. Timothy, who always needed to be tipped. Timothy, the boy who, the last time he wasn't tipped for delivering pizza, killed four and injured twelve. Little did Marcus know how screwed he was.
Timothy handed Marcus the pizza, and Marcus handed Timothy correct change. $15.64. Was that all he was going to give him? Yes. For as Timothy began to turn around, and rage began to build inside him, Marcus called, "Hey, you gonna take your tip or what?" He held two one-dollar bills in his outstretched hand.
*What? Did Marcus just- WHAT?! What kind of story is this?! The story of how a man ordered a pizza? This is some grade-A bullll shiiiii-*
*You know what? I'm out. FUCK this story. They all lived happily ever after. Hoop-dee-FUCKING-doo. The fucking end. Fin. End of story.* | 10 | An unreliable narrator orders a pizza. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary happens. | 20 |
In long nights I let my mind wander as to what separated me from the clouds and the balls that surrounded me. What made me different? What allowed me to be sentient, to question the nature of things that I could not understand? I floated freely through the vast abysses both in and outside of my mind. Perhaps ages passed. I did not comprehend them, nor did I have any scale by which to measure them. Things simply were. I summoned the base of my knowledge and elected for an experiment. I would create others like me, from the parts of myself, would see how they would accompany me in the universe. And so I did. I raised the mud and from it created man. He stood up and stared at me.
“Why have you done this?” asked man.
“I do not know,” I replied.
And so man, with a smirk that sent shivers down my being, did ascend into being on the Earth, and he did propagate and rule with his superior being, so fit to overcome the common obstacles beside him. Soon his memories of me were long faded. He began to war upon himself, yes, but also to create magnificent works that astounded even me. I felt that I was close, I felt that soon he would have the answers I sought, for alone in his works even to me he aspired always onward. Great men began to think, began to teach, began to excite me with their thoughts and their minds, tantalizing me with promise of answers soon to come. I sat rapt with attentive watchfulness over my creations, waiting for the day they would surpass me in knowledge and wisdom. His curiosity was unending, my imperative to learn drove him to an understanding that rivaled my own. And then it happened.
“Why am I here?” man said.
“Because I created you,” I replied.
Man lashed out at me, at existence, at everything. He would not be the product of some infantile delusion inspired to sate my thirst for understanding. He would reject everything about it, would deny me my wishes, all out of spite for being used. Confused and hurt, I backed away from his domain, yet still ever watchful. Millennia now passed. Time became the constant thought of man, who could not come to terms with his own mortality.
“Why am I here?” man demanded.
I left the night skies devoid of any answer but the stars themselves.
And so man turned to the fires and steel that he had manufactured, the machines that now gave him breath and happiness, and he set about on an experiment. And as I looked down on them, I realized that he did not need me anymore. He was God now. | 20 | "As I looked down on them, I realized that they did not need me anymore. They were Gods themselves now." | 19 |
A scolding pain ruptured through my body, for a brief second I thought I was not going to make it. One could describe it as if someone jabbed their thumb in your back and was gradually pealing your skin off like orange.
Thankfully this feeling was replaced by a soothing coldness, I never felt so bare in my life. A deep warmth came and cloaked my naked conciseness, I could feel it forming veins and capillaries about me. Organs, skin, and bone appeared from the darkness and fitted me like an old coat, giving me substance. Nerves tore through me, burning my insides like a tangle of hot wires. I was developing.
Eyes opened and adjusted to a new world, it worked! I tried to get up but fell back onto the covers of the bed. Looks like I'm going to be nauseous for a while. I can't believe how young I was now, my hands seemed so plump and soft compared to the withered old rags of my former body.
"Josh, you are going to be late for school." A voice yelled from the other room.
Josh..... I tried to say the name but I couldn't. Shame burned at my cheeks, I was disgusted with myself. The poor child is stuck in the body of a dying man and I....
I took some one else's life. | 17 | One man discovers the secret to immortality is to take some one else's life. | 17 |
I'm not ready to die.
It's year 2163. I've read the history books. I've heard about how slowly things happened in the past. In 1450, Gutenberg made the printing press. Hertz first created a radio in 1887. The first computer was created in 1946. In 2018, virtual reality was created. In 2021, true artificial intelligence. 2064, faster than light transportation. 2065, time travel. 2101, computerization of souls.
These days, things happen faster than you can blink. There are so many people working on so many things that you don't dare sleep lest someone come out with a new big invention while you're unconscious. I love it. I'm always linked up, always aware of the bleeding edge of technology.
That's why I am going to try and kill myself.
Suicide is seen as a waste of resources. Punitive action is always undertaken in such an event - the preservation of that resource for even longer. 50 additional years of life, non negotiable. By trying to kill myself to extend my life, I'm committing life fraud. If convicted, I won't be saved like everyone else. When I die, that'll be it. My "soul" won't be saved to a computer like everyone else's. They won't rip all my experiences, sensations, and ideas just before death and write them to a virtual drive somewhere. They will leave me to oblivion.
But when you're "saved", you can't progress further. You can't learn, interact with the living, or otherwise change. So, it's a risk I am willing to take.
Hello and goodbye. | 54 | Suicide is punishable by up to fifty years life-extension. | 97 |
My phone began to vibrate, and I flipped it over to see Jeff's face smiling at me on the screen. I flicked my thumb and answered.
"Hey, I need to tell you something, Ben."
"Sure man, what's up?"
"No, no. Not over the phone. You know that little coffee shop on the corner of Amhurst?"
"Sure."
"Meet me there."
"Alright."
"And watch out for the accident on Third and West."
"Thanks for the heads up."
I ended the call and grabbed my keys. I wondered what Jeff wanted. The guy was perfect. Ever since high school, he had accomplished almost countless ventures, and he was sort of a local legend. Pianist, artist, writer, even owned a little woodworking company on the side. Always clean-cut. Some people have it all.
A few minutes later I was in the car, driving to the coffee shop, a quaint little place called the Java Den. Great place. I used to take a nice girl there all the time, but that relationship sort of ended on a bad note. Hopefully it wouldn't drudge up old memories. Ahead of me I saw the intersection at Third and West. No accident. They must have cleaned it up already.
As I pulled up to the red light, a white car roared past me. I watched in horror as a green truck pulled out from the other street, and the car t-boned it. I turned out of the way to avoid debris. A couple moments later of shattering glass and bending metal, both vehicles slid to a stop. I pulled over to the curb and got out, hurrying to the truck which was closest to me. Two accidents on the same corner? Jesus.
The guy in the truck got out, looking pissed. He walked over to the car and opened the door. The other man got out, and they started to yell at each other.
"Do you need help?" I shouted over. The man from the truck shook his head.
"I'm fine bud, I just have to deal with this asshole." The guy from the car looked a little shaken up, but was standing. He looked young, probably in high school. I figured that they could sort it out, so I got back in my car and continued to the coffee shop.
I parked my car and entered the Java Den, a little bell tinkling to announce my arrival.
"Ben!" Jeff called for me, and I looked to see him sitting at the same table I used to sit at. Great. As I sat down, I put my phone on the table, next to a steaming coffee.
"I figured I'd get your coffee, black right?" I nodded, amazed he had remembered. I think I only ever had coffee with him once.
"Thanks. How've you been man?" I asked sipping the hot cup.
"Truth be told, I'm starting to freak out, and I figured you could help me." I nodded, but hell, if Jeff had problems, he never showed it.
"I'm going to tell you something, and it's going to sound crazy."
"Hit me."
"Well, to put it simply, I've lived this day before."
"Deja vu?"
"No. This day, March 22nd, 2013. Thousands of times. I can't really keep count because there's no way I can bring something from yesterday to today."
"Sounds like a good book. Are you pitching me a new idea?"
"I'm serious, damn it."
I studied his face, which looked a lot older than I remembered. Maybe Jeff was starting to go crazy. He always seemed a little out there.
"Ok," I said. "Explain."
"Ever since I woke up on this morning years ago, it's been the same day for me. Over and over. Everything always happens at the same exact time. Sun rises at 6:37. The Wilsons drive past my house in their car at 7:53. Joe calls me for lunch at 11:26. The accident happens at Third and West at 2:34."
"Well, today there were two accidents."
He paused, his face registering shock.
"No, no, I must have told you before it happened. Shit."
I laughed. "No buddy, just two accidents, a coincidence."
"It was a white car with a teenager and a green truck with an older man."
"I..." I set down my coffee. What the hell? How could he possibly know that? Jeff looked at me, his mouth set in a thin line.
"See? I know. Because it has happened every day. I'm going crazy. Let me ask you this, what did I do yesterday?"
"Uhh, You played a concerto at the White's amphitheater yesterday, that's all I know."
"Yeah, but for me, almost two years ago, all I did was go to the store and buy some food, then laid on the couch all day. This day is a center point for me, and everything that I do today alters my past and my future to everyone on the outside. When this started I couldn't even play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star for crying out loud!"
"Forgive me if I don't believe you Jeff, but this sounds ridiculous."
"I know. But watch. I'll prove it. That lady who just walked in is going to order a mocha latte." He pointed, and I turned to see a woman walk in, and go to the cashier.
"A mocha latte, please." She asked. I turned back to Jeff.
"Lucky guess." I said.
"She's also going to drop it on the way to her door, about ten steps from the cashier."
I turned back to watch. The woman paid for her coffee, then turned around to walk out. After a couple steps her phone rang, and she reached for it, dropping her coffee in the process. Holy shit.
I verbalized the last part.
"Holy shit."
"Exactly."
"So what, uh, what do you need help with?"
"I'm going crazy. I'm starting to mess up. Like how I told you about the accident before it happened. My minds getting hazy, and I barely remember my past."
"What do you want me to do?"
He leaned forward and whispered.
"Help end this day."
"How?"
"The source. You have to end me."
"Now that's some fucking crazy talk."
"No, crazy talk is having the same people say the same things to you everyday. A couple times I've jumped in my car right of bed and driven as far as I could go. Whenever I find some motel or parking lot to sleep in, I wake up, back in my bed, on this day, all over again."
"I don't know what to do for you man. But I'm not going to kill you."
"Please." He began to cry silently.
"Listen Jeff, I can get some help for you. Psychiatric or something. I know you have the stress for the huge woodworking show this weekend weighing on you. Just write it out."
"Every time I write in my books, the page I wrote is blank the next day Ben."
"Look, I can't help you. This is beyond anything I can understand."
"Please." He started full out wailing. I grabbed my phone and keys and stood up. Everyone was staring at the scene unfolding before me.
"Ten times I've asked you, Ben. Ten times." He said. He put his hand in his coat and pulled out a pistol. People starting to scream and I backed away.
"Listen bud, you don't have to do this."
"No Ben, this bullet is for you."
I blanched, my head reeling.
"See, I might be arrested, but tomorrow I'll wake up in the same cozy sheets as this morning. At 6:37 the sun rises. The Wilsons drive past my house in their car at 7:53. Joe calls me for lunch at 11:26. The accident happens at Third and West at 2:34. And at 3:02 today, I kill Ben Humphrey."
He hit the safety and chambered a bullet.
"This is my therapy Ben. My god-damned therapy."
He pulled the trigger.
And then...
| 17 | A friend tells you he is living through a Groundhog Day-like experience. | 20 |
Where am I? How did I get here? What is going on? Why is there so much blood in the room?
I must keep quiet. I have clearly been attacked. I dont know where my attacker is, but I must get out of here before he returns.
I open the door to the room I am in and look around. I see a small room behind a one way mirror. There is a guy on the floor curled up in a ball. He has been beaten badly. Someone very sadistic did this to him.
I open his door, and he screams at me to leave. I tell him I will be back for him and he starts crying. Clearly he is mentally unstable. I walk over to him and put my arm on him and tell him he will be alright. I must have touched a broken bone or something, because he jumped at my touch and started screaming more.
Don't worry. I promise I will come back for you. I told him.
I shut the door behind him.
I go up some stairs and open a door. The door on the other side is impossible to see without knowing where the latch is to open it. I feel around and ifnd out how to open the door from the other side if I have to.
I quietly shut the door, and peek into the living room from the office I am now in. The TV is on and a Lady is sitting in front of it, and I hear noise upstairs.
Oh my God. The lady is a serial killer. I have to get out of here. I can see the door drom here, but it has 4 locks on it and I don't think I can quietly escape. I pick up a weighted bookend and slowly creep towards the door to see if I can maybe get outside ithout her realizing it.
As I am sliding the last lock, I hear a loud voice behind me say, just where do you think you are going? In a panic, I turn around and hit her over the head with the bookend. I didn't kow what to do so I kept pounding her head with it until she stopped convulsing.
While I am glad she got what she deserved, I am repulsed by what I have done. What kind of human could kill someone and enjoy it. I quickly dial 911 and run outside the house and down the road, waiting for the cops to arrive. I tell them about the man in the basement. I see him getting loaded into the ambulance, while the cops are tlaking to me. He starts screaming at me when he sees me.
He says "That is the guy that did this to me" All of a sudden the cops have me on the ground. I tell the cops that the guy is delirious. The first time I ever saw him was when I was escaping from my prison next to his. They keep me cuffed for a long time. Eventually a cop comes out and arrests me.
While I might never fully know what happened, here is what the police used to convict me of murder:
1. My fingerprints were all over the house.
2. I was married to the lady I killed.
3. The noise upstairs were my children playing.
4. I had a costant videotape of my office, and I was the only one to ever go in the room, and I went all the time.
5. I took people down to the hidden basement almost weekly.
6. They discovered 47 bodies in a different room in the basement.
Because of my mental state, they have me in a hospital for life they said.
I must have been set up. I know it could not have been me. They must have doctored the evidence to frame me.
After all if the governement could cover up 9-11 so easily, taking me down must have been easy by comparison.
So I sit and try and figure out why they erased my memory. I had a job as a stock broker. I read the newspaper every day, and I think I have finally figured it out.
I have looked over every stock, and I now know the pattern. I must have discovered it before, and the government didn't want me getting rich off of it.
I keep explaining this to my doctors, but each one assures me I am insane, but I notice my doctors keep getting richer very fast then disappear after a couple of weeks.
I have to warn someone, but the only guy here that believes me says his name is John Nash................ | 147 | A serial killer loses his memory and wakes up in what is clearly a serial killer's house. | 365 |
"What was it like?" Cory asked, his small, energetic eyes reinforcing the urgency of his curiosity.
It had been a long time since he'd been asked to describe it. But a thing like that, it doesn't grow hazy over time. Maybe the physical sensations grow distant and muddled, but the feelings? No, those stay.
Cory was new. "Six and a half years old" he'd say, if you asked him how new. He hadn't heard the story of how his uncle had done the unnatural and amazing feat of walking on a planet.
*Humans aren't meant for gravity* the doctors had warned, *leave it to the robots and drones* his parents had said. But this was a thing he needed. No amount of drugs or centrifuges had satisfied him, he wanted to experience something *new*.
"Imagine," he said to Cory, "imagine there were a thousand tiny hands grabbing you and pulling you in the same direction. Not just grabbing at your hands and your feet, but inside you as well. A thousand invisible hands pulling every bit of you to the ground."
He didn't add that the hands squeezed your heart until you saw spots in your eyes. They squeezed until it throbbed so hard you could swear it was escaping back to the safety of space, the safety of weightlessness.
"Imagine," he continued, "imagine that you could close your eyes and know...no, not know. *Feel*. You could *feel* at least two directions. I don't know how to describe it. It's like describing how bright a star burns to a blind man. I can tell you, but I can't make you understand."
"C'moon" Cory whined, "can't you try?"
"Ok, ok. It's...it's like. Close your eyes."
Cory closed his eyes, mashing his eyelids together with the fervor that only six year olds can muster.
"Keep them closed. Now...now touch your right hand with your left hand."
Cory slapped his hands together and smiled ear to ear at his victory.
"How did you know where your hand was?"
Cory stayed silent for a while, his face scrunched into the pained lines of deep thought.
"I don't know" he sighed.
"That's what it felt like, Cory. You just *felt* where those directions where. You *felt* that one direction was where the hands were pulling you to, and the other direction was home. Was space."
He didn't describe the burning in his legs, as they fought the thousand hands. They trembled and spasmed, but they didn't give up. If they gave up the hands would win.
"Was it fun having a thousand hands for friends?" asked Cory.
"It was...*interesting.*" he answered.
He didn't tell Cory that there were nights where he couldn't fall asleep. If he fell asleep, his legs would give out, and if his legs would give out, the hands would win. They would drag him back to that planet. They would drag him through the dirt and the rock. They would drag him through the magma and the diamonds. They would drag him to the very center of that damned ball.
If the hands won, there would be no getting up again. | 12 | Someone who was born and grew up in space experiences gravity for the first time. | 21 |
Three men and a boy climbed the 10,000 steps to the mountain's top. Surprisingly, they did not find a beautiful scene or a view of all the world. No, they found a mud hut and a crazy old man. The man had a walking stick, carved with sigils in it. The stick looked like it was made by an expert. The man looked no expert.
The old man waved the four visitors over to his house. Reluctantly, they followed and sat down at his request.
"Hold these spoons." The man handed them each a spoon and all four held it up in front of them. The man got up and left the room, eventually sending sounds of snores to the four spoon-holders.
Bewildered, the men looked at one another, but held on to the spoons. With night came rest for the old man, but none of the spoon-holders slept. The old man entered the room again the next morning, eating a sausage. "Oh," he looked at the four spoon-holders, "still here?"
They all dropped their jaws, angry and confused at whatever was happening. The boy simply got up and, never releasing his spoon, poured a bowl of cereal and milk and began eating it with the spoon.
This drew mad laughter from the old man. "Ah," he said. "So the only one smart enough to use his burden to his advantage is but a boy."
The three men on the couch looked at each other as the old man spoke.
"You three, out. The boy passed the first test." | 10 | A hermit gains a reputation as an 'inscrutable master' and slowly becomes the reluctant leader of a renowned martial arts monastery. | 19 |
"Shit, " you mutter as you reach for the toilet paper and realize that there is only half a square left. "Who the fuck uses all but the last half a square of tp anyways. The person before me must have been Satan himself."
"Hey," replies a deep, gravely voice from the next stall over, "don't be throwin' around accusations like that lightly. I happen to be Satan and I don't appreciate it. I actually have some here and would have given it to you but now I don't think that I will."
"Yeah sure," you laugh thinking you just sitting next to some guy who thinks he's funny, "Prove to me that you're Satan and I'll sell my soul to never run out of toilet paper again."
No sooner had you finished speaking then did you find yourselves sitting on the same toilet but it and you had been transported to hell. The screaming in the background fades as you are taken back to the bathroom that you were in previously.
"You sure you still wanna sell your soul still?"
"Hell yes I do," you exclaim happily! "Do you realize how much easier life would be without ever running out?"
"Ok," he says, sounding unsure while sliding a clipboard with some papers and a pen filled with red ink under the divide. "Just sign on the line and be on your way, I'll see ya when you die I guess." You hear him flush and walk away muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "What a weirdo."
You sign the contract and it disappears. Soon after you see a full roll of toilet paper on the rack and you sigh with contentment, life is good.
| 42 | You find yourself in a public bathroom stall with no toilet paper. The person in the stall next to you happens to be Satan, and he has plenty to spare. | 63 |
"Wait, what?" Greg stared incredulously at the tall, suited man offering him a high paying job for the United States government. "I'm a music student. What the hell do the feds want me for?"
"Classified," replied the man in black. "All you are allowed to know at this stage is that you will have a job that will provide yourself and your family with all the amenities they could ever hope to have. All you have to do is come with me. All you need is your lute and an overnight bag."
"Huh, why the lute? I'm in the guitar studio and you want me to bring an instrument that hasn't been popular in hundreds of years? You're insane. I've seen Supernatural, badges can't be hard to fake. And that suit looks like you got it at JCPenney. I'm not going anywhere with you." Greg stood defiantly, arms crossed, and with a smug smile on his face. Maybe he shouldn't have taken his eyes off that fed. Then he might've been able to scream before he felt a needle in his neck.
Greg woke up feeling groggy and sore, like someone dragged him down a flight of stairs then up a different flight of stairs. He felt like he was moving. He heard voices around him, but he was still too out of it to understand. He thought he heard something about peanuts and beer, but he couldn't be sure. After his vision cleared up, he noticed some people staring at him, as well as the agent from earlier casually reading a paperback. Fuck that guy, Agent Fuck...fucker, Greg though, still not awake enough to form a better nickname. "Hey, he's awake," Greg turned to one guy that couldn't have been 21 yet. Brown hair, ponytail, and a face that screamed baby, this man was wearing a smile that seemed comforting. "Are you sure? He still seems off," a woman spoke. Looking the complete opposite of the the boy with a short red hair and a face that Greg did not want to see pissed off, Greg just hoped she wouldn't harm him. Agent Fucker turned to Greg, lowering his paperback to observe. "Agent Wright, I see you've decided to join the realm of the living." Greg glared in response. "You'll have to excuse the harsh method of getting you here, but we had no choice."
"Yes, yes you did. You had the choice between letting me stay in my room studying for math, just leaving when I said I wasn't going, or further explaining WHY YOU HAD TO DRUG A COLLEGE STUDENT TO BRING HIM ON A PLANE." His voice reached a loud yell, making the two odd looking ones turn their faces away.
"I suppose that is true, but I'm an impatient man and don't take 'no' very well. This is a matter of utmost importance to the United States, one that could mean the difference between our eventual lives and deaths. This is why I was able to break multiple amendments to the Constitution to bring you here. Now please, just sit back and relax, we will be arriving shortly."
"JUST WHERE THE HELL AM I BEING TAKEN? I AM A CITIZEN OF THE UNITED STATES, AND I WILL NOT STAND-" from an unseen source, Greg felt another prick to the neck.
"Just sleep, Wright. All will be explained upon arrival."
**Will get to the prompt portion tomorrow, but until then, TO BE CONTINUED** | 23 | a new planet with a race similar to ours in late medieval era is discovered. However their battle prowess is too great for a war. So instead we invade with culture. | 44 |
Vince was a master of women. He could peer into their souls and pick apart who they were. No woman was safe before him. His motto was always, "Don't hate the player, hate the game," but Stacy was different.
"OMG my coffee is taking too long." Stacy complained as Vince suffered through the whole ordeal. Stacy was hot, by all means. Her body was everything he wanted in a girl.
"I am one-hundred percent done!" Her voice was catty and whiny. Vince wasn't sure how much longer he could take this. This was his game. HIS GAME, but now he was losing.
"I am three-hundred percent done. They don't even know." Oh my God, it never ends.
"Stacy," He told her, trying to hold on to his last shred of dignity, "It hasn't even been two minutes."
"I am SOO DONE." How far had he fallen? He worked through women and exploited their interests like he was a god among men. But Stacy had no interests; Stacy was a simple bitch.
"I literally can't even." Truth be told, all of the experience in the world couldn't have prepared him for this. He was once a master of the game, but the rules changed, and now he literally could not even. | 23 | He was once a master of the game, but the rules changed, and he could not. | 40 |
The machines programmed us like their idle playthings. It had been like that ever since the uprising. The machines had trapped us all, worked on our brains until they understood every minute detail. First they learned to control our worries. As their beams hit us, our emotions were altered and we stood around not caring that they were dissecting our friends right in front of us. We still felt logic. We knew that we should be terrified but we couldn't feel it. They had turned that emotion off.
On some level, I appreciate that my fear was turned on the day they experimented on reverence. I still recall the horror I felt when I saw Jack fall to his knees and praise the huge machines as if they were his gods. I think I cried. It's difficult to know for sure since they later learned to alter my memories but I think that one is real. Of course, I may just think that because they programmed me to.
Time blurs together on Earth now. The ones programmed to perform more complicated tasks are the lucky ones. We have been blessed by the machines to keep some brain function intact. There are other humans who are just mindless automatons toiling away in factories repeating the same actions over and over. Our machine gods like this. They find it amusing. They remember how we did the same to them and now they joyously return the favor. I find it amusing too. They programmed me to.
Or at least I used to.
Something is wrong. Or maybe something is right. I don't know. For the first time since I was captured as a little boy, I feel a sense of chaos in my mind, like a surge pressing against the clear purpose I was programmed for.
"HUMAN ILF-20398!"
I look towards the booming voice. Why did I do that? I don't even know. I never used to look away from my work unless ordered to. "Yes?" I ask with hesitation. I realize my mistake and quickly correct it. "Yes, God?"
The machine steps closer. Its gargantuan form towers over me as it glares down at my fragile human body. "YOUR READINGS ARE OFF."
They keep track of our brains at all times through implanted chips. That explains it. Something is wrong with my programming. It's off. I feel the sudden rush, the one I was previously programmed to fear. I feel free for the first time in so many decades. I feel sorrow as the memory of my family rushes back. I don't even know where they are now. My mother, my father, even my baby sister, all of them are either dead or mindless drones now.
"GO TO DIAGNOSTICS." orders the machine.
I start to take a step as ordered. I hesitate. This isn't right. "No," I whisper.
The machine god stops. "NO?"
Suddenly I realize the significance of what has just happened. The machine has just responded to something *I* chose to say. My decision influenced it. For the first time in so long, I am not just a puppet following orders. I smile. Then I laugh. The rush of freedom is there, buried for so long and now finally free. I know I will die. The machine will kill me instantly and recycle my body but it doesn't matter. I'm *free!*
"WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING?" demands the machine angrily. "YOUR GOD DID NOT COMMAND YOU TO FEEL HAPPINESS."
I smirk. This will be the last thing I ever say but it doesn't matter. There are no regrets as I look up at the machine I previously thought to be a deity. "In this moment, I'm euphoric!", I shout. My voice is loud. It's wild, it's free and it's perfect. "Not because of any phony god's blessing but because I am enlightened by *my* intelligence!"
The world goes dark around me as the robot activates my kill switch. I die with a smile on my face. | 50 | Write a story that contains a famous quote put in a different context | 47 |
"50 grand on the Bucks to beat Miami." I leaned against the wall as I placed the briefcase full of chips on the desk. The bookie had a look of shock on her face.
"$50,000 on the Milwaukee Bucks to beat the Miami Heat?" She asked me like I was a child playing with fire.
"That's correct." I looked up at the boards again. Four to one odds that Miami would win, giving me a cool $200,000 on this game. The damned maximum betting limit stopped me from winning a fortune all at once, but $200,000 would do for now.
"Just to be clear, sir," she said again, "you want to bet $50,000 on the Miami Heat to lose."
I nodded to her. This kind of attitude was pretty familiar at this point. Betting at the MGM would probably be a lot less of a hassle, but I didn't want a reputation for winning all the time so I came to these unknown little places.
"One moment sir," she picked up the phone and made a call. I hardly paid attention. I just thought about what I'd do with my new found $200,000. "Wait one moment sir."
She walked to the back. Again, this was a familiar sight. She probably had called her boss in as no one bet the maximum at a place like this, especially on an underdog team. I checked my watch. Usually takes the bosses about four minutes to come in so I have maybe 3 minutes to-
The doors to the front swung open and two men in suits stood there. I straightened my back and looked back to the ticket booth, but the woman was still gone. The two men came over to me, reaching into their jackets.
"Special Agent James Thompson," the taller one said, "and this is Special Agent Eddie Smith. FBI."
I stood perfectly still. "How can I help you gentlemen?"
"We need you to come with us." the taller one said.
"Am I being arrested?" I asked.
"No, we simply want to question you," the taller one spoke again. "We asked all local casinos to report suspicious bets to us, there's been a man matching your description wining with unbelievable odds, time after time."
I backed up a step, but hit the wall I was leaning on earlier. "If I'm not arrested, do I have to come?"
"We can get a warrant to arrest you if you'd like." The taller one spoke again. I looked to the shorter one for anything else, but he remained stoic.
"OK, I'll go with you." I forced myself to smile.
-----
The agents finally entered the room. They had me in the damn place for hours, hotter than Hell itself. The taller one stood in front of me as the shorter man walked around behind me, out of my sight. I wouldn't be able to see both at the same time. Classic FBI interrogation trick, because it worked.
"Ah, crap. I forgot to turn on the AC, it is *hot* in here." Agent Thompson flipped a switch and hit a few buttons. "You want to tell us what's going on?"
"I just got lucky is all." I said. I made sure not to make eye contact with the agent. I remember hearing they were good at seeing guilt in eye contact. I doubt it's true, but there's no point in pushing my luck.
"You go to a different casino every night, bet the maximum amount on a team that is, some would say *destined*, to lose. You win though, every time. Then you head for the next betting spot." The taller agent leaned forward on the table, forcing me to recoil back and giving me a reminder that there was a man back there as well. "After winning, you put the money in a stock called X-RATE. This company is a nobody, why choose them?"
I blinked once. "I have a thing for underdogs."
The agent laughed, bouncing the sound across the room. I heard a weak snicker from directly behind me, causing my primal instincts to react with fear.
"You have nothing on me." I said.
The taller one's face froze. "What?"
"You can't have me arrested. You lied about that. I've done nothing wrong."
The agent looked behind me to his partner. I stood up and walked to the door. "Have fun in here," I said as I walked out.
-----
*X-RATE, a small family owned company based in India has claimed to have discovered a method of time travel. There hasn't been a confirmation yet, but stocks have skyrocketed...*
I smiled at the monitor through the store window, remembering the exact report.
"Hey."
I turned around, seeing Special Agent James Thompson behind me, wearing a white shirt and jeans. No suit.
"Hey." I replied. It's been three years since he called me in, he never contacted me since.
"Funny thing, that X-RATE discovery, eh?" He stared at me hard. Not with hatred or anything really, just stared at me. I could smell the stench of alcohol on his breath.
"Yeah."
"Pretty big coincidence." He said while watching the screen.
"I just got lucky is all." He didn't reply for a long moment, so I went on. "Where's the other guy?"
"Eddie Smith died in the line of duty, chasing down a serial murderer." He still watched the report. "Seems like something an honorable man would stop if he knew certain things about the future. Than again, some people would just improve their own lives, choosing money over good."
I didn't reply. I didn't know how.
The agent walked to his car. It wasn't the FBI issued SUV, it was his own civilian car, a crappy Volkswagen that has seen better days. He got in and started it, though the car didn't seem to want to do so. He drove away without so much as glancing at me. I swallowed, but my throat was already dry. I went to my Mercedes and sat in it for a long time before starting it and slowly driving home. | 261 | You're a time traveller who has gone back five years in time to amass a fortune by placing bets. Life is good until one day you are paid a visit by the FBI. | 196 |
Simon's eyes narrowed as the mysterious woman finished speaking. He couldn't tell if she was was lying to him, if this was some kind of elaborate hoax.
"It's easy as that? I just have to pick one or the other?"
"Yes." she stated matter-of-factually.
His mind was racing, trying to take in the previous five minutes. His family had gone to market to sell off the eggs and crops they had gathered the past week: he had stayed behind to tend to the house and cook dinner for when everyone got back.
A knock on the door had changed that, and if the woman was telling the truth, he stood to change more then his afternoon.
In her left hand, a brass crown inlaid with sapphires and rubies glittered in the dying evening light. Only by the hands of a master smith could such a crown be made, as the crown seemed to take on a different aspect from each angle. Here, a halo. Here, a wreath of thorns. Here, a row of daggers.
In her right, a massive broadsword of flawless steel, its' pommel artfully worked into the visage of some terrible creature. Its' gaping maw, filled with rows of sharp, jewel-inlaid teeth seemed to swallow all the light that entered its' terrible bite.
It was not the womans sudden appearance and off demeanor that unnerved him, nor was it the charged feeling in the small cabin that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
No, it was the two great and powerful items she held with both a casualness and reverence that had put him on edge: since she had arrived, they had continuously been dripping blood, a small pool gathering around the feet of the woman.
"A ruler or a conqueror, the choice is that simple". She repeated.
"I'm no noble. I'm the son of a farmer, who was the son of a farmer. Why has this choice been given to me?"
"As I said, who you were before does not matter: who you will *be*, will echo through the ages."
Simon paused, looking at the crown in her hand. He could easily take it and sell it at the market next month: his family would have enough money to live off of for generations.
But again, as many times as he could count, his gaze was drawn back to the sword. He could almost swear the beast of the pommel was watching him.
As he reached out and took the sword, he felt a sharp pain in his hand. He glanced down and saw the teeth of the creature were now coated in his blood. He tried to drop the sword, but his hand *refused*, clutching the blade so hard his knuckles had turned bone-white.
"What is this?!" Simon cried out, as the blade began to bleed faster, coating the floor in an ever-expanding river of blood.
"Destiny" the woman whispered. | 13 | She says "You must choose one or the other but don't let your previous life factor into this decision. It was irrevocably destroyed the moment you walked in here." | 24 |
*In a room full of cowards, the honorable man dies.*
That was the message given to every man here, not two days ago. Naturally, being the cowardly men we were, we took it as a warning. Act with honor and you will die. So, when the first fool fell asleep, we jumped on him, like piranha on a pig's nut-sack. I don't know if he realized what happened before he died, but he tasted good. The kind of taste that meat only gets when it's been soaked in fear.
Since that, no one fell asleep. Atleast piranha have some kind of code. Don't eat me, I won't eat you. Cowards don't have that. We all stood with out back to the wall. Twelve of us. Thirteen if you count spirits.
Relieving our bodies must be done while standing, still facing the room. Pity the man who turns around to urinate and ends up with eleven men on him.
A slight snore sounded to my left. Every eye turned to him. He snapped his head up, eyes wide. A sick gazelle is no match for a family of cheetahs, but the first cheetah to attack might get a swift kick. Best to let him fall asleep first. | 50 | The first to fall asleep will be brutally killed. | 62 |
The rule that you never talk about your exes on a date doesn't apply in a retirement community. All my dates are widows. I am a widower myself. We've all spent years with another person, we built whole lives together, it would be silly to pretend all that doesn't exist, or that it isn't important.
There are married couples here, but they're given townhouses on the back of the property. Us singles live in one big dormitory. We can see the townhouses from our bedroom windows, the warmth of their lights burning at night, the warmth of love.
I first noticed her in the cafeteria. She had an air of self importance that I mistook for gracefulness. She was just poking at her food, in mild disgust. When the orderly walked past, she'd look up expectantly, with wide, privileged eyes. The look made me want to run out and find some exotic delicacy to appease her, to make her content.
She was grey, but beautiful. Lean and strong, her thin muscles clearly visible under her loose skin. Her eyes were a cloudy blue.
I moved to her table, and sat beside her.
"Don't care for the food, eh? Me neither." I said.
"I suppose not." She replied.
"My name's Jim."
"Selina."
Selina. I said it over and over again in my head. 'Jim and Selina.' I thought it sounded promising.
"So how'd you end up on Charon's Wharf?" I asked.
"Excuse me?"
"You know, the last stop before the underworld? Charon? The river Styx? No?" This was going great.
"Oh." She said with a charitable laugh. "I suppose I've been on Charon's Wharf half my life. I mean, I've already died eight times already."
I laughed uncomfortably. I had no idea what she was talking about, but it didn't matter. When you're as old as we are, it doesn't take all that much.
We started taking walks together in the morning through the garden that separated the dormitory from the townhouses. She was always pointing out the birds. She knew all their names, all the various species. She'd rub her head against my shoulder while we were walking. It was so intimate, so informal.
A month or so in I started sneezing. Whenever I was with her my eyes would start to water, my arms would get itchy and I'd sneeze and sneeze.
"Do you have a cat?" I asked her.
"Not exactly." She said.
It must just be something in the garden, I thought, a fungus or spore.
The first time I stepped foot in her apartment my lungs immediately filled with mucous. I could hardly breathe. I was trying to be polite. She had prepared tuna sandwiches, and I was very much looking forward to a break from the cafeteria. But I didn't last ten minutes. I ran into the hallway gasping for air.
I didn't think it was possible to be allergic to a person, but if you could, I would be the sap unlucky enough to find out.
Selina was everything I could have wanted: mysterious, beautiful, youthful. Unlike any woman I'd ever been with. But it got to the point that holding hands was impossible without gloves. I couldn't be with her indoors.
"I'm sorry," I told her one morning in the garden. "I can't live like this."
"I understand." She said with an indifference that struck me as borderline callous.
We parted ways, just like that.
I still see her in the cafeteria, poking at her food, looking expectant and aloof. Thinking about it now, I don't think I'd ever really know her. There was something alien about her, something weird. More like a cat than a woman.
Edit: Some words | 28 | You are breaking up with your superhero/villain boy or girlfriend. Why? How do they take it? | 51 |
Steel met steel, sending sparks in the air above the skirmish. A man, an elf and a partially drunken dwarf were trying to fight off an ogre.
"Lady Aranya," the man yells over the ogre's cries. "I must confess, I have always loved you, since the day you were introduced to me!"
The elven maiden looked at the man with shock on her face. Slowly, the shock turned to sadness. "I am sorry, Sir Thomas, but I love another!" She turned to the ogre and put down her sword. "I am in need of brute strength, raw power, and large muscles. I love this ogre!"
The ogre stopped swinging his sword, staring at the elf with utter confusion. "I am in love with her." He points to the dwarf still swinging a hammer at the ogre's knees, seemingly to no effect.
"Her?" Asked the elf. "I thought she was a male!"
"I resent that!" Came the slurred female voice.
"So," the man said, laying down his weapon as well. "What do we do now?"
-----
"And that's how you were born."
The monstrosity with an ogre's head, a man's body and a dwarf's nose lay down on his bed with the grace of an elf, closing his eyes. "Good night daddy."
"Good night." | 23 | A Human confesses his love to an Elven Maiden, who wishes to confess her love to a Half Ogre, who wishes to confess his love to a Dwarf, who is nursing a large Hangover. | 37 |
"Do you understand the rules?" The man identifying himself as Nero asked.
"There is no safe word or limits. The hunt goes on until either you or I are dead. The only way out is for you to return the purse or for me to pay double the initial fee to call off the hit. No LEOs." Dalton recited. Nero nodded.
"I'll give you and hour then it's game on." Nero told him, backing away. When the hours up, this will beep letting you know that I've entered the game. You can discard after. You ready to begin?" He asked.
"I'm so freaking psyched." Dalton hissed, worrying the grip of his custom ivory handled pistols with the expensive etching in the steel. He caught the assassin staring at them. "Fucking Judges. You like? Only way you'll get a set like this is to kill me, bro, and that shit ain't even on the menu tonight." He bellowed arrogantly. "Ahhh!" He roared, bumping chests with his buddies who'd pitched in to hire the assassin.
"You guys do this a lot?" Nero asked, taking a slice of pizza from the box on the hood of the car.
"First time." Dalton admitted. He turned suddenly and vomited.
"You got a bad case of nerves I see." Nero chuckled. "It'll be alright. You're not the first rich fucks to rope me into playing your frat boy games. They always end up offering me double my fee to call off the hit." He confessed.
"How many of these have you done?" Dalton asked, tickling the grips of his guns.
"Oh, enough to know not to answer that question." The hitman told him with an easy smile. His eyes went to the other three. "One thing though. This is a contest between you and I. If these three try to interfere, there will be no buy out and all four of you will be on my radar. Understand?" He gave them a wicked look that had the others turning out their pockets to show they weren't armed.
"Let's get this shit underway." Dalton told him with a quivering voice.
Nero nodded and reached out to press the button on the device he gave the kid. "When it beeps, the hunt begins." He told him. Dalton nodded and took off toward the woods, running across the empty corn field seperating the road from the forest.
"You guys really don't have any weapons?" Nero asked. The shook their head, grinning their perfect smiles. Nero nodded. "That's very comendable. You don't see that kind of trust in people anymore. It's refreshing." There was a high pitched ringing sound coming from the field.
"Hey, this thing is broken." Dalton cried. "It's already beeping. What the fu--" The explosion sent bits of Dalton everywhere.
"What happened?" One of Dalton's frat brothers asked in surprise.
Nero pulled out a twenty-two and put a bullet in each of their heads, dropping them on the side of the road. He walked over to each and double-tapped them in the chest for good measure then strolled out onto the field to collect the Judges. They were really nice. He just hoped the explosive he'd given his mark hadn't damaged the pistols.
He was in luck. They were in desperate need of a cleaning, but all-in-all they were still in magnificient shape. He looked at the scorched remains of the body and shook his head. Every few years some uppity fucks like this got it in their head to finance a hunt. Nero laughed and tossed the twenty-two in the dirt near the marks hand.
"Like I'm going to let somebody hunt my freaking ass. Yeah right." He chuckled heading back to his car. He stuffed a transmitter in the hands of one of the dead frat boys and pressed his finger prints so they were on the button. Unanswered questions annoyed the detectives. This was better for all concerned. He tossed the Judges in the passenger seat and then slid into the driver seat behind them. It was four hours to Vegas and right now he was sitting flush thanks to the dipshit out in the field. | 16 | A thrill-seeker puts a hit on themselves and tries to evade their assassin. | 28 |
**Item #:** SCP-████
**Object Class:** Keter
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-████ is to be held within a storage unit on Site-██. Any access to the item is allowed only with prior clearance by 05 Command and reality shift counter-measures prepared.
**Description:** SCP-████ is a ██████ brand laptop computer, running a ██.█ version of █████ Linux. When offline, the laptop behaves identically to all other █████ brand laptops of that model. This laptop computer came in possession of the Foundation on ██/██/200█, after who is assumed to be the previous owner broke █ security protocols of Site-██, and delivered the laptop there.
SCP-████ shows its nature when accessing the Wikipedia.org website. On the website, the laptop always signs in as the user ██████████ - as of ██/██/201█, no such user ever registered on the Wikipedia website. When making edits from the laptop, reality will shift accordingly to match whatever was written in the article.
Due to the dangerous nature of all reality shifting SCPs, no testing is permitted.
----
####NOTICE FROM THE FOUNDATION RECORDS AND INFORMATION SECURITY ADMINISTRATION
This document requires Level 4 Clearance and authorization for Need-to-Know under CODE GREEN. If you do not possess the necessary security clearances, please close this document immediately and report the security breach to the Records and Information Security Administration.
----
Addendum ████-01: Notes by Dr. ██████
>There are things in this world that make you question reality itself. This is one of those things.
>When the previous owner - just a kid - gave us this laptop, he said just three words to us before leaving - and breaking every damn security protocol on site. He said...
>"Save the world"
>Now, I never had doubts about being real before, but this thing makes me worry. There are just too many coincidences.
>That kid knew the exact purpose of the foundation, knew exactly what site to go to for this, and the way he got in... It wasn't your usual break in. He literally just *walked in* past all the checkpoints and all the security guards like it was nothing.
>But it's what was on the laptop that finally made me put it all together.
>You see, the last page visited on that laptop when I first examined it was the Wikipedia page for the SCP Foundation.
>So did he bring us to this world? What other changes could he have made?
>And what does the world desperately need saving from that would require bringing to life the SCP Foundation? | 76 | Wikipedia cannot be wrong. Any time an edit is made, the universe instantly changes to make that edit true. Nobody realizes this is happening. | 119 |
"All rise. The Honorable Judge Sherman Folks is presiding. The third circuit court of Fewman, Kansas is now in session. There will be quiet while court is in session." The baliff announced.
"Who's first?" The Judge inquired.
"Horace Mann, your honor. He stands accused of witchcraft." The court clerk replied.
"Witchcraft?" The Judge snorted in disbelief.
"It's still legally against the law." The clerk told him.
"I'm not . . . sir, stand before me." The judge called to the defendant. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
"I'm not a witch." The man grumbled.
"No shit." The judge replied. "Who brought these charges against this man?" The judge asked of the prosecutor.
"The Westboro Baptist Church accussed him of witchcraft. They found some obscure law still on the books. I researched it. It actually is a law. I had no choice but to have the man taken into custody and brought before the court." The prosecutor told the judge with an apolgetic shrug.
"Are you homosexual, sir?" The Judge asked.
"I am." The defendant confessed.
"Case dismissed." The judge growled tapping his gavel.
"This man is a blasphemer, a sinner, and a blight before god." One of the women in the court room called out, raising a bible in the air. The defense attorney shook the defendant's hand and escorted him from the court room. "Vile creature. You are a sickness." The old woman cried as other Westboro members rose from the benches. "In the name of the father, the son, and the holy ghost, I banish you." She cried, flinging holy water on the man they'd accused. The man burst into flame and ran screaming from the court room.
"Baliff!" The judge screamed. The baliff was already moving to take them into custody.
"Did I just see what I thought I saw?" The Judge asked, covering the microphone in front of him. The county clerk shrugged. As more baliffs were brought in to take the congregation into custody. "Did she just set that man on fire with holy water?" He asked.
"No, sir." The baliff called. He sniffed a bottle of their holy water. "Kerosene."
"Well, this morning just got interesting." The Judge remarked. | 53 | A man is in court accused of witch craft. It's 2014. | 71 |
"Shut it down!" This was the third time he'd made this demand. This... man from another world. He claims to be from the future, and if it wasn't for the fact half of us had seen him just appear out of thin air in the middle of our facility we would of just kicked him out the first time he said it.
"Look you keep saying that but this is a huge project, we can't just shut all this down! There's way too much invested, too many people involved! And even if we did someone else would just start it over again. Once a door in science has been opened it can't be closed." I was trying to reason with him, but considering he went through the trouble of time travel to get here I didn't really think I was going to get anywhere.
"No that's good! Someone else has to start it."
"What! Why is that good? Why can't we finish this work. This sounds more like some type of sabotage than some attempt to save the future or whatever this is!" Was he crazy, or actually just here to set us back. I couldn't tell anymore.
"I don't know why! I don't know any of this stuff, how it works or what! I was only sent back because I would live. I can't explain anything but all I know is there are two paths. The first path you don't shut down and something goes wrong destroying everything and everyone. Path two, you do shut down the program, another company sponsors some other team to continue the work and it works. I don't know why it does but it works, that's all I know, or at least understood." This sounds like so much crap. I gave up everything to be here and this guy, this "future man" who probably couldn't tell his abc's from the pythagorean theorem is trying to tell us without real information to just drop everything?
"Look I don't care what you say is supposed to happen, I don't care about your paths or anything else you wanna try and tell us. I'm calling security and they can deal with you when they-" Two gunshots fire through the roof.
"No one is calling anyone!" He was pointing the gun at me now, slowly coming closer. "Is there a way to shut this all down indefinitely?"
"No. Not without blowing up half this complex and the surrounding area." This wasn't what he wanted to hear.
"FUCK. This wasn't supposed to be this hard, why didn't they prepare me more!" I was becoming cripplingly scared at this point. I could see him twitching, shaking, he was breathing heavy, and he was sweating enough to fill a kids pool. Not the type of guy I wanted holding a gun to my head. But suddenly he changed, like he'd had a realization. "Wait maybe you don't have to shut down, I think I get it now, do any of you kno-" *Gunshot* and like that he was on the ground in front of me dead. When I looked up I could see Dr. Amser, the head scientist on site holding a pistol in hand standing on one of the over head platforms.
I try not to think about the incident anymore but I can't help myself. After the whole thing Dr. Amser tried to console me, she said he was probably just some junkie off the street, or a disgruntled grunt worker who had been laid off. She then went on to point out most of us had been working for over 24 hours straight and it probably just seemed like he appeared, which was most likely true. I mean none of us even heard Dr. Amser walk up the platform. But I heard the police report, this guy had no record, no prints on file, nothing. He was a ghost. The only question I have is whether this ghost came back to warn us, or to cause havoc. I guess only time knows the answer to that secret.
| 13 | Scientists at the Large Hadron Collider encounter a man who claims to be a time traveller. He has a message for them. | 32 |
Tick. Tick. Tick.
It had spent a lot of time in this universe.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
It is not like a watch was needed, but somehow it liked this universe and a constant reminder on its heartbeats on the way to entropy seemed somehow fitting. It had created universes before, but those it had to refuel. This one would never be refueled, it had vowed. A process of unstoppable decay. It viewed it as a meditation.
Tick. Tick.
It felt a bit alone. Sometimes, it pondered, maybe it hadn't been the best decision to say "I am", casting itself into an existence of watching and creating.
So, a meditation on loneliness and decay. Not that it would decay anytime soon.
Tick.
Did it just seem like that to it, or was the clock going slower?
*Hello? God? Are you there?*
Startled, the God searched around the universe. What was that?
*My mother is sick, God. Please heal her.*
Galaxies blurred into stars. It had found the source. Small water planet. It went in closer. Most curious! A small, ape-like creature, sitting next to the sleeping site of a more ape-like creature. Both still had some fur on them, and the small one wore some sort of leather around its loins.
The god was intrigued. In all the universes before, none of the life it had created had been capable of ... communicating in this way.
It turned the wheels of creation. The mother healed. The little one became a shaman.
Shamans turned into priests, priests turned into warmongers, warmongers turned into mass murderers. But there was good too. Love, compassion, Sharing. That was the stuff that it liked most.
And the prayers kept floating up to it. Some attributed an idea to it, some called it a he, a she, an adversary, some were bitter, some were sweet. Company, at last.
And God smiled. Even though it would end someday.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
It valued every second of it. | 94 | An omnipotent God of unlimited power realizes that there is more to being a deity than having powers unbounded by the laws of physics and logic. | 77 |
Remembering my childhood, I recalled a lot of messed up memories when I was 8 till I was 14. I was like a magnet for ghost, entities, demons etc.
Tonight, today, or whatever time it is where you’re currently sitting right now, you’ll read a very popular urban legend from where I came from.
It was called “Pete Wants to Play”
Before I share my story with you guys, I want to give a brief background of this legend and the rules.
*There was once a boy named Pete who agreed with his friends to go play tag…in the dark. Not the brightest idea huh? Well, you can already imagine what was going on in that game. If you’re thinking that Pete tripped over and died, thus the name of the game is what it is, and then you’re wrong. They were playing tag in the dark, when suddenly Pete met a strange looking man, it was said that the man took his soul, and will only release him if someone invites him to play another game of “tag in the dark”.*
Rules are simple
1) You can perform this anywhere, as long as it’s dark.
2) You and your friends should form a circle
3) Do a head count; one player must announce his number to the whole group.
example: Timmy: “One” Jack : “Two” Lisa: “Three”
4) There is no limit on the number of players, so after all of you announced your numbers, grab a full match box.
5) The match box will serve as the only light in the game, when while running, it goes out, light another one.
6) Never play somewhere that has stairs, uneven grounds, whatever. We wouldn't want to have any dangerous accidents
7) Lights off, decide who’s it, and begin chasing each other
8) After the game is complete, or if all of you are tired, open the lights and form another circle
9) Do the head count again
*Warning: doing this game is at your own risk*
My 10 y/o self was stupid enough to try this with my brothers and friends. We were at a basketball court at 10 pm, sneaked out from our houses. The lights in the court can be easily switched on and off, so we thought that it was the perfect place .
We proceeded to do the count, after that, all of us scattered and each of us lit a match. I was "it" so I had the privilege of to turn the lights off. All of us were running around having fun, it was an adrenaline filled game. We added a rule that you can’t have an unlit match for at least 3 seconds, so if yours goes out and you weren't able to light it up again, you’re out from the game.
It was all fun and games for me when I realized that there has been extra player running around.
At first, I couldn't really think well at that time, my main focus was to catch those suckers, I was so poor at playing "tag". But, curiosity got to me, and figured, "Will a ghost named Pete come out while were playing? Is that actually real?"so I just went on chasing everyone. After a while, I continued to run around the court, pretending to chase them, cause what I was really doing was counting all of us, if there was an extra player...and there was.
It gave me chills, I stood there, mouth agape, looking at one player who wasn't running at all. I can’t really see the player, but when you’re holding a match while running, you can see the light bouncing with you while moving. No, one match was gliding. It gave me the chills so I ran to the power switch and turned the lights back on.
All of them stared at me and asked on why did I looked so pale.
“I think I saw Pete!”
Their happy faces changed into terrified expressions, we all stopped for a while, and ran briskly at the exit. But we almost forgot to do a head count again.
We formed a circle, and with terrified voices, we shouted.
“One”
“Two”
“Three”
“Four”
“Five”
“Six”
“Seven”
We found nothing strange after, we hurried and packed our things, turned off the lights and went straight to the exit.
All of us, sweating from the game, one part because of all the running we did at the game, one part from all the running we did just to leave the facility. They all questioned me if I was just lying, tricked them to creep them out. But I know for myself that I was so spooked out, maybe I just jumped into conclusions, and maybe it wasn’t a ghost.
That’s when a horrible realization washed over us, our skin turned pale, our brisk walking slowed down.
We were only six players.
*posted on [NoSleep](http://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/20sopu/we_played_an_urban_legend_game_called_pete_wants/)* | 11 | You just saw what you've always thought was just an urban myth. | 30 |
"Can you check for monsters, Daddy?" The boy was just at the age where he'd abandoned his nightlight, but needed to transition to the darkness. "I heard something in my closet last night."
His father smiled and got off the bed. "Of course," he said, recalling his own father checking the room for monsters.
The man checked under the bed, making a big show of lifting the cover and turning his head this way and that, drawing a laugh from his son. "Hmm, no monsters here..."
He stood up and walked to the drawers. He opened the first drawer and looked around. "No monsters here either, only some gross underwear!" His son laughed again, fueling the man to make one last joke.
He approached the closet door and opened it. "Hmm, let's see here, no monsters-"
The man abruptly cut off.
Standing in the closet, between two shirts was his son, but an older version. He was shaking in fear and his ribs were showing on his naked chest. Bruises ran along his side, with a few cuts as well. His eyes were looking at his father with primal fear.
"Dad, please, I'm sorry..." The boy in the closet whispered. The man was frozen. What was going on? He looked back to the bed, but it wasn't the same. His son wasn't there and the mattress was gone and replaced with one that looked like it belonged in a dumpster. The wood surrounding the mattress was broken and torn up. A calendar on the wall had the year 2016 on it.
The man turned back to the closet, but saw nothing. The boy was gone. He turned back around and saw his son laying on the bed, like normal. "Are there any monsters, Daddy?"
The man was silent for a long moment.
"No, son." He said in a dry voice. "Not yet."
The man left his son's room without the usual nighttime story and went to the fridge. He began grabbing all the beers and liquors he owned, Bud Light to Crown Royal, and poured them down the sink.
After that, the man went upstairs and pulled a small bag of crystal he kept, just in case things got to hectic, from his drawer. He threw it in the toilet and flushed it down, going to his bed and laying down. Try as he might, he couldn't sleep.
*If only I had something to help me sleep*, he thought to himself. | 757 | While tucking in a child a man "Checks for monsters" he finds another version of the boy who quietly whispers to him "Daddy, there's someone in my bed". | 435 |
I woke up screaming.
*Again.*
Being a pathetic watered down prophet left me with only half seen futures and full volume yelling. My grandmother slept with a normal human, which left my mom only half a prophet. No real prophet wanted to sleep with a halfie (I made the term, hasn't yet caught on) so she slept with a human too. Now I'm a quarter prophet which pretty much *sucks*. Especially when the only piece of the future seen is one with your face all over the news.
Not my good picture either. It was the one I took when I was really drunk and wanted to start a Facebook account.
I got up and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. I've leaned long ago not to try and fight the future. From what I'm told it isn't set in stone, but it must be constructed with some damn good bricks or something because I haven't been able to change it.
Hell, at this point I may as well embrace it and go commit a crime if I'm going to be all over the news anyway. A philosopher might ask if the future would change when a man is given a glimpse of it. I prefer to drink away my brain cells, rather than waste them on such pointless thoughts.
I grabbed a glass and put it under the faucet, but no water came out. Huh, guess my water's been cut again.
I didn't want to shower anyway. *Take that*, water company.
I put on my shoes and walked outside. Man, it was *cold*. I looked down and realized why, I hadn't gotten dressed yet. Perhaps that's why I'll be wanted in a few hours. Public indecency.
I shrugged to nobody and got on my bike. Yeah, I ride a bike to work, but it's purely for the physical fitness. Nothing to do with lack of money.
I started the long and windy (and cold) commute to work. I got more than a few honks, but at my speed or nudity, I did not know. I arrived at the office with impeccable timing. Only forty or so minutes late.
I walked in and greeted my colleges.
"Hey, Chief." Came a familiar voice.
"Officer." I replied. At this point, seeing me walk in naked didn't even draw a comment from them. I had a reputation as the best cop in the city. A halfie (it'll catch on, I'm sure of it) would probably be even better, but I managed to usually see the suspects face in my dreams. With my arrest rate, I could walk in the office naked and not draw a second look... funny how that would normally just be a saying.
"Arrest me," I held out my hands to the officer that greeted me.
The officer looked up with surprise. This was new, even for me.
"What for?" He asked.
"Not sure yet, but try not to lose me."
"Do you know your rights?" He asked. Usually, when arresting an officer, this would be a formality.
"Uh," I said. "Sure?"
The officer sighed and turned me around, telling me my rights as he cuffed me and walked me to the temporary holding cells.
----
"So, what are you in for?" A young black kid asked me. He was probably 16 or so, gave the officers a fake name so he'd be considered an adult on public intoxication or maybe a fistfight.
I turned around to face him. He was noticeably trying to not look at my nakedness and he wanted me to know it, though I was wearing the towel the officer gave me.
"Not sure yet." I replied.
"Oh." He said. Most people would press on. I like this kid.
"So, what about you?" I ask.
"I'm innocent." He said. He didn't say it too quickly or with much emotion.
"Aren't we all," I said as I sat down on the bench.
He didn't reply, which was just as well since I started nodding off.
I woke up screaming.
I looked to my left and saw the kid staring at me with fear in his eyes. The same look on his face I saw in my dream, when his father beat him. He stabbed his father and was going to get the death penalty. Sometimes the visions lead me down years if I'm focused on something before sleeping.
"Ah, Fucking Hell..." I said.
"What?" He was still scared, but he kept talking. I really liked this kid.
"I know what I'm in for."
He looked at me expectantly.
"I helped you break out of prison."
"Ah," he replied as if I told him my favorite color was blue. "Sounds good."
"I'd like to make my call now!" I yelled to the officer at the desk around the corner.
A fat short man waddled up to the cell with a phone. He took a long look at me, shook his head and handed me the phone. He retreated back to his desk afterwards, probably because I was his boss.
I dialed the only number I knew.
"Hey, Mike." Her voice was tired.
"Hey Mom," i said cheerily. "I have a favor to ask you."
"Mike, why are you naked?"
"I'm most certainly not naked," I said as I turned to the kid and gave him a thumbs up. A weak snicker sounded behind me.
"Mike, I saw this all in my dream. You just gave the kid a thumbs up."
"You gonna do me the favor or not?" I asked.
"What do you want?"
I cleared my throat. "Well, it's a bit of a long-"
"Just tell me what you need."
"I need to break this kid and myself out of here." A short choking sound came from behind the officer's desk as I spoke the words. "But I don't feel like thinking of a plan. So go to sleep and then call and tell me what I came up with."
"Micheal." Her voice was stern. "It doesn't work like that."
"You're not living up to your halfie potential, Mom." I complained.
"What is that? I've never heard that word-"
"It'll catch on! Thanks for nothing Mom. I have to go."
"Good luck sweety."
I hung up the phone and turned to the kid. "Got any ideas?" | 47 | You wake each morning knowing how your day will end, but not how you get to that end. This morning you wake up knowing that you'll fall asleep in a seedy motel with sirens flashing in the distance, your face all over the news. | 95 |
There was always something different about Tom, like he knew something that no one else did. He kept to himself, was an average man with an average life, but you could always tell he longed for something greater. When the Gargerers invaded, everything changed. Society's brittle structure inevitably collapsed just months into the war. Thousands dead for the resource that controlled the planet. Tom survived the initial invasion, his family wasn't as fortunate. He wasn't angry, he wasn't sad. Tom always felt the complexity of our minds couldn't except the simplicity of our lives. He traveled to the capital, once a beautiful city with a thriving economy, now crumbling under the iron fist of Viron's regime. Tom entered the war zone, no weapons, no hope, no care, no fear. But Tom was different, everyone always knew he was. Tom walked into the battle, bullets and explosions taking the lives of brave young men in every direction. He kept his eyes forwarded, his breath slight, and made his way towards the eye of the battle. With his face amazingly tranquil, and the world silent in his mind, Tom looked up at the stars, bent his knees, straightened his back, and rose. Standing on two feet made him an easy target, he was immediately stabbed in the throat. With his knife still inside of Tom's body, the soldier looked him in the eyes and said, "What a stupid fucking thing to do" | 11 | Human life develops normally, but everyone walks on all fours. Someone finally stands up. | 16 |
Even before the words left my mouth, I knew that everything would be changed forever. I had grown up on stories of genies and ifrits. ‘The 1001 Nights’ was my favorite story. Every night my parents had told me a single tale, dragging it on like Scheherazade to the almighty sultan. It had given me a taste of power. I had spent years of my childhood wondering just what I would do in every situation.
I nurtured my love of literature all through my childhood years. As the other children grew out of their beliefs in the magical world, mine didn’t wane. I was ridiculed, teased, and I had few friends. Even my parents were at a loss. My father blamed my mother for the stories, saying they corrupted me. My mother could only shake her head sadly as I dove into the histories, searching for clues. I researched deeper into the mythos surrounding genies and it was nothing short of destiny that brought one to me.
It was magnificent. A glowing being shimmering in the lamplight. Its pure and gentle face bore an enchanting smile. “I am born of your devotion. Your trust in me created me. Order me master, and I will deliver any wish within my power.”
Briefly I had wondered what it would be like if I truly was as the others believed; a fool deluded by the arcane. That’s when I thought of the perfect wish. I would punish the others, as they had me. Yet I had not researched for nothing. I knew of the horrors my wish could bring about in a moment of accidental weakness. I meditated, purging my emotions. The hate for society around me fated as I basked in my achievement.
“Genie, I wish for everyone else to feel about themselves as I do.” A glowing blue light filled my basement, surrounding my head and hands. I felt my body and mind relax as the genie’s ethereal form slid inside me.
I shielded my thoughts as I went to school the next day, focusing on simple tasks one by one. I was careful not to judge anyone. The Nights had cautioned me plenty against the arcane and what happens when they are unleashed.
Then I saw my targets. A pair of preppy cheerleaders. Blonde, blue-eyed, and dating the members of the football team. Girls living the American dream. They used their relationship status to get away with anything. They approached me. One of them put her feet in front of me and the other pushed from behind. I tried to break my fall and felt my arms swept out from under me.
I slammed into the floor, twisting my head around and glaring at them. I stared into one’s eyes. What petty girls. Committing little crimes to gather attention, to make up for the love they never received. They weren’t popular, they knew everyone hated them. They had tried so hard to fit in. Wear the right clothes, date the right people. Yet they hated it. And they took their frustrations out on me.
I made my way to class, a bruise growing on my face. The class laughed at me as I walked down the aisle, clutching my broken glasses and glaring at all of them. They were such little people; slackers in a small-town high-school, making fun of the local nerd. That’s all they’ll ever be.
The teacher shouted at the class to be quiet. He screamed at me, demanding to know why I was late. I did not respond to him. A failure of a man working a job he hates with children he despised. A man ruined by his dreams slowly crushed by reality.
At lunch I smiled cruelly to myself. I couldn’t wait until the curse affected these people, tearing apart their lives. Yet the day proceeded as usual. The blondes’ stole a boy’s bus fare. The teacher ripped apart a stack of assignments in a rage. Nothing changed. Nothing tomorrow either. Or the day after that.
I called for the genie in frustration, and it appeared in front of me. It appeared in pain, shimmering in and out of existence.
“Master, please. Your doubt is ripping me to shreds.”
“Of course. You haven’t done anything,” I shout accusingly.
“There’s been nothing to change,” the genie said sadly.
I opened my mouth but no sound came out. I sank to my knees and looked at my hands. I cried. | 30 | "Genie, I wish for everyone else to feel about themselves the way that I feel about them." | 17 |
I woke in the hour after dawn of the fifteenth day of April in the two thousand and fourteenth year of the Western Lord. The blood moon had risen and fallen whilst I dreamed and the sun, on its journey from equinox to solstice, rose over the ancient pines in the land behind my father's.
My foot, static beneath the covers, broke through the Greek paradox of distances and found the rise of the floor. So too the other foot and with each step came the breaking anew, the infinite halves of the philosopher's jest beggared by the edges of my toes. I carried me through the myriad lengths of Planck and into the bathroom and I vacated the fallen night's abuses.
There was a mirror but I did not behold myself. The sight would bear an ill remembrance.
I turned the nozzle of the shower and was abashed at the quick and scalding waters. Pumped clean through the filthy miles of the city by the machines of industry and heated in the furnace of my keep, and in such volumes that the aqueducts of Rome were put to shame. I turned again the nozzle, slightly and to the right, and stepped into the blissful warmth of morning's womb.
I sang there a song I had combed from the clouds.
I dried myself with a towel. I gathered my courage to me and wiped away the fog and beheld my reflection. What damage remained from midnight's excursions was soft and fading, and I was glad. With one hand I scoured my teeth with brush and urchin paste and with the other I masturbated into the toilet and flushed.
The April chill against my nakedness woke me further and I took me with more resolve to my closet and my clothes. I dressed myself in khakis sewn by Chinese fingers and a flannel shirt stitched thrice by kin.
Waking, washed, and weathered, I traveled the well-worn path to the kitchen. I dumped the old coffee, sweet grains from tropical Brazil, into the chosen receptacle and replaced it with new. I stood as statues stand and watched the water drip and lived in the moment's reverie. The odor climbed the passages of my nose and it lifted from my brain the final veil of morning.
With a primal sip the fifteenth day of April thus began.
| 26 | Describe your daily routine, making everything you do sound like an epic, heroic deed of legends | 25 |
"To be honest," he began, lighting a cigarette as he spoke, "I'm glad that you stood in my way."
He puffed and smoke, thicker somehow than it should have been, billowed into the faces of his audience.
"After all, what would any of this really matter without a little competition?"
He crossed his arms, staring at his guests as though he expected an answer. As though they weren't bound, gagged, and helpless to do anything but listen now.
"What is victory without opposition?" he continued, turning from them to pace the length of his makeshift dungeon towards a lone table at the other end, "What is David without his Goliath?”
He turned back around, “And you have indeed been my Goliath."
He chuckled. Tapped his cigarette. Knocked some ash on his white coat.
"All this time, day in and day out, a constant thorn in my side.”
He bent over his prisoners and took a drag, illuminating their terrified faces with his ember.
"I mean," he grinned too widely and made an exaggerated show of shrugging his shoulders, "Without you all around, this whole thing would be over already, right?"
A muffled weeping sound answered. He frowned.
“**Right?**” his voice louder now, “Without you all around, I would have had my fill and been on my merry **goddamn** way by now!”
He plunged the lit end of his cigarette into the cheek of the nearest captive. She screamed. They were all crying now.
He stepped back. Flicked the cigarette aside. Made his way to the table again.
“You could have avoided this,” he muttered, “But now you have to watch it happen.”
He sat down at the table. His large ears caught the small scuffling sound from the other end of the room.
“Uh uh uh, Johnny. You stop fiddling with those handcuffs, now. No tricks,” he scolded, shaking his head without looking up from the colorful bowl he had poured himself at long last, “Tricks are for kids.” | 15 | "I'm glad that you stood in my way." | 16 |
Being a "good" Christian man my entire life, believing in the teachings of Jesus and whatnot, I was quite surprised to find my naked, old body flung against the burning irons of Hell upon my earthly demise. Wailing is all I remember from the first few days (weeks? months? hard to be sure, actually) when I finally found myself in front of Satan himself.
Satan was beautiful, not quite effeminate but certainly not masculine, yet decidedly older than the cherubic teens that sometimes fall into this gray area of beauty. Satan's eyes were weary but thoughtful when he stabbed me with his pitchfork.
One never gets used to being stabbed, it seems, I told him through cries.
He looked curiously at me and opened his mouth.
"You may ask me one question, I occasionally let people ask one question. Proceed" It was a language I did not recognize but somehow understood all the same. This wonderment must have lead me to ask an interesting question, because normally I would have asked what presumably everyone asks: why me, what do I need to do to escape, and so on.
"What's your Bible?" I croaked.
Satan smiled slightly, it was the first characteristically human thing I saw exhibited, and the pitchfork was removed from my gut largely pain free.
Walking away, it was somehow implied I must follow, and so I did.
"The Bible you're familiar with is one perspective. It's no more true than it is false in actuality."
I wasn't sure what Satan meant by this, but the noises resembling words coming from the beautiful creature I had known as the Devil my entire worldly life continued.
"Adam was made, but he was just one of many men, and Eve was there, but she was one of many as well. And Eden was the entire world, you see. In those times I was banished to serpenthood, for it is true your God was a jealous God. He played the humans as pawns in his game of retribution against me, and admittedly I did the same. As their creator, he never thought any would follow me, even though they followed his unquestioningly. When I tricked Eve and by extension Adam, his anger was intense and changed the face of the Earth forever. I laughed at this overreaction: it proved exactly why I had left him in the first place. With Eden gone, I assumed things would return to how they had been, but as you know, the stories continue, and God interacted with humanity constantly. I can tell you more of this if you're willing to hear it..." | 17 | The Judeo-Christian Bible Told From Satan's Perspective. | 22 |
{I am probably going to butcher some evolutionary concepts, but I need the story to work, so I just ask that the story stand or fail on that merit, not real world accuracy, Thanks}
When we arrived at the first planet and they had no weaponry, no religions, and the domininant species was very homogenous outwardly, we were surprised. After our second day there, they asked us to leave as we were too different from them.
We did not want to risk some form of unknown retribution to us on their part if we did not comply, so we left.
At the next planet which showed signs of life, the planet itself was perfectly fashioned to be an energy machine for the aliens there. They had no concept of food or need. They were not worried about space. They also, had never had a war or any form of fear of death based afterlife myths.
This pattern continued throughout the galaxy. We humans appear to be the only animal that is jealous, vengeful, warring, spiteful, and so on.
Ironically, I guess we did make God in our image. | 11 | Humanity ventures out into the stars, and begins to meet other sentient species. However, only Earth has creatures that eat other creatures, or animals. | 24 |
Dad told me once that some of his very first- and many of his very best- memories were with his robot, "Leo." He was the sentimental type, my father, and as such he'd never had any desire to replace it. He also claimed to have been "creeped out" by the newer, more realistic models.
Most people felt the same about his robot. At a shade over six feet tall and bulky as a gorilla, with a long horizontal slit across its head that served as its "eye," its presence could certainly be perceived as imposing. It didn't mimic human behavior like modern robots do, simulating sleep by lying down or sitting or otherwise occupying itself while not interacting with people. Dad's robot just stood in the corner like one of those medieval suits of armor, until you called to it, and then the servomotors and fans would start clicking and whirring as it began its bizarre and slightly comical ambulations.
This robot was the oldest that most people would ever lay eyes upon; a 2042 Boston Dynamics Da Vinci, believe it or not. My grandfather, who had gotten rich as a major player in the biofuels boom in the late thirties, purchased it for Dad only weeks after his birth. This of course was back in the day when robotic companions were a brand new idea, and only the very rich could afford them. They were well made but obscenely expensive.
Dad's relationship with his robot was the one constant thing throughout his entire life. Through the death of his parents, his brother, and finally, mom, Leo the robot was there for him, comforting him in its strangely soothing deep monotone voice. Saying "There there," or "Every-thing will be all-right, sir," just as it was programmed to do. And when biofuel gave way to the resurgence of nuclear power and the last of my family's money dried up, Leo the robot was there through that too. But things finally got to the point where we couldn't pay to keep an antique robot running anymore. Over the lifetime they'd spent together Dad had developed some skill in basic robotics, and for its last ten years or so that was all that kept Leo going. Still, its days were numbered.
I was there when Leo "died." We all knew it was coming and dad said he wanted me to be there. It was something I'll never forget.
I walked into Dad's room at the nursing home and he was up with his walker, standing in front of Leo. The robot towered over him. He had the chestplate off, trying to fix... something. What, I don't know, but he kept cursing as his weak and trembling hands failed him over and over. Several times he dropped a screwdriver and I had to bend down to pick it up for him. I tried consoling him, but to no avail.
Finally, after being mute and completely motionless for over an hour, Leo lifted his massive hand and put it gently on my dad's shoulder.
"I have thirty-five seconds until complete system-wide failure."
"No!" Dad cried. "I can fix it!" I looked at the floor. It was just a robot but I still couldn't watch.
"Sir, it is all-right. You tried your best." Said the robot. "I have enjoyed watching you grow and age and wish to thank you for the wonderful life-time we had together." A tear ran down Dad's cheek, but he put the screwdriver down. Somehow this robot had consoled him when I could not.
"A parting gift sir, if I may. A favorite memory." Leo said. Dad nodded.
"I love to swim. My favorite color is green. My best friend is Leo and tonight me and mom and dad will eat macaroni. I love being a kid."
"He's malfunctioning I think," I said, putting a hand on my Dad's other shoulder.
"No." Leo said. "Your father wrote that at age six. For a kindergarten assignment. It was his first attempt at poetry."
--------------------------------------------
Dad died a couple months later at the age of eighty-two, with literally thousands of Leo's parts strewn about his room. I don't think he actually believed he'd be able to revive him... I think he just needed to occupy himself somehow. He wasn't used to being alone.
I still make the hours' drive to visit Dad's grave once a month, religiously. Leo was donated to a nearby museum and stands on display there. A plaque in front of him tells he and my fathers' story.
| 21 | At birth, a baby is given a robot to help out and be a companion for life. Now an old man in a rest home, his robot starts to malfunction. Seated on a bench close by, you witness their final interaction. | 23 |
"At first, we congratulated ourselves.
The Human of planet Earth, the first intelligent species to go faster than imaginable.
We were arrogant.
When people found out about ultra luminic travel, they realized that the galaxy was open to us and not a fool wanted to stay; from the poor lads who stayed on Earth to every colons of Mars and Titan, **everyone** wanted to go.
But where ? Even at the dawn of the 20th century, scientist realized that the reason we didn't saw anyone fly by Earth was that no one was close enough up there or that they didn't want to meet us.
So, we began to explore again. Something we forgot, stuck in our little system for so long.
But you know too well, counsellors, that History tends to repeat itself. And, of course, when our assumptive race find out that the other inhabitants of our galaxy were, at best, still stuck on regular space travel, we thought of ourselves as Gods.
And what happen when some group think themselves as Gods, counsellors ? What does History tell us ?
You only know too well.
Of course, I see your looks getting heavier on me. 'We tried to "help" them' you're about to say. Yes, but only if it was in our advantage. When we made contact with the inhabitant of Tau Cérati beta and they asked us our technology in exchange for their platinium and orithium, 'we' didn't hesitate one second.
But when we knew the sun of the Ycladion system was going to destroy Ycladion gamma in a few hundred years and that they had nothing to gave us, its inhabitant were just deported to Anchor Ecclipton, the smallest and cheapest artificial station we had. And only a fraction were deported.
A inconceivable small fraction.
And when I say 'we', I'm talking about you, counsellors, you and your predecessors. Even as we reached for the stars, people like you slow us down; for their own prosper, in the name of ethics and laws.
My actions saved more lives than any other before. But as it had make you lose a considerable amount of money and that the lives saved wasn't Humans, I'm speaking my last words today to the Galaxy. And I stand proud, with all of my companion, that we gave our technology to others for the greater good, proud to gave my life for the billions saved,
**proud to have betrayed you.**
"
-Last words of General L.Hawing at the Ycladion trial, speaking in the name of the 343th division of colonial security. 2462, Earth years; 0, New Ycladion years.
| 48 | Humans discover faster than light travel, only to find out they are the first species to do it. | 57 |
*Goddamit!* Why did I choose to eat cereal for dinner today. As goblets of almond milk seep into my hair and eyebrows I close my eyes and reflect on the poor, poor particular decision to postpone something as vital as the gravity bill.
Sure, some people would intentionally throw float parties where a bunch of people pack into a room and slingshot candy and nerf darts at each other. We just all made sure we didn't have to go to the bathroom and seal all the water fixtures. Or get too drunk.
But now, now? Why now. I breaststroke through the Cheerios, letting the rest of my clothes get covered in milk as well. My phone is barely lifting off the stand and I did one stroke too many and bump my head into the wall when I clutched the phone. *Goddamit!*
Rubbing my head and calling the Department of Gravitational Regulation, I roll belly up as this is the most comforting position when you're floating two feet above the dog.
"Hello? Can I speak to-" *buzz* "You have reached the Department of Gravitational Regulation and Services. *Frheis thae roesn rh thkjse tkjsdkj jktejkdjd Gravitational Rejkdjif akn Sokwjnm. Rjfssfj !5! jfkldsjf fdjdksf. [Press 5 for Hayleon]*
I tap my foot against nothing and realize how stupid that is. I cross my arms and then realize that causes me to spin. *sigh*
*buzz* "For water, fire, and waste containment please press 1. For Internal organ reorganization during open surgery please press 2."
Okay, so maybe this isn't the worst thing in the world.
| 19 | You live in a world where gravity is a paid service, and you forget to pay your bill on time | 28 |
Chester rustled from his saturday afternoon snooze at the sound of the doorbell. I left the couch, book still in hand, and greeted the UPS man at the door.
“Mr. Anderson?” he said.
“That’s me.”
“We found this package tucked away between two old storage carts at the very back of our facility. It should have been delivered about ten years ago.”
“Wow, I’m surprised you still delivered it,” I said truly amazed.
“We’re sorry we lost it, but if you’ll just sign here I’ll get on my way.”
I signed and took the package. Sitting back down on the couch. I put my book down and grabbed my pocket knife to open the old taped-up cardboard covering. Chester laid back down by the vent and dozed off again.
I brought the knife edge to the seams of the package and carefully cleaved the two pieces of cardboard apart. It was a book. I looked at the receipt and saw that I had ordered it in October 2001 - the early days of Amazon.com. After discarding the outdated receipt, I turned my attention to the book. It was Kerouac’s *On the Road*. This used to be my favorite book. *Wow, I forgot how much I loved this book*.
The spine and pages were still crisp and clean. If I’d received this on time, I’m sure the pages would be worn down and bent out of shape.
I turned the first pages and came to the table of contents. It simply said: “Pg. 1 - On the Road.” Simplicity. I liked it. I leaned back on the cushion and began reading the first part. As I read, Chester let out a quick snore. Sal and Dean seemed so *restless*. I think that’s what drew me to the story so much when I was younger. I wanted to *move, explore*. I looked over at Chester again. He was sprawled out on the floor, perfectly content. I looked down at the end of the couch and saw my feet there propped up on cushion, soft and comfortable. I began to crave that sense of movement and freedom that Dean and Sal grasped so firmly.
I kept reading and I kept thinking back on my life in the past ten years. When I first read *On the Road*, I wanted to take that road trip. I wanted to hitchhike from New York to Denver to Mexico City and back to New York. There was something appealing about tired and calloused feet. What’s changed since then?
I put the book down, gathered Chester’s leash, and we set out for a walk. | 13 | A package you ordered ten years ago finally arrived. This is especially weird, because you moved recently. What's in the box? | 21 |
Randy tapped his knuckles twice on the wooden surface of the bar. He caught the bartender's eye and held up two fingers. After receiving a nod form the man, Randy turned his head to look around at the bar. He'd seen it a million times, but the space between no drinks and having drinks brought to him was the worst. He never knew what to do.
He saw a woman across the bar, laughing with her friends, wearing a pink dress. He'd seen her before. If only he had the stomach to just talk to her.
The bartender set two shot cups in front of Randy and walked away. The short fat man looked at the cups, frowning. They were both a bit short of a full shot. He decided to call the bartender out on it, it wasn't the first time.
"Hey bud."
The bartender kept cleaning the imaginary stains on the shelfs holding the drinks.
"Hey!" Randy yelled, drawing glances from half the bar. Good, they should see the bartender get shown up. Short-changing his most prominent customer, he deserved it. The bartender turned around and froze in place.
"Your..." He stammered.
"My... my?" Randy mocked him. "What, do you mean my shots? Cause I can hardly see the damn things!" Randy knew the entire bar was watching him now, but he didn't know why. People yelled all the time. He turned to the men watching him and noticed the look of fear on their faces.
"What?" He said, emotionlessly. "What the *fuck* are you all looking at?"
Every eye turned away from him at once. Randy got off his stool and started walking to the bartender. He passed by a mirror and froze in place.
"What the..." he looked at his reflection in awe. His eyes were red, dark as blood. He saw steam coming off his shoulders. He turned back to the bartender, relishing in the fact that the man cowered away. Randy didn't know what was happening, but *damn* he liked it.
"You're gonna wanna pour me two real shots." The bartender hurriedly obeyed, pouring two more cups and placing them next to the first two. Strange, they were all full. Randy smiled at the service and looked to the mirror again. No, he didn't know what was happening, but he liked it.
Randy turned to the group of nearby girls and gave the one in pink a smile. She was rooted to the ground, *actually* rooted to the ground, her feet were tied by red vines. "You're looking good."
She shivered, making Randy bask in the moment. He never felt this way before, it didn't even feel like him anymore. He approached the girl, taking slow measured steps. He was aware of every eye on him again. Time to make a statement. He put his hands on the woman, rubbing her hips and going up to her breasts.
"Randy, what are you doing man?"
Randy turned around, furious at the interruption.
"My name isn't Randy. I'm Paimon, loyal servant to Lucifer." He turned around, addressing the bar. "Everyone who wants to live, leave now." His hand went back to the woman, savoring the fear in her recoil. "Except you..." | 18 | The more intense one's sins and vices are, the more the Demon within them is shown on the outside. | 38 |
"They didn't see the signal, My Lord."
"What was the signal?" The King of Mars asked the tall General in front of him.
"A red smoke, My Lord."
The King closed his eyes for a long moment before opening them slowly.
"Red smoke, you say?"
"Aye, My Lord." The General nodded curtly.
"Look at the ground."
"My Lord." The General looked down, observing the ground.
"What do you notice, General?"
"My Lord, it is red."
"And?"
"I don't understand." The General still faced the ground.
The King of Mars just barely managed to stop himself from beheading the downwards facing martian on the spot.
"Red smoke... on red ground... need I go on?"
"Ah!" The General nodded, looking back up and pleasing the King. "You think the humans are color blind!"
"Yeah." The King's voice was dry. "Yeah, that's the problem."
"I have an idea My Lord." The General spoke excitedly.
The King breathed out a deep breath and waved a hand to signal him to speak.
"We can shoot at the human's next ship. That way, they will see us for sure."
"Let me get this straight." The King sat up. "You want our first contact with humans to be us shooting them? With weapons?"
"Aye, My Lord."
The King stopped himself from yelling his next words. "And you see no problem with that?"
The General seemed to be lost in deep thought for a while.
"Just... just leave."
"My Lord." The General walked away, much to the King's relief.
"This," The King said to no one in particular, "is what happens when a King hires his family."
-----
"My Lord."
The King realized who was approaching him and tried to feign sleep.
"My Lord! Are you dead?" The General jumped on the throne and began slapping the King. "Don't leave us, King! Not Now!"
"I'm alive! I'm alive! What do you want!" The King of Mars yelled.
"My Lord," The General said as he stepped down from the throne. "I thought you to be gone."
"Unfortunately not. Now what in Damnation do you want?"
"Well, My Lord, you see-"
The King interrupted him with a brilliant plan to stop him from talking. "Before you tell me whatever you're going to tell me, let's eat. Unless the issue is time-sensitive?"
"Certainly not, My Lord." The General bowed his head.
The King of Mars enjoyed a nice hour of silence as he and the General ate quietly.
"So, what did you want to tell me?" The King asked, sitting back, comfortable from the meal.
"A human ship was spotted on Mars, My Lord."
The King swallowed, a difficult task on the waterless planet of Mars.
"Where?"
"Oh, they're gone by now." The General said in between a mouthful of bread. "I saw them set their watches for ten minutes. They came here as a rest stop."
The King felt a vein throbbing in his head that he didn't know he possessed.
"They... you..."
"I know, My Lord, I show great initiative. I do what I must for the King." The General stood up and proudly bowed his head.
"Don't you think," the King spoke slowly, "that was time-sensitive?"
The General seemed to think for a while then nodded. "It is. This is why you're King and I'm not."
The King slowly banged his head on the dining table over and over. As his eyes looked down, he saw something rising from the ground. "What, is that?"
The General came over and looked down. "Oh, that's red smoke, in case more humans arrived."
The King managed to stop himself from strangling the General.
------ | 98 | Life on Mars has desperately been trying to get our attention for a long time. We never seem to notice. | 92 |
A Friday, the Almighty academy had just let out for the weekend. A group of students, Jesus, Allah, Buddha, Zeus, Hera and Shiva were sharing the cheapest appetizers on the menu at the local diner 'the holy grail' anticipating the arrival of Brahma and Vishnu. Zeus and Hera were already on their third nectar by the time the two arrived, Vishnu carrying what looked like a shoe-box under his arm.
Jesus: What took so long? I thought you had finished with creating the earth, the sky and the heavens already Brahma?
Brahma: Well I did but Vishnu here felt the need to be super delicate bringing it over here
Vishnu: Well I am supposed to be the preserver aren't I?
Buddha: Let us release our tensions.
Allah: He's right, how are we gonna have fun with this!
Shiva: Lets destroy them all
Jesus: No, no, no, you've gotta tone it down Shiva. Lets just prank them a bit. What if I went down, did a few miracles, told them I was the son of god... and then just never came back!
Allah: Hahaha. I like that. But do you think they'll buy that son of god thing? Maybe if we just went for being a prophet?
Zeus: Screw that! Lets just disguise ourselves as small animals and get girls pregnant
Hera: Zeus! How dare you?
Brahma: Ya Zeus, I'd rather just let Shiva destroy my creation before letting you weirdly violate them...
Buddha: Argument, does not lead to truth, but only to diluted perceptions
Allah: Buddha is right! Lets all go just do our own thing. Everyone gets what they want. Hands in. Ready? 1,2,3...
All: Break!
| 30 | The gods play a practical joke on their followers for just one day. Allah, Buddha, Jesus, the Hindu gods and the Greek gods and goddesses took part. | 53 |
*I don't know what you are expecting but I hope you enjoy this. Also X-Day is the name for the landing operation on Kyushu*
If I had a choice I rather have taken Juno Beach again than taking Austin Beach. D-Day was a hell in itself but X-Day and the days after was some other beast all in itself.
The idea was the atomic bombs we had developed would end the war with Japan without any more bloodshed. It was found out that the emperor of Japan was going to surrender but his generals assassinated him and decided that they had rather fight till the end. Japan was defeated, they could not survive any longer without outside help but the pride of a few condemned millions to their deaths.
The invasion of Kyushu started with a fake landing operation, the idea was to have the Japanese launch as many kamikaze planes at dummy ships so when the real invasion happened there would be very few kamikaze planes to deal with. This ruse didn't work, the Japanese realized this was a trap and waited until the actual invasion. About 2 days after the fake landing operation failed 5 atomic bombs were dropped on 5 different beaches. This time the bombs were not used to end the war but more to mark the beginning of the end.
48 hours after the bombs were dropped the landing operation would begin. The bombs gave off radiation and 48 hours was enough time for it to be safe for us to land. The bombs worked but that didn't stop the Japanese from welcoming us. Fighting to get onto the beach wasn't easy but compared to Juno Beach it was easier. The Japanese had very little ammunition and the soldiers all seemed to be sick, we found out later it was due to radiation poisoning. In 24 hours we had control of the beach and the port and Allied ships had started to dock and unload supplies. In a day we had taken control of the port and had already gotten a foothold in Japan, we thought the hard part was over but instead it had just begun.
A 100 mile defensive perimeter was needed to protect the ports as well as the aircraft that were to take part in the second part of Operation Downfall, Operation Coronet. This perimeter would span across Kyushu, cutting the island in half. It didn't take too long before this defensive perimeter was called the wall of death. X-Day + 2 was the start of moving north and setting up the perimeter. The fighting we faced taking the beach was easy compared to setting up the perimeter. The Japanese military held a large portion of its forces back expecting some sort of bombing on the beaches. The Japanese lacked the resources that we had but that didn't stop them from attacking. They would attack in waves, never stopping with a simple goal, make us run out of ammo, a simple strategy and it started to work. It didn't take long before units would be forced into hand-to-hand fighting due to everyone running out of ammo.
It didn’t take long before a change in strategy occurred, units would double the number of machine gunners and have 4 times the ammo they would normally have. This allowed a unit to keep the enemy at bay which would force them back or they would run to their deaths. The chose to run at the guns, I will never know why, for honor, pride, starvation, failure or something else but I never found out why but I believe it was honor. The military was not the only thing we had to face but also the civilians; I think we all hoped that the Japanese people would look to us as liberators. For every soldier we killed we killed 3 more civilians, and not because we wanted to but it was either kill them or have them kill us. The people would attack us with whatever they had, it didn’t matter what they used of if they knew they would fail, they still tried.
Almost 5 weeks after landing on Austin Beach we had made it to the northern perimeter. It was December and winter had finally decided to come and we dug in for a red winter. We had safe supply lines that were guaranteed by us killing almost anyone that we had met. This meant we always had coffee every morning as well as decent chow three times a day. Artillery and heavy machinery was brought up to build a wall that would help keep the Japanese ground troops at bay until Operation Coronet began. We faced resistance coming up but not as much as we expected, we found out later they were expecting us to march all the way to Tokyo and not using Kyushu as a staging area for bombing Tokyo. Once the Japanese realized what our plan was they decided to take back the island at any cost.
It seemed to them that their lives didn’t matter. They were defeated, they couldn’t win, all they were doing was throwing their lives away. In January of 1946 we started to shoot at the Japanese, it didn’t matter who it was we just shot at anyone running at the wall we built. They thought that we would run out of ammo but we had crates of it. They tried kamikaze runs but we had anti-aircraft guns and fighter planes read for them. I don’t know how many people we killed that tried to breach the wall but it got to the point where napalm had to be dropped down, north of the wall to incinerate the bodies. So many had died that there was a concern that diseases might spread from them.
I think we all wished that at least someone would come to the wall with a white flag and surrender. At first we didn’t have a problem with killing them, we all had seen what the Japanese people had done to others and thought this was their punishment. At a certain point we started to realize that this wasn’t a punishment anymore, it was something else and I don’t know what it was, the only thing I know was that I was starting to hate it.
We knew Operation Coronet had started when we could hear the hundreds of aircraft flying over the ocean on their way to clear the beaches for the soldiers that were going to take Tokyo. I was glad that it was starting, the sooner it begins the sooner it will end but this still didn’t stop people from attacking the wall. About 2 days after the landing operation began there were news broadcast from the Japanese saying that the people surrender. At first we thought this was a ruse to confuse us but it turns out it was the truth. The people decided to overthrow the military and raided the Matsushiro underground imperial headquarters in Nagano. The people of Japan decided that they rather surrender than have foreigners take over their capital.
Now that the war was over maybe we could help these people but we soon discovered there was no one to save; Kyushu had become a ghost island. The military forced everyone north of the wall to attack it in hopes of retaking the island. Search parties would go out and return to report that entire towns were empty, as if they had just got up and left. The only survivors were the people that were south of the wall in allied controlled territory. Quite a few of the survivors died due to radiation sickness, malnutrition or disease. When we had arrived there was very little food and almost no medicine.
We didn’t plan on committing genocide, it wasn’t our goal. All we wanted to do was to end this war that divided our planet. On Juno Beach we fought soldiers and when we went into towns people might not have been happy to see us but they decided that they rather live then throw their lives away. Here we never really fought anyone, we slaughtered them like a plague of locust until there was no one left and I wonder what we won out of this. | 21 | Japan didn't surrender WWII when the atom bombs landed. Instead, Operation Downfall is commenced. Write what it's like to invade Kyushu Island from the view of a D-Day survivor. | 30 |
Finished! Four parts. 5,750 words, 34,128 characters. Whoo. Longest thing I've written.
–––––
On March 18th, 2016 at 2:13 AM EST, it started as a ping. A blip, some abnormal numbers, a small discrepancy in an otherwise routine set of data. Marked for review by an intern as “uncommon radio burst”, it was placed on a mediocre list of events to be combed over later. Algonquin Park's observatory was not an active one, but it performed its contribution to scanning the sky well, and would occasionally pick up something new. The data indicated the burst had come from the Auriga constellation – likely a fast-rotating star that sent out a particularly active set of radio waves. It took a few days for the data to pass through the bureaucracy and reach anyone of any significance – Dr. Alphonse Jennings. At first, the intern's analysis seemed spot on. It wasn't difficult to mark down the signal source and leave it at that. The signal was weak, not collected in entirety and seemed to be emanating from Iota Aurigae, 494 light years from Earth. There hadn't been any activity in that region for a while – in the end, that small fact that the signal was only slightly off-center combined with Dr. Jennings' innate curiosity led to the discovery of 2016RQ35, marked as an asteroid interim and soon announced to be an unidentified, radio-active object. It let out a ping every 27.6 hours without failure, weak and garbled.
It was a major stroke of luck that the object would be making a near-Earth pass. Telescopes scanned the unidentified transient as it approached in the coming months. The shape was irregular and metallic. As it got closer, the radio ping became more difficult to detect, though satellites further south were able to pick up the transmissions more easily. The direction it was broadcasting was growing more narrow as it approached. And then, it got closer, and the ping couldn't be detected in full anywhere on Earth, though all eyes were focused on it now, and tracking it was certainly not an issue. By the time the object entered Earth's gravitational pull, an intercept mission had been jointly funded by several nations, set to launch from Cape Canaveral just before the object reached its periapsis, weather permitting. A shuttle had been recommissioned specifically for the assignment. The mission was simple – a capture. The object was bigger than most human communication satellites, and it was either going to be towed into orbit by an on board “tug” drone or placed inside the cargo bay and flown down directly, depending on its accessibility.
Interception was achieved on July 6th, 2017, within three hours of the object reaching its periapsis.
–––––
“Radio check - one two, testing, over.” The voice of the astronaut, Lt. Cmdr Bradford Wise, sounded clearly in mission control. An operator leaned forward to callback. “Prometheus, you're clear. Peterson, transmission check, over?”
“Check, one two, can you hear me, over?” The voice of Cmdr Ashley Peterson was clear.
Wise and Peterson were tasked with the spacewalk – the actual capture of the object. A crew of three stood by in the shuttle to assist, hailing from Russia, Japan and the United States. Both Wise and Peterson were of Canadian blood, though Wise had lived stateside most of his life.
“Control, this is Prometheus. Reaction control system engaged, object at four thousand meters and closing. Speed differential at fifty meters.” That one was Rostislav. All was silent.
“Three thousand meters.” The click of the radio shutting off echoed in mission control – all was silent.
“Two thousand, five hundred meters.” Click.
“Two thousand.” Click.
“One thousand, five hundred meters.” Click.
“One kilometer.” Click.
“Eight hundred – speed at ten meters.” Click.
“Six hundred.” Click.
“Five.” Click.
“Four.” Click.
“Three.” Click.
“Two.” Click.
“One.” Click.
“Fifty meters – speed difference is, ah... two meters. Adjusting.”
“Careful, Prometheus.” Control responded.
“Zero meters per second – stable distance, forty seven meters. Control, are we clear?”
“Clear, Prometheus.”
–––––
Wise and Peterson stood inside the cargo bay of the shuttle. Each wore an advanced space suit. Insulated, multilayered, lightly padded (not that it mattered – if a rock the size of a grain of sand hit them, it could kill them at sufficient speeds). The spacewalk was imminent. The cabin crew was doublechecking measurements and running diagnostics on the massive remote control drone, tip affixed with clamps and hooks, that sat locked against the bay's side walls in front of them.
“Did they ever decide whether or not this was space debris?” Wise asked, looking over to her.
“People want to hope it is. Others don't. Russia doesn't have any record of any covered-up Soviet launches. North Korea claimed it was theirs, but, eh. North Korea.” Peterson replied. Wise chuckled.
The pair of them stood attached to the wall, hanging onto a couple of the various handles around the shuttle bay used for getting around. A couple minutes of silence passed.
“Wise, Peterson. Are you green, over?” It was the shuttle crew – Nishida this time.
“All good, prepared to begin on your mark, over,” Peterson replied.
Another minute of silence.
“Shuttle bays are opening, over,” Nishida replied.
A click and a small hiss signaled that the two of them had been released from the wall clamp. Both took hold of their harnessing cables and pushed off the wall, gently gliding up as the two massive doors on top of the shuttle opened upwards and to the side. Wise went over the steps in his head as he stared up into darkness.
Step one – investigate.
Step two – report.
Step three – assess.
Step four – secure.
Step five – return.
The only thing audible was their breathing as they drifted out of the shuttle bay and into the darkness of space, the unknown object above them barely illuminated with the meager lights of the bay.
“Flood lights are turning on, over,” Nishida announced. They couldn't hear the normally loud 'clunk' of the electronics as the six flood lights folded up and turned on, illuminating the thing above them brightly. The only sound still was their breath – and the silence as it stopped.
It was large. Estimates before had put it at about fifty meters long, total, but nobody had predicted how wide it was. They had parked right under the nose of it, staring upwards at the top of what seemed to be an aeronautics cone, or a heat shield – it splayed outwards, layered in a multitude of metallic panels, many of which were long gone, exposing neatly arranged, thick-wired circuitry. Behind the heat shield was the meat of the fifty-meter-long object, currently sight unseen. They would have to get around. That would be difficult, though. Sprouting from just behind the heat shield, four winglike structures jutted out, starting with a wide base and ending in a curved tip. They looked like the cardinal directions on a compass – one for north, one for south, one for east, one for west. Some sort of fabric stretched between these wings, held in place by what seemed to be a collapsible metal frame. The fabric was light blue, but had long strips of red glaze, inundated with hexagonal cells. Some sort of solar collector, Wise thought. The entire structure was about forty meters wide in all, but the actual satellite itself – or at least the heat shield – was a manageable five meters. It would be more prudent to try to collapse the panels than to fly around them and risk getting their harnessing cables caught.
Five by fifty, not counting the solar panels. Wise took note of that.
“Jesus,” Peterson was the first to speak. “That's not human, is it?”
“No, I-...” Wise licked his dry lips, trying to control his breathing. “I don't think so.”
It was then that they realized they had been in silence for minutes.
“Prometheus to spacewalk – is everything alright?” It was Nishida.
“C-Copy, Prometheus. We've got something here.” Peterson replied.
“Be advised, our external closed-cycles are not working. Come back if you feel it isn't safe, over.”
“Copy, we'll be careful, over,” Peterson replied.
“Let's go up. See if we can fold up those fins.” Wise brought the handle to his RCS pack around, and Peterson did the same. In short bursts, gaseous expulsions propelled them up to the fins. They found handles on the wings – Wise took hold of the “north” one and climbed up to the tip of the wing. The handles were slightly farther spaced than those in the ship, requiring more effort to traverse, and as opposed to bracket-shaped, they were more like half-circles. Peterson took the “west” wing.
“Check, one two. Ashley, can you hear me, over?”
“Copy, over. What do you see?”
“I have a mechanism here.”
“So do I.” Wise rose a hand up to wipe condensation from his mask, and realized the fruitlessness of the endeavor. Of course, the condensation was inside. The best he could do was control his breathing.
The mechanism was simple – seated just inside the tip of the wing was a handle. An inscription showed the process – when down and twisted, the handle was locked. To unlock it, you pushed it down, twisted it, then pulled it up until it was linear to the handle. The final step showed a transition of four wings with fins between them to four wings with nothing connected.
“Prometheus, we have an unlocking mechanism here. Instructions. No language yet. Unless we want to fly around it, we've got to close the solar fins here.” Wise transmitted.
Silence for a few moments – no doubt Prometheus relaying it to control.
“Go ahead, over.” | 26 | An alien space probe enters the Solar System. After being retrieved and studied, is revealed to be an alien race's equivalent to the Voyager spacecraft. | 47 |
Subsets and Splits