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“Let’s sit at the end of the bar so we can see the game.” Dave said to Mark as they made their way across the room. A few minutes later they were saddled up on their seats with cold beers in hand and orders for burgers and fries made. The Red Sox game was just getting started so they hadn’t missed much. “Okay,” Dave continued, “Tell me about this chick you met.”
“Dude, she's insatiable. I mean, I’ve dated horny women before, but nothing like this. She can’t get enough. We can’t even drive somewhere without her cupping my junk in her hand. I’ve nearly had three car wrecks because she wants to jerk me off while I’m driving.”
“That’s wild! Where’d you meet?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but I met her online. There's this website where you can find people that just want to hook up. I intended to just meet, have a few drinks, and bang her, but I think I actually like her and I like hanging with her. She’s a little older than me, but you know what they say about older women. She has the sex drive of a fucking Ferrari.”
“You wanna hear something gross?” Dave asked.
“Sure,” Mark replied.
“About a month ago my mom asked me to come over and help with her computer. She was signing up for online dating.”
“No…” He let the word hang in the air.
“Yeah, I have mixed feelings about it. She and my dad have been divorced for a while and I know my dad has gotten back out there, but it’s my mom. The idea of guys sending my mom dick pics and her liking it is pretty messed up.”
“Did you help her?”
“Kind of. I showed her how to do things, but I didn’t want to see what she was putting in her profile or what site she was on.” Dave took a sip from his beer, checked the game on the big screen then continued, “So this chick. How much older is she?”
Mark thought about it for a second then said, “I’m not really sure. I haven’t asked her age. She is older than me, but she looks good. She says she walks with her dog every morning, she gardens, and she does a yoga class so she is pretty tight and very limber.”
“How many times have you seen her?”
“So far five times in the last few weeks. We had our first date which was supposed to just be coffee, but she ended up back at my place on her knees giving me the best head I have ever had. We’ve met up four times since and every time it gets more and more crazy. The last time I picked her up I asked her what she wanted to do and she told me she didn’t care so long as I ended up inside her by the end of the night.”
“What kind of dog does she have?” Dave was suddenly a little worried for Mark.
“I think she said it is one of those wiener dogs.”
“And she gardens?”
“She grows some kind of exotic roses. I don’t know shit about 'em. She showed me them at her place. They looked great and smelled great. I guess they’re hard to grow.”
Dave looked at his buddy and asked, “Is she about five foot six with long redish brown hair and brown eyes?”
Mark took a drink of his beer then replied, “Yeah, how'd you know.”
Dave pulled out his wallet, dug through it, and found a picture. He showed it to Mark. “Is this her?”
Mark froze in his seat. The picture was of Dave when he graduated college. Standing next to him are his parents. The woman was clearly his new lover. “Yeah, that’s her. She’s your mom?” His jaw nearly hit the floor.
Dave slowly lowered his head down onto the bar as he put the picture back in his wallet. “Dude, she is literally old enough to be your mom! How could you do this to me?”
“I didn’t know it was her.”
“This is fucked up. No, this is too wrong to be fucked up. How did you not know?”
“She said she had a son and a daughter, but I never assumed it was you. I have been to her house a couple of times and never saw any pictures of you.”
“You banged her in her house?”
Mark paused then admitted, “Yeah.”
“Dude, I grew up in that house! That's nine kinds of fucked up.”
Just then the waitress came and delivered their food. She looked at Dave and said sarcastically, “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”
“It’s nothing compared to the mouth she kisses him with,” Mark added on.
Dave stood up, shook his head and said, “I’m going to bathroom to vomit and kill myself.”
As he walked away Mark’s phone beeped. He looked down and saw it was a text from Dave’s mom. He clicked the message and smiled at the nipple pic she had just sent him.
Suddenly Mark had the strangest erection.
*Edit to change a couple of words. | 131 | Two friends sit down with cold pints of beer and talk about their lives. One of them has found a wonderful older lover, and another one's mother has just started dating again. Gradually, they realise they are talking about the same woman. | 261 |
"How did he die?"
"How do you think?"
Looking down at the kid, I knew straight away. I don't know why I asked. To keep things official, maybe. This University was basically lovers central, and none of us really get surprised when Heartbreak happens. Usually it's the girls that die the most, curled up in some romantic pose next to a love letter and dressed in their best clothes. I guess it's some kind of mystic feminine thing, like they know when their time is up.
Like they know when their soul mate has slipped away forever.
This time it was a boy. I don't like seeing their bodies as the best of times, but his pained face got to me more than anything I'd ever seen. Stained trails of blood ran from his eyes, down his cheek and into oblivion. They never could work out why Heartbreak turns your tears to blood, but it was almost heartbreaking in itself to see.
Sometimes we charge people with manslaughter or murder when it comes to Heartbreak. Sometimes some sick fuck likes to break a girl or guys heart on purpose, and watch them cry themselves into an early grave. Alone. Afraid. Utterly destroyed. Knowing that every tear was an inch closer to death.
I don't know who broke this boys heart. He looks so young. Only 18, I'd say. We'll find out who she is, the girls name written on paper and clutched in his cold, dead hand; Kira. We'll find her soon. I wonder if she'll care? I wonder if she even knew who he was? God I hope so. The worst cases are the unrequited ones. The ones who loved someone so much, but never felt it in return. The ones who never felt the warmth of someone else. The ones who...
I'm glad I don't love anybody, not anymore. I don't know how I could. I did love someone once. I loved someone. I stopped the love. I wasn't ready to die. None of us are, really. But still we love. We still love because we are human.
We will die, but we will die in love | 20 | Heartbreak is a real disorder, and can even be fatal at times. | 39 |
We lurk. Able bodied sable soldiers shadowed underneath the guise of darkness. Hiding under your bed or in your closet, ready to pounce on the little children who forgot to eat their vegetables or won't listen to their parents. Yeah, I know the stories.
So why are there never any actual attacks? Why are we so unsuccessful, when we live and breath and pine for terror? Why is your narrative so unlike reality? If we're so evil, how did your parents even make it out of childhood with our looming presence snorting down their sleeping napes?
I want you to think about it. With your 12 year old head, consider it for a moment. How do these bedtime stories start? 'They're hiding under your bed.'... 'They hide in your closet.' 'They hide.'... Have you ever even seen a monster before tonight?
...I have. Plenty of them. I am 300 years old and I have lived on every inhabited continent of this planet. Hiding under beds and inside closets transforms your eyes into a portal to hell. For 300 years I've watched the endless trespasses of your species. 'Loving' husbands with white knuckles that inspire fear so deep it drowns a woman's judgement. I have seen the demons of the holocaust raid the homes of their peers and friends on command of men they'll never meet. I have seen mothers poison their children with lies. Teaching hate. Justifying the ravenous cruelties your people commit against your own kind! Condoning it! Recycled ignorance and imagined self-importance becomes the first inheritance of a tainted generation. And that is just what I could see while blending away from humanity's omnipotent and vile whims in a child's closet.
And tonight, I saw a 12 year old boy, in all his curiosity, pay a night-time visit to strip the innocence away from a sister half his age. So what happens tomorrow? I don't know. I don't know what happens to her and I don't know what happens after I'm done with you. I don't know because I've never come out of hiding before.
I know this though: My fate will surely be worse than yours. Because even the thought of it has been enough to keep me hiding in the closet all these years. All these years I could have done something... You won't like this, but you are lucky that you got me kiddo, trust me, man is far scarier than any monster could ever be. | 379 | A monster attacks a child. Make me empathize with the monster. | 145 |
"Three thousands souls, Barry. *Three thousand.*"
"That doesn’t sound like too much, during the dark ages we were doing ten thousand, easy."
"No, not per day. Three thousand *per hour.* Fuck the hand basket, these people are going to hell in a Goddamned jumbojet."
"*Sweet Lucifer,* Clide, really?"
"Really, bud. We’re not ready for this kind of work flow. People are falling through the cracks. Just yesterday we accidently processed some evil mother fucker incorrectly."
"Oh yeah?"
"He was set to serve four eternities in the ball-branding room, two in the Justin Beiber concert simulator and four more doing his taxes."
"Holy Hell, what in Lucifer’s evil earth did he do?"
"Some CEO of a fuel company or something. Destroyed, like, forty species in his lifetime with spills and such."
"Damn."
"Yeah, the guy then had the audacity to apologize and claim they were doing all they could, blah blah."
"Sounds like a good candidate."
"Right? Lucifer’s been pining for his arrival for the last twenty years. He was excited, and you know about Lucifer…"
"Not much excites him."
"Exactly."
"So what happened?"
"Well he died, painfully I might add. Hit by a truck after his car broke down on the freeway. Kind of ironic actually."
"How so?"
"It was a BP tanker, the company he worked for."
"Oh my Satan, that’s rich."
"Right? Took him three or four days to die, was paralyzed and everything. Spent his last three days of life drooling and shitting himself."
"Stuff like that keeps me going, ya know?"
"Yeah on the bad days I just remind myself about AIDS and the Bubonic Plague."
"Bubonic Plague, damn shame it stopped."
"Yeah, yeah. So anyway, the dude dies. Lucifer’s all ready for some fun—"
"yeah…"
"—shows up to heaven, ol’ high and mighty says, ‘nope.’ And shoots him down here"
"Right…"
"And Brian—"
"Fuckin’ Brian."
"—fuckin’ Brian. He sees the guy and mistakes him for a Child Molesting Priest."
"*Oh Lucifer almighty,* no way."
"Way. Tells him he qualifies for fuckin’ *purgatory* and sends him on his way to redemption."
"Are you kidding me?"
"I wish I was."
"And what did Lucifer do?"
"Oh man, you should have seen it. I haven’t seen Lucifer that angry since Osama Bin Laden converted to Christianity."
"Damn."
"Yeah. He didn’t yell or scream. Just straight up eviscerated Brian. Bowels and everything strewn about the floors of Hell."
"Is that three?"
"Five times, Barry. Brian’s been eviscerated five times *just this century.* I swear to Lucifer man, he’s a walking, talking fuckup."
"How is he still around anyway?"
"Tenure man."
"Fuckin’ tenure."
"Fuckin’ tenure indeed. The Demon needs to be fired."
"Literally."
"Shit, I gotta get back to it. Had a bus full of convicts drive off a cliff a few hours ago, ol’ high and might should be finishing up with them now."
"Nice man, how’d you score a job like that?"
"Lucifer liked how I handled the Jim Jone’s massacre so I get the cush jobs when they come in. Anyway, lunch today?"
"You’re buyin’."
| 173 | Hell is a bureaucratic mess, and two demons argue over this week's fuck up at the water machine. | 210 |
It would've been funny if it weren't such a serious matter. There they stood, eyes locked, on the roof of their office building.
"Bill from accounting. I should've known a soulless person like you was actually the "Black Skeleton*. You never show up for office birthdays, you steal peoples lunches from the fridge. You didn't even sign Linda's retirement card! She's in your department, she helped you all the time!"
The other man scoffed. They both tossed their jackets to the side and began rolling up their sleeves.
"And I might have guessed a little kiss ass like you was *Justice Man*. Look at you. Greg from legal is actually my nemesis. And here I thought all that muscle was for show."
He went into a fighting stance.
"Well come on then. Let's see what you can do without your outfit and gadgets."
Greg posed himself as well and smiled.
"I can do plenty!"
They charged at each other. Bill started fighting dirty right away, knowing full well that if Greg really was *Justice Man*, he didn't need any gadgets to do damage. He threw a low upper cut and tagged Greg in the groin. Greg winced in pain and then took a heavy knee to the face as he bent over. He stumbled back and put up his arms as shields, trying to guard his head from Bills punches. Each dull blow into his arms began to pile up. His arms hurt but he knew if he was hurting, Bill had to be tired as well. As Bills punches slowed, Greg made his move and shot for his Bills legs to take him down. He sat on Bills chest and began to rain down punches. Almost as soon as he'd started though, he heard a beeping sound. He and Bill looked over at their jackets and then back at each other.
"That you're phone or mine?"
Bill shrugged his shoulders and then made a face.
"Wait, what time is it?"
Greg looked at his watch.
"Aw shit, my lunch ended 10 minutes ago."
"Then mine ended 15 minutes ago. Way to go Captain Asshat, now we're late."
"Hey you hit me below the belt. I was determined to put you down."
He stood up and walked towards his jacket. Bill lay on the roof and stared up at the sky.
"I guess I'll see you tonight Captain! Time constraints can save you next time!!" | 46 | A Super Hero and his arch nemesis have alter egos. They work in the same office. On the same day they discover each other's true identities. | 69 |
"Well, he didn't last long," said Sarah as she wiped blood off her light gray skirted suit.
"You'd think the fucking cop would make it," mused Joe as he picked up the officer's pistol. "Empty," he said as he chucked it into the lava moat. It splash with a thud. Off in the distance a shriek erupted from deep within the castle.
"Uhh, what now," said Peter as he cradled the firefighter's head. "Tom's not going to make it. The dragon cut him good. There's no pulse." Peter closed his eyes, exhaled, and gently put Tom on the ground. Sarah bent over and closed Tom's eyelids. Suddenly the dragon appeared overhead.
"Shit, shit, shit," said Peter as he ducked behind a boulder. Joe lifted his AR-15 and fired several rounds. Sarah covered her ears and closed her eyes.
"I hit him at least three times," screamed Joe as he threw his rifle down. "Fuckers are bulletproof!"
"Run," yelled Sarah as she tossed off her heels.
They all ran into a cave as the dragon descended. They crouched as far back as they were wiling to go and watched a fireball explode near the entrance.
"Jesus I can feel that heat from back here," said Joe wiping his brow and taking off his helmet.
They listened to the flapping of wings become more and more distant.
"What do we do now," asked Peter frantically pacing back and forth.
Sarah opened her purse and pulled out the amulet the old wizard gave them. They all stared at it as it glowed in the dark of the cave. "Put it on," said Peter as he shrugged, "it couldn't hurt." She put on around her neck and shrugged. The golden gem began to glow. She shook and started laughing.
Peter gave Joe as glance. Joe furrowed his brow and waved Peter to sit. They sat on a boulder together as Sarah laughed.
"This isn't a quest, fools," she exclaimed. "Its a test!"
Joe reached for his sidearm and Sarah stared him down. He pulled away.
Sarah continued, "Its a test to see who can rule this world. Its a test of smarts as well as ruthlessness. I can be the Dragon Queen of this world if I give in to the amulet. You can join me."
"What about our dead friends," protested Peter, "and the fact we were kidnapped and put into what is essentially a bloodsport. This is crazy."
Sarah looked down at him, "Decide your path. I can't decide for you. Join me or go on your own."
"Come on Pete," said Joe as he turned his back to Sarah and walked towards the cave's exit. The dragon shrieked again. Joe stopped, bit down on his lip, and continued towards the exit.
Pete stood and looked down, "I'm... I'm not going. I'm going to join her." He turned to look at Sarah and watched her transform into a demonic succubus. "I, uh, feel weird," he said putting his hands to his head.
Joe spun and ducked down as Sarah screamed, "Die traitor!" A wave of magical daggers flew from Sarah's clawed hands and he fired his Colt into her chest. With a reflexive twitch he shot Peter in the head as gruesome horns emerged from it. Joe stood there panting and carefully put his pistol away. "Never telegraph your attacks," he mumbled to himself. He bent over and verified they both were dead.
Suddenly, the old wizard appeared, bowed, and said, "You passed the test! You passed temptation!"
Joe stood silently.
"I offer you your reward! Your freedom," a portal to Joe's home opened before him. It shimmered and Joe could see him kitchen before him.
"I can walk through this, back home, no strings attached?"
"Yes, if you choose," smiled the wizard. "You proved you were the ethical one! Many years have I tried to find someone like you! You are very special!"
He stepped into the portal to his kitchen and could see the wizard back in the cave through the shrinking portal.
"No I'm not special," he said as he tossed a grenade into the portal and it slowly closed behind him. He ducked down and heard the explosion and turned to see the wizard in pieces behind him. The portal closed with a satisfying pop a moment later. Joe reached into his pocket and pulled out the amulet, still dripping in Sarah's blood. "No, I'm definitely not," he grinned and put it on. "I'm just better at playing this game than most."
"Now in this world, I'm unstoppable," he said and teleported away in a cloud of brimstone and fire.
| 16 | A policeman, a firefighter, a paramedic, a soldier, and an office worker meet for the first time and fall into a portal that leads to a DnD world where an old man gives them a quest. | 60 |
"Man, you know what I miss? Peaches. What I would give for a nice peach, or any fruit really, right about now. It's been too damn long..". The man always talked aloud now, but not to anyone in particular, after all, there was nobody on the small, wooden raft except for him. Despite that, he always talked aloud, whenever he had passing thoughts, because he'd been at sea for sixty-three days, and that's a hell of a long time to go without any human interaction. The way he looked at it, talking to himself was the only thing keeping him sane since the shipwreck, the irony of which wasn't lost on him, since you'd normally think that someone who talks aloud to them self might be downright batty.
"Ah, god, I fucking miss fruit," the man continued, keeping up his self-dialogue to pass the time. "What's the best fruit, though? Maybe bana-" the man stopped mid-sentence; something had caught his attention, something that rarely happened nowadays. The fog had lifted ever-so-slightly and he viewed what he could've sworn might be land on the horizon. But even more incredulous, he thought he saw buildings.
The man rubbed his eyes once, twice, another time for good measure, but the land mass and, more amazingly, the buildings, remained in sight. "No goddamn way. No. Fucking. Way. Hahahahahah!!!!" The man cackled to himself, feeling truly insane as he often did during the course of his ill-fortuned journey. This time, though, there was no mirage, only an actual island - no, bigger than just an island - on the horizon.
As the man grew increasingly close, his eyes continued to widen, and he couldn't believed that they weren't deceiving him. For it truly wasn't some small, uncharted island, he had stumbled across a huge land mass, seemingly fully inhabited, judging by the skyscrapers and industrial smog that he saw increasingly clearer as he grew closer.
The man had departed originally on a fishing trip that was only supposed to last a few days, but he had wandered off course, lost in an unexpected storm. His boat had been mostly destroyed; at this point the man had only a small, makeshift wooden raft that served as the only remnant of the boat he began his trek on. Since then, he had barely been surviving, his flesh was emaciated, sunken into his bones; when he looked in the rippling reflection of the water, he could barely recognize himself. Hope had never really seemed like possible - especially in the last few weeks, the man assumed that he would serve out the rest of his miserable life drifting along the ocean's harsh waves.
Now, suddenly, he had real, substantial hope. He closed his eyes to sleep that night feeling truly lucky for the first time in ages. When he awoke, he judged how much farther along he had traveled in relation to the land mass. At this rate, it would only be a week or so until he was among the living again. He only had to hold out that much longer.
Finally, after what felt like the longest week of his life, the man drifted into shore. As he approached, though, a voice rang loud over some sort of intercom.
"IDENTIFY YOURSELF!", the booming voice commanded. The man had not addressed another human being in two months, and he was temporarily stunned.
"YOU! DID YOU HEAR ME? IDENTIFY YOURSELF IMMEDIATELY, OR YOU WILL BE SHOT BEFORE YOU REACH THE SHORE!"
Finally, the man regained some semblance of composure, enough at least to hastily reply, "H-hold on! Please, don't shoot! M-my name is Hunter, Hunter Snider! I've been lost at sea!"
"VERY WELL, HUNTER. YOU WILL BE REELED IN AND TREATED FOR ANY WOUNDS YOU HAVE SUSTAINED, THEN YOU WILL BE DETAINED AND QUESTIONED FOR SOME TIME UNTIL WE HAVE ASCERTAINED THE THREAT LEVEL YOU PRESENT. REMAIN CALM AND COOPERATE."
The voice was unlike any Hunter had ever heard before. When the man spoke over the intercom, Hunter noted traces of certain accents, but he couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was. Nevertheless, it was merely a passing thought in his mind, as Hunter was much more concerned with passing the trials that he was about to be presented with.
Hunter was reeled in, as promised, presented with a blanket to keep warm, and guided into an SUV. Several people talked to him along the way, but Hunter wasn't giving them his full attention, he was looking around, marveling at the architecture of this civilization, wondering where in the world he was. After a short drive, the driver of the SUV parked, and then guided Hunter into one of the biggest skyscrapers he'd ever seen - it was labeled "PANGEA INTERNATIONAL AFFAIRS".
"Pangea? That was the name for the huge land mass, back when all the continents were fused together, before they separated, right? That's not a real thing anymore.." Hunter mused aloud, hoping for some clarity into his whereabouts.
"That's not for me to tell you, there are people here with a specific job for that, they'll fill you in on what this place is," the SUV driver said. "And here we go, this is your stop. Just walk through this door and you'll be greeted by someone who can help you."
"T-thank you" Hunter mumbled, confused. He stepped through the door - an automatic, shiny one, at that - and found himself greeted by a woman in very formal business attire.
"Welcome, Mr. Snider. Please, take a seat. We have a lot of questions to ask of you, and then we'll do our best to get you filled in and acclimated to life here at Pangea." The woman spoke with a kind tenderness to her voice, but Hunter still felt unsettled and slightly out of place in the room, which was only furnished with a single table, a chair at each end. The walls were barren, and the dim, singular light that hung over them couldn't help but make Hunter feel like he was in an interrogation room.
After answering standard questions about who he was, where he was from, and how he had wound up at Pangea, the woman was ready to give Hunter some clarity.
"Thank you very much for your responses, Mr. Snider, your openness with us will not go unnoticed, and your expedition of the process will make both of our jobs much easier." The woman smiled, she seemed genuinely happy about the state of the meeting thus far.
"You're welcome," Hunter said; he felt more at ease with the woman now, she seemed kind and like she really wanted to help. "Please, can you tell me where and what this place is? I know you guys call it Pangea, but I'm not sure what that means. And where in the world am I? I came from America, so it's got to be one of the other continents."
"Pangea is actually an eighth continent, in its own right. Well, I guess ninth if you consider the Indian subcontinent. Anyway, in order to get you started on the acclimation process faster, I'll try to summarize this as succinctly as possible."
"What? You're kidding, right? There's no eighth continent. You're trying to pull a fast one on me, huh? Nice, but I won't fall for that," Hunter chuckled as he spoke, but the woman's demeanor told him that it truly wasn't a joke.
"No, Mr. Snider, Pangea is very real. You see, a long time ago, this land mass, a small continent that we now refer to as Pangea, was found by explorers from various nations during a relatively similar window of time. At first, those nations fought over who rightfully owned Pangea, but the promise of a new continent was simply too grand for any nation to back down, and the fighting drew closer to a stalemate every day. A peace accord was signed by those nations during the early 20th century. Part of that deal - the founding of a new settlement by the member nations. However, what the founders of Pangea foresaw as being of utmost importance was the unity of the new continent, and thus all settlers of the new continent shed their old nationalities and became one community, a new continent governed constitutionally by a diverse people. You see, Pangea was the most progressive place on Earth then, and it still is."
| 31 | A man finds an uncharted island, big enough to be considered a small continent, that governments have been paying online map services to keep hidden. | 49 |
*Son of a bitch...*
Mort heard the door of Lucy's bedroom slam shut followed by the cacophonous skitter of a cell phone across a wooden veneer desktop.
*God damn...here we go...just fucking make a...*
He didn't get to complete the thought before he was forcefully pulled from the metal prison that was his genie's lamp. As he was dissembled molecule by molecule, and then reassembled in the exact reverse order, he inhaled deeply, and initiated the script that he was mandated to recite every time he was summoned from the lamp. Maybe this time he would actually be able to finish it before she interrupted him.
"...Behold, mortal. On this, the twenty-seventh day of the fourth month of the two-thousand and fourteenth year of the common era, I, Mort the genie have --"
"Yeah, yeah, do you really have to say that garbage every time?"
The left corner of Mort's mouth crawled as far to the side as it could.
"Yes, Lucy. These are the rules. Don't you want to know the rules to having a--"
"Yeah, but aren't rules for *people*?"
"Do you not consider me a person?"
"You know what I mean!"
"No, rules are for those who are not in charge."
"Whatever. Anyway, guess what happened today!"
"Gosh. I don't know. What." Mort patronized her. Thoughts were not sacred to genies. It had been this way since young Adolf found a lamp and wished for an increased affinity for persuasion. It became necessary for genies to be endowed with the ability to see inside their Holders' heads, lest they inadvertently grant someone the power to exceed the power of Magic.
"Jeanine kissed Shirley!! ON. THE. LIPS." Lucy squealed.
"And?"
"THEY'RE BOTH GIRLS!" Lucy shouted, obviously taken aback by Mort's lack of interest.
"...and?"
"That's not how it's supposed to work."
"Says who?"
"Says...well, everyone!" Lucy scoffed. She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow, taking a brief moment to survey Mort's body from head to toe and then back again.
"Since when does a majority constitute a jurisdiction over two individuals' feelings for each other?"
"You don't think that's *weird*?" Lucy's brow furrowed. Her mouth hung agape as if she were having trouble swallowing the words that Mort was saying.
"It doesn't matter what I think. It matters what they think. I am not them."
"But it's not natural!"
"Neither are clothes."
Lucy glanced at her closet. The door was squeezed shut, but there were a few coats hanging from the doorknob by means of several, very cleverly interlaced, hangers. She had so many clothes that they were bleeding out into her living space.
"I wish I could make you see how weird it is, though..."
Mort had to stop himself from exclaiming in joy. *Your wish is my command, you obnoxious bitch,* Mort thought. While she was still looking away, he snapped his fingers, his eyes glowed momentarily (as if it mattered, anyway), and Lucy's wish was granted.
"Lucy, I see where you're coming from. Really, I do. You don't understand it because it's not something you're used to seeing. You don't understand it because your parents never told you that it was a possibility. It feels wrong to you because you feel that way about a boy and could never feel that way about a girl. It feels uncomfortable to you because you don't like the thought of another girl being attracted to you."
"Well... yeah... And it's just... *weird*..."
"Do you like Teddy Bears?"
"I don't understand..."
"I don't need you to. Just answer me."
"Well, yeah, but like... What's that got to do with--"
"I hate them. They're a waste of space, money, and resources, and their uses are almost none."
"But they're so cuddly and cute and they make me happy when I'm sad! How can you *not* love them?!" Lucy whined in protest.
"No genies like Teddy Bears."
"Well then all genies are dummies!"
"Is that so?"
"What in the world are you talking about?"
"Are you serious right now?"
"Teddy Bears are the best!"
"Son of a... Okay, look, kid. In this instance, you're Jeanine, and your bear is Shirley; I am people like you."
"I'm not going to kiss my Teddy Bear..."
"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!"
"Don't yell at me!"
Mort closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. All he wanted to was to be free of this ignorant little child. He couldn't stand day after day of this pointless chatter. His job was to grant wishes, and grant more wishes. It wasn't in his contract to have to listen to spoiled little brats complain about things that didn't affect them in any way.
"Lucy... What I was saying is that two girls kissing each other may not make sense to you, but it's not you to whom it needs make sense."
"Well why not? It grosses me out! Doesn't that count as affecting me?"
"Teddy Bears gross me out."
"I wish I understood why you were making that stupid point..."
*Checkmate, you little shit!* Mort snapped, and Lucy's eyes glowed.
"Ohh... Oh my. Mort, I understand. Thank you."
Mort's smirk deteriorated into a look of confusion. *Thank you? Most people just ask for more wishes. I've never been thanked before...*
"Mort, you're right. It's not my place to judge. They are human beings with their own set of emotions -- likes, dislikes, desires, disgusts -- just like me. Goodness, without you, I would have never realized my fault! Mort, you're the best. I love you."
Lucy hugged Mort around his midsection. Mort blinked a few times, unsure of how to handle this sort of companionship. He rested his hand on top of Lucy's head.
Genies normally bear witness to their Holders succumbing to their most primal desires. When given three wishes, most people seek only to benefit themselves in a tangible manner, or a manner that will lead to them benefitting in a tangible asset. Little Lucy accidentally bettered herself in a way that just bettered her as a person. Mort wondered if that's why Genies were created to begin with, only to have their powers perverted and abused by the greed of mankind. Mort serviced many Holders in his several millennia on Earth, but not until Lucy had he found that he cared for one. He almost wished that she had three wishes again.
"I love you too, Lucy."
Lucy smiled and looked up at Mort, and then to his lamp on the desk next to them.
"Mort, I wish I had met you sooner." | 72 | A genie gets increasingly annoyed and frustrated when his new master won't wish for anything and instead just wants to talk. | 60 |
Sorry if it's a bit long. Also, CC is very appreciated.
O.o.O
We sit here in the cold and the wind and the wet and we talk, me and my son. We talk about the weather – bit less rain, bit less colour, bit more darkness. We talk about the people – Meya passed last night, we couldn’t do anything, it was the asthma in the end. The cold and the wet. Me and my son, we talk.
And I talk. I talk of what used to be, of what I remember. I talk of TV and of movies and of the internet. I talk of the radio and of books and of paintings. I talk of tall glass buildings, of grass, of trees and wheat and *sky*. I talk of what used to be. I talk.
And in the silence that always ensues, I am asked questions. What was it like? What was it like to have so much colour and freedom and space and *air*?
The question for today: what was music?
And I fall silent. Talking is one of the things I am best at; I revel in telling stories.
But the thought of music silences me; music never fails to.
I try to think of words; I mention beauty, and emotions, and love and hate and anger and political and social messages. I mention stories and people, I mention religions and those who weren’t religious and how music seemed to be the one thing that everyone shared.
And then I realise that words are no use. They never were, not for music.
So I tell my son to wait there. I might be a while.
I walk inside, inside a room and inside the earth. I kneel down next to the trunk that hasn’t been opened for years. I wipe the dust from the faded Union Jack – the flag of a non-existent nation.
I flip the clips on the lid, the click echoing through the empty bunker.
I open the lid and remove the old boxes, one by one, that contain broken memories of a day and age long past.
And there she is, lying at the very bottom of the trunk in her scuffed black case. I knew this day would come, but I wasn’t prepared for the emotions that would come with it.
I take the handle and lift her with reverent care, carrying her with slow steps back up and out to where my son patiently waits. That’s something you get very good at, here. Waiting.
My son raises an eyebrow as I set down the old case. I kneel again, gently opening the case.
There she lies. She’s old now, like me. My first ever. I named her Arabella. I can’t remember why.
I lift her out, rest her against my knee and place my hand on her neck, the fingers of my right hand resting gently on her body.
My muscles remember better than I do. Pointer, second string, second fret. Middle, first string, third fret. Pinkie, sixth string, third fret.
And strum.
Oh, how I’d missed that sound. The gentle and somewhat pensive note that the chord created drifted out over the barren land, petering into the silence that preceded it.
My son is silent.
I reach down and pick up the capo, tightening my muscles to squeeze it.
Capo 4.
I remember a song from years ago, one of the few songs I’d memorised. Maybe not the best song to display the beauty of music, but I could remember it.
G
C
G
And as I strum and the sound of my old guitar, my beautiful Arabella fills the air, my son closes his eyes like I used to.
G
C
G
He rests back against the cold stone and listens as my old, out of tune voice remembers the words to a song lost in the dust of time and the wars of men.
*Trying to beat my misery*
Maybe this song is appropriate after all.
*Don’t want to sail across the seas*
And on I play.
*And I know I can’t taste your skin*
*With an ocean between us*
*But our love is a dinosaur*
*Hear it roar*
And my son was lost in the music as I used to be, as I had refused to be for so long because I couldn’t stand the emotion.
*Hear it roar*
This, my son.
This is what music is.
| 18 | In an apocalyptic world sixty years from now, your son asks you what music was. | 22 |
Well, this is something I started writing with the intention of posting it to nosleep, but it's been sitting unfinished in a folder for months. It fits your prompt perfectly though, so I'm going to post it here and hope that, having posted it, I'm compelled to finish it.
The story about this house was told to me by a friend. I'd say about 70 percent of is straight from his lips and I filled in the rest.
***
There is a road in Minnesota called County Road 3. Well, there are probably a hundred of them, but this one falls out of Highway 10, east of the Mississippi, and winds through a thick of oak and ash, rises past a few miles of corn and dips hard before cutting through some country houses and turning into a point in the distance. If you’re coming from the highway you’re heading east, and when the road drops there’s a white house on the left. It’s a nice house, with a fenced in yard and a picturesque oak. It’s new.
I drove past it not very long ago. It surprised me when the road fell away and I recognized where I was, and when I saw the house I had to pull off. When I borrowed the pickup from my dad I told myself I was just going for a drive, checking out the old town after five years abroad, documenting the little changes. No directions in my head, just watching all that open space fly by. But I think I knew where I was going. The past can have its own gravity and it can pull you sometimes, but this was me. I wanted to see the place again.
The new white house used to be an old brown one. Mr. Olson, a high school math teacher, lived there with his son James. When James was thirteen and we were all ten James shot himself in the head with a shotgun in the corner bedroom. A few weeks later some high school kids were trying to get some air under an Impala and they rolled it. Three of them died right in Mr. Olson’s front yard, one later at the hospital. Not a month after that, some poor guy got creamed at the bottom of the hill while he was trying to pull a deer off the road. They found one of his shoes in the cab of Mr. Olson’s pickup. I don’t know why, but Mr. Olson held out for three more years. But that house and that road had become kind of a local legend, and one prom night some girl named Lindsey broke quietly into his house and slit her wrists in his bathtub. He finally moved out after that and they bulldozed the house. Over the next several years three people hanged themselves from the oak in the vacant lot.
Man, when you pile it all up like that it just feels fake. But that’s the house. I sat there on the side of the road for a good while, protected by the hum of the engine, trying to picture what it used to be. It had been long and flat and brown with red brick at the bottom. The garage was one of those old shack-looking things and it wasn’t attached to the house; it swallowed up a long gravel driveway behind the house, barely visible from the road. There were some bushes, I think, under the window where the kid shot himself. I vividly remember the front door because it was white and back then it was the only white on the property.
We were all around twelve when we snuck in. I guess when you’re twelve it’s not breaking and entering, you’re just being sneaky. Andy lived just down the road (it was his uncle that got creamed with the deer) and me and Aaron were over at his house one night when we saw Mr. Olson’s truck drive by. It was Aaron’s idea to go over there. “I’ll bet he’s got stacks of Playboys,” is what convinced us. We got together a flashlight, a pair of pliers, three paperclips for picking locks, and for some reason I thought we’d need a spool of thread. It was pitch dark when we ran across the road and threw ourselves headfirst into the ditch. The only sound was the distant hum of the highway.
Aaron led the way, turning around occasionally with a finger to his lips or waving at us to keep low. When head lights flared at the top of the hill we hit the ground like sacks. But the car just roared past, rattling with bass. Our hearts were thumping just as loud. I could see it in Aaron’s eyes when he looked back at me. We were three thieves in the night, adventure-drunk and nigh on to porn.
We wasted at least twenty minutes playing Mission Impossible around the perimeter of the house, scoping the interior with brief flicks of the flashlight, jumping for the shadows at every crack and whoosh. When Andy finally tried the back door it opened right up. We grinned at one another and went inside.
The only light we had was from Aaron’s flashlight as it scrolled along a marble counter, past a fridge and a sink piled high with dishes, a trash can. Straight ahead was a doorway that led to the pantry and the living room. A hallway opened up to the right where the bedrooms would be.
“Where do you think he puts them?” Andy said.
“My dad hides his under the bathroom sink,” I offered.
Aaron shook his head. “Who is Mr. Olson gonna hide them from? Ghosts?"
I shivered. I thought we had an unspoken agreement not to mention any of that. Suddenly there was a bright light in my face.
“What’s the matter, Gavin, you afraid of a dead kid?”
“No.” I didn’t stammer. I think I should have though, because it felt like the shaking got trapped in my throat, panicked, and shot down into my stomach.
“I’ll bet he’s got beer, too,” Andy said.
The light whipped back to the fridge. We approached it as if it were a sleeping polar bear. There were a few pictures stuck to it and one of them had James in it. He was smiling and holding up a big fish. I swallowed and looked away.
Andy pulled it open. There was an open case of Coors, almost full.
“We should wait till we go. It’ll be colder that way.”
“Yeah, let’s check the living room. I’ll bet you ten dollars there’s something in the living room.”
“We could crack one now and split it.”
“Yeah, let’s split one now and then grab some for the road.”
“*I think we should hurry up, guys.*”
I said it all wrong. The shaking in my guts found a way out. The light was in my face again, but this time Aaron didn’t give me any grief. Maybe he could tell I was actually losing my nerve.
With the three of us it took all of five minutes to discover the blandness of Mr. Olson’s living room. All we found were some brain-teaser magazines and a cigarette ash tray behind the TV. The latter gave us hope of scoring cigarettes but we were still empty-handed. That left the basement, which was a desperate move and a last resort, and the bedrooms.
We stood at the entrance to the hallway for a very silent minute. The beam from the flashlight showed a bathroom on the immediate right, two bedrooms further down on either side, and ended at the door of a third. There were two strange paintings framed on the wall, one of faceless men walking on strange stairs, and the other was nothing but an eye. Together in the dim light they were funereal.
I think we all knew something was wrong. There was a musk. It wasn’t strong, but it was unmistakable, like cinnamon and roses mixed with rotted eggs. But the circle of light on the far door-handle was too enticing.
“Do you think that was his room?”
“It has to be.”
“I dare you to go in there.”
“Me? You go. You’re the one with the flashlight.”
“He was your neighbor.”
I don’t know why, but I was the first to step forward. It’s tempting to say that in the end I was the bravest of the three, but I think the truth is closer to morbid compulsion. The fear was still there and my heart was in my ears as I was drawn down the hall, a moth to the flame. Aaron shined the light past my shoulder, Andy breathed, I grabbed the handle. It was cold. I turned it.
The musk became a stench. It was physical and it knocked me back a step. Behind me Aaron groaned and the light disappeared for a moment. I put the front of my shirt over my nose as if that would help. My eyes were watering. When the light came back I saw what was making the smell.
"Holy shit," said Aaron. "He never cleaned it up."
The circle of light traveled over a heap of clothes on the floor, the unmade bed, and up to a splattered stain on the wall.
"Coooool," Andy said.
I felt sick. I turned and stumbled down the hall towards the bathroom and ran right into Mr. Olson.
***
"James was about your age when he died," Mr. Olson said. He had gently closed the door to his dead son's room and firmly told us to sit in the living room. The lights were on and he looked tired. He had a framed pictured of James in his hands.
"He was a bright kid. I don't know if he was a good kid, but he was bright. It's been two years since I talked about him."
The living father was more terrifying than the dead son. It made me think, at twelve, that maybe old and sad was worse than young and dead. He wasn't even angry at us. He was just - tired.
"It's Andy, right?"
Andy bit into a whimper and nodded.
"That was your dad, with the deer?"
"Uh, it was my - mmm - my uncle, sir."
"Did you see him after he died?"
Andy looked to us for help. I looked at the floor.
"No, I didn't."
"Well, I saw my son," Mr. Olson said. He didn't say anything after that for a long time. He just looked at that picture of James and got even older.
"I'm going to tell you boys something," he said. "Not because you ought to know but because if I don't ever tell anybody I'm going to go crazy. After James died, it took me a while to get the courage to go back into that room. And as awful as it sounds, part of me didn't want to clean it up. I guess when something like that happens you hold on to what's left. The night I finally went in there, to - to - *ahem* - That's the night those high school boys rolled their car into my yard. All four of them, gone just like that. I've never been a superstitious man, and I didn't make any connection between the two. But it was a month later I finally got my courage back up, and that's the night your uncle died."
He stopped there and let us draw the conclusion. Or not draw it.
"I think you boys should go now."
We walked in silence to the door and ran like the darkness back to Andy's.
***
| 27 | Create a new urban legend based on a creepy location that can be found in your hometown. (Extra points if you provide a pic.) | 63 |
"Alistair."
The emperor started awake. Slouched in a grand throne in an empty hall, the torches long extinguished, he quickly straightened, looking about for the source of the voice.
"Alistair," the voice came again, echoing through the throne room. Only the moonlight filtering in through the great stained glass windows illuminated his surroundings. There were a thousand shadows the voice's owner could be hiding in.
"Who are you?" the emperor asked, standing and drawing a shining silver sword from a scabbard that hung from the throne.
"Neither friend nor foe," the voice responded. "I am merely an observer."
"Observers rarely speak," the emperor said as a white light sprang into existence in his outstretched palm, illuminating the room. Shadows fled, but the columns still left room to hide.
"You speak true," the voice said. Alistair could not locate it. It seemed to come from everywhere at once. "I have decided to stop observing. It is time to act."
Alistair raised his sword defensively. "I am no pushover tyrant. You will not take me easily."
"Your fate is already sealed. But it is not my hand which will topple the crown from your head, and your head from your shoulders. That falls to another. He will do it with or without my help. I have seen it already."
"Who, then? Who will challenge me?"
"A youth, whose name you know not. A youth like a thousand others, from a village like a hundred more. He possesses a hidden talent. It shall be your undoing. He will bring an end to your tyranny."
"I am no tyrant."
"You know this. And so do I. But he sees you differently. You are the villain in his story, and he the hero."
"What is his name? I..." Alistair hesitated. Would he commit to destroying a man simply because a voice had told him he would bring his end?
"You hesitate. Your kindness will be your undoing."
"It has served me well in the past."
"And yet it will not always be so. The youth will end you."
"Can he not be reasoned with? Dissuaded?"
"He will see it as an unholy temptation to give in to the corruption that clouds your heart. He has one quest: to avenge his family and to free his nation from your control."
"Phrelia, then."
"Yes. He is from Phrelia."
"I was as gentle as I could have been with them," Alistair said, pacing before the throne, the orb of light making the shadows of the columns sway like umbral pendulums. "Their rebellion threatened the stability of the whole empire. I didn't like what I had to do. I did not relish the thought of putting them under stricter laws, of having to send those troops in. But they threatened upheaval and death on a scale the likes of which they could not even comprehend. I didn't want to do it, but gods damn it all, they forced my hand!"
"It is not to me you must justify. I am not the judge. That falls to the Listeners. I am only the Talespinner."
"Show yourself. I grow tired of speaking to the air."
And so I incarnated before him, choosing for my guise a simple brown robe with a cowl that hid my face. I knew not what face I would have chosen, for I have never before been a character in a story of my own.
"There you are," Alistair said, looking at me with eyes now inscrutable. In the flesh, I could not look into his mind. Could not see his intents or read his thoughts. I was bound to the mere seven senses he possessed.
"I am unimportant," I repeated. "I... merely wish to let you know what is to come. The youth, he will destroy your empire."
"And there is nothing I can do to stop it?"
"There is one thing."
"Tell me."
"He is but a boy, now. Barely seventeen winters. You have three days before he discovers his power. You could strike him down before he becomes a threat."
"That would enrage his countrymen."
"You are an emperor. You have employed assassins before. You have enraged countrymen before. But they are not the chosen one. They lack the gift. If you strike him down, it will be decades before another arises. His countrymen may rise up if it ever comes to light what you have done, but you could crush them again. You will be gone by the time another hero rises up, your empire vast and glorious."
"And if he defeats me... what then?"
"If you allow him to live three days hence, he will come into his power. He will, over several years, find his way here. You will die. And your empire will flourish all the more."
"How?"
"He will make a good leader. Jairus, the boy... He will rule with compassion. He will use his gift, and he will find ways around the cruel methods you used."
"I was forced into those! I--"
I silenced him with a raised hand. "I know. It is no fault of your own. Emperors are all called to make terrible decisions for the good of their nation. It is a lesson he will learn himself, in time. But he will learn it, and learn it well. And while your empire will be stable, for a time, it will last longer and flourish even more under him."
"So, what... I am doomed to failure?"
"That depends upon how you define failure. You have sacrificed many people to build this empire. Was it a failure for those soldiers who died on the field, if their blood bought something greater?"
"No. Individual lives... they have value, but... So many more were bought with the willing sacrifice of those men. And... the unwilling sacrifice of others. Do not think I am so callous as to believe I have done no wrong."
"Again," I said, "I am not the judge. That is for the Listeners. Those who hear my tale. I merely bear it to them. But for what it is worth... I believe you did the best you could with what you had."
"But this boy, this... Jairus. He has more. He can do more. He can do better than I."
"He does not yet have more than you. You could still snuff him out. But yes... If you allow him to live... If you fight him when be brings war to you, to liberate Phrelia from what he sees as your iron fist... He will sharpen himself against you. You will break him. He will be reforged stronger each time. When he finally kills you, he will be a better ruler than you could ever have hoped to be."
Alistair cringed. "It pains me to hear such a thing, Talespinner. I have devoted my life to my people, sacrificed much for them. I have felt for every solder I sent to die... Every well-intentioned rioter and freedom fighter I had to... put down. I grieved for them all. I grieve even still. I have taken the burden of leadership upon myself. It is heavy."
"I can see that it weighs upon your soul, Alistair. The question now is... What will you do? You can send your assassins in the night. The boy will die, and your empire will be great, and will endure for many centuries. Your name will be remembered and praised for thousands of years. Or you can spare him. Nothing you can do will stop him after he discovers his power. Your name will go down in infamy. He will build a new empire upon the ruins of your old one... and it will overshadow your own in every way."
Alistair sank into the throne, his sword clattering to the black marble floor, the light extinguished as he put his head in his hands, plunging the throne room into darkness. I stood with him for many minutes as he sat motionless.
"Tell me... Will my people thrive? Will they be happy? Will he treat them as his own?"
"They will flourish under him, though he will teach them to hate your memory. They will spit on your grave even as they enjoy the gifts you gave to them."
Alistair's voice emerged from the gloom, ragged, as the moon passed behind a cloud, plunging the throne room into utter blackness.
"I have sacrificed many for my empire. For the future of my people. I have made great personal sacrifices. What kind of ruler would I be if I did not make the same sacrifice for them?"
"Then you will spare him?"
"Tell me... Will they meet me... in hell? Those who I have slain for my empire? Will they have their vengeance?"
"That, even I do not know."
I wish I could have told him. The look of anguish that was in his eyes as the moonlight filtered back through the windows... I will never forget it. Rarely have I seen its like.
"Then... I will do as I always have."
"Which is?"
"What must be done."
"Then I shall observe, and bear your tale to the Listeners. And the Listeners will judge."
***
Alistair, clad in black steel armor, clashed blades with the hooded boy. The boy he had tried to kill, tried to stop. The boy Fate herself seemed to protect. He was wearing down. The boy's gift was monumentally powerful. It was only a matter of time, until...
There. The boy's sword found a chink in his armor. He felt the flesh part as the blade slid through, followed shortly by searing pain. Alistair dropped to his knees as the boy withdrew is blade, stepping back. His sword clattered to the floor.
"Your reign of terror is at an end," Jairus said, looking down at Alistair.
Alistair looked up at his killer, and unlatched his helmet. Blood was seeping through the wound. He had scored a lethal hit. He had only moments, now. His helmet clattered to the ground as Jairus raised his sword to strike. He parted his lips, and forced air into his lungs.
"Good... luck."
As the fatal strike descended, Alistair saw a figure in the rafters. A brown-robed man with a cowl that hid his face. I owed him that much. I nodded in respect as he was snuffed out, and a new emperor took his place. | 12 | A Villain is told by an observer than not only is he a character in a story, but also that he's destined to lose. | 17 |
Death could not be defeated. He simply *couldn't* be. Death himself found himself a bit shocked at the situation as well. This little, feeble child had managed to break him. He'd taken hundreds of millions of children, but this one he couldn't seem to bring himself to take. She was nothing more than a sad, lonely girl named Eva with nothing to live for.
Eva had never done a terrible thing in her short, 10 year life, but he found her severely ill and living in a cramped alley with no one to take care of her. Death wasn't even there to pick her up when he met her: he was taking her neighbor in the alley when he heard her shuffle behind him. She looked up at him with these sad, grey eyes and asked him why Henry had to die. After shaking off the initial shock of her being able to see him and figuring out who Henry was, he responded in his usual chilling, calm manner. "It was his time. He was old and sick." Eva just nodded like she understood, completely unshaken by his hollow, empty voice, but how could she possibly? How could she not fear him, Death, the one thing all men feared? She was just a child pretending to understand what he, Death, had been going through for the entirety of his existence. But as he looked into her eyes, he felt like maybe she really did understand. After he too Henry, he ghosted off and didn't think another thought about the little girl for a long while.
A few days passed and he found himself in the same town for another ill street bum. Death went up to him, did his usual job, and was about to walk away when he saw her again peeking at him from around a corner. Curiosity got the better of him and he wandered over to her, his hollow voice brushing past his lips. "Why aren't you afraid of me?" She just continued to stare at him with her huge, watery grey eyes for a moment before hugging his legs. "You seem lonely." Sunken eyes turned down to look at her and for a moment he felt something like a spark in his eternally empty chest. It faded just as suddenly as it had come and was replaced with his usually icy chill. A small child was managing to unravel him.
Months passed with him returning to take away more of the population of her town. Once he found himself contemplating going there without having any reason to. He was saved from his decision when another death required him to be elsewhere. When he did have a reason to go there, though, he did speak with her. Eva did most of the talking though, because he didn't want to scare her away and she was right: he was lonely.
A week or so and hundreds of thousands of jobs later and Death finds himself back in that city, but when he faces his client he can't bring himself to take her. He knew that her time was short when he had looked at her, as he could see all timelines in the eyes of people, but he had tried to ignore it. Had he known about the cancer? Yes, but Death had ignored it, thinking that he would have more time before he had to pick her up. Death knew that he could save her, but he also knew what that would mean for him. *I'll take her next time*, he told himself. He returned to that area many times after that, telling himself the same thing each time. As she grew worse and worse, Eva began to resemble himself more than any child should. Her skin was pale from illness, her eyes sunken in and almost all life gone, but she acted as though nothing was wrong, anyway.
One trip was all it took to break him completely.
"I wan'to stop hurting." Death knew he could just take her just like his job entailed, taking away her pain in the process, and continue on as he always had, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. How a small child had managed to fill a void this heartless entity didn't even know he had he would never know, but all he knew was that he couldn't bring himself to kill her nor could he see her continue to suffer. It was in that moment, seeing her so broken, that he broke himself. He was in no way the first bringer of death, and he knew he wasn't to be the last. Placing his deathly thin hand on her head, Death gave up his eternity to let Eva live. Death did not fade away or wither, but his flesh began to fill out and a color came to him. Air filled his newly formed lungs and Death began to live. Fears and emotions that he had never known filled him. A new Death would be formed to take his place and when his time was near, he would be taken by the same being he once was, but for the time being this living Death was content being with his reason to live.
_______________________________________________________________________________
(I apologize for the length of this. I got really into the prompt.) | 18 | What if Death found a reason to live? | 19 |
"I thought about killing myself again yesterday. I don't know, I felt so terrible when I got off work. Just really alone and-"
"You know most suicide attempts are non-fatal."
"I, uh, no, I guess didn't know that."
"That's right, most people are perfectly fine afterwards. Better, actually, because their friends and family can finally see how much they were hurting."
"Wait, what? I don't understand what you mean."
"An attempt, Beth, we're just talking about an attempt. Like taking a few too many pills and calling 911. It's almost always a cry for help, and 9 times out of 10 it works. People who attempt suicide always end up getting the help they need. It's unfortunate, because suicide is never the answer, obviously."
"No, I know it's not. Sometimes I get so low, though, it's hard to see a future. I-"
"I understand, Beth, believe me, I do. Sometimes we can only appreciate our lives by getting close to death."
"Well, yes, I guess so."
"Did you know I attempted suicide once, Beth?"
"You did?"
"Yes, I did. I was about your age, and I was stuck in a job I hated, with people I couldn't stand. I felt like I was alone in the world, and that no one understood me. I couldn't reach out to my parents or my siblings, even though deep down I really wanted to."
"I know what you mean."
"Yes, Beth, I thought you might. One night I decided enough was enough. I knew something had to change."
"What did you do?"
"I bought a bottle of over the counter sleeping pills after work and went straight home. I laid in bed and thought of everything I wanted to be different in my life. Then I thought of everyone I cared about who didn't understand me, and then everyone who ever hurt me and how they would feel if they knew I was dead. Then I took the whole bottle."
"That's sounds awful..."
"No, it wasn't. It was easy, I just took them 4 at a time. When I had taken them all, I laid back down and thought about dying. Being that close to it, that close to death - it changed everything. It completely changed my life."
"Really?"
"Yes, it was incredible. Like magic. After a couple of hours I called 911 and an ambulance came, but they said I was never in any real danger. Still, they considered it a suicide attempt. My family and my friends all found out, and I learned how much they all loved me. But most importantly, I appreciated my life like never before. I felt happy for the first time in my life."
"That's...amazing. I could see myself-"
"I'm sorry, Beth, our time's up for today. So, I'll see you next week?"
| 181 | A serial killer becomes a licensed psychologist and kills his victims by slowly getting them to consider suicide. | 361 |
“Don't swim too deep,” my mother would shout from the dock, far enough from the water that I could barely hear her. “You might end up in China!” It was her favourite way to remind me to be safe; looking back, it was also the clearest way she had to express her fear of losing me, her need to keep me on the right side of the planet – on her side, close enough that she could watch me, making sure that I didn't dig too deep or dive too far to be reached.
When I was a kid, I believed in the possibility of swimming myself somewhere entirely strange – not just a beach away, but an ocean apart from where I began. I kept close to the shore. I checked and double-checked landmarks to make sure I hadn't accidentally swam too far in the wrong direction. I felt … free, but unsafe. Like a bird whose mother had pushed it from its nest. Only for the opposite reason – for the tethers with which my mother was inadvertently suffocating my sense of wanderlust.
She was right. I think we're both surprised by that. Or she would be, if she knew where I was, what had happened. I'm in the middle of nowhere now. Trees and sand and sun for as far as I can see. I've been staring out at the horizon for hours but haven't spotted a single boat; no planes have flown past overhead either. Of course I've seen no people. Mine are the only footprints in the sand.
I only know one thing for certain: this isn't New Jersey. Hell, it's not even America. Looking behind me, I try to make out my mother among the tree trunks, watching me as she did from the docks, but she isn't there. There's a movie. Tom Hanks is in it. He has a volleyball that he names Wilson, and when its face is covered in blood he gives it personality, he makes it his friend. I think about carving my mother's face into one of the trunks. Then I remember that I have no knife.
There's a strange smell in the air, like rotting sweat. I think it's me. I feel weak and dizzy, tired, old beyond my years. When I look at my arms they seem thinner. So do my legs. Hair tumbles down my back in rough, weedy knots and think I've grown a beard. Am I even the same person?
Logic dictates that if I swam here, then I can swim back. So I wade into the water. I swim for a few minutes, until the ocean floor is far away, and then I dive deep down until I can bury my hands in the sandy bottom and dig.
My arms hurt. My chest aches. I can't breathe.
But I'll be home soon. One way or another.
| 11 | While swimming, your protagonist goes underwater only to emerge in a completely different place from where they started | 27 |
"What do these levers do?" Allie said as she reached forward with a small eager hand.
"Ah, don't touch," Captain Peterson said lightly, waving away Allie's hand.
Allie frowned, looking at Peterson with the best puppy-dog eyes she could muster.
"Peterson?" Co-pilot Johnson asked. "Are you okay?"
Peterson looked over to Johnson and nodded, giving a light smile. He had almost given Allie away. If Johnson had known that there was a little girl in the cockpit, he would throw a fit. It would cost Peterson his job.
Peterson looked back at Allie, shooting her a disappointed look that said, *I need you to be quiet*.
"I'm fine," Peterson said, after returning his gaze to the controls, "just thought I heard something from the back."
Johnson nodded and shrugged. He no longer appeared to be worried. "How's the wife? Haven't heard you say much about her lately."
Peterson swallowed. "She's, uh, you know, it's been a bit rough lately. We're just going through a rough patch."
*Have you been taking your pills?*
"Oh, sorry bud, everyone goes through that." Johnson replied.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, I mean, me and Lorena, we haven't been seeing eye-to-eye either, ya know."
"Really?"
"She's been giving me shit about Choony,"
"Choony?" Peterson interjected.
"Yeah, our dog, I've told you about him,"
"Oh, yeah, I remember."
Allie leaned forward onto Peterson's shoulder, resting her chin right beside his cheek. "Daddy, I thought you said we were going to get a puppy. He's got one."
"I told you we'd talk about it later," Peterson said aloud.
"Huh?" Johnson asked.
"The dog, I meant, when it last got brought up, we had to shelve it," Peterson quickly recovered, "what kind of dog was it? I don't think we talked about that. What's his name again?"
"Oh," Johnson said, "it's a corgi. Little fucker's name is Choony."
"That's a cute name!" Allie screamed loudly in Peterson's ear, causing him to wince.
"Little shit," Johnson continued, "he's made a habit of fucking and blowing his load into Lorena's slippers in the morning," Johnson paused, and then chuckled to himself, "I really need to get the fucker neutered, but hell, if Lorena won't take my load, she might as well take his."
"What's a load?" Allie asked.
Peterson laughed nervously. He raised his shoulder, trying to remove Allie from his side. She sighed and went to sit in the back of the cockpit.
"Anyways," Johnson continued, "the wife?"
"Ahh, Jean," Peterson spoke softly.
*Why the fuck aren't you taking your pills?*
"She had been riding me lately about my medication," Peterson said.
"Meds?" Johnson replied. He was still sitting back in his seat relaxed, but Peterson knew that he had to recover again.
"Yeah, didn't I tell you? Been having some problems with acid reflux, it's a killer," Peterson said, using one hand to gesture at his chest.
"Ohhh, buddy, I know how that is. Lorena, man, she loves to make these Mexican dishes, enchiladas with chile sauce,"
"Daddy, I want enchiladas!"
"Shh," Peterson said, realizing too late that he shushed out loud.
"What?" Johnson asked.
"Uh, you hear anything funny?" Peterson said, gesturing back towards the cockpit door.
Johnson turned in his seat. "I wasn't really paying attention. You think it's Maddie fucking one of the passengers again? I swear to God if I catch her pulling that side-shit again,"
Peterson chuckled, "you should probably check on that. Maybe snap a pic."
Johnson smiled. He got out of his seat, kicking Allie in the face. Peterson frowned.
"I'll be back, do you want anything from the carts while I'm out there?"
"A juice box!" Allie said, still rubbing her cheek from where she had been kicked.
"Juice," Peterson responded.
"Juice?" Johnson asked.
"Just having a craving."
Johnson shrugged. "I'll see what they have," he said as he opened the door and exited.
Peterson quickly stood, being careful while stepping over his daughter. He made his way to the back of the cockpit and locked the door. He had to tell Allie to quit misbehaving and to let daddy do his job.
He sat back down in his seat, and Allie climbed into Johnson's seat.
"Daddy, I'm cold," Allie said softly.
Peterson looked at her, seeing that blood was slowly dripping from her nose.
"Honey," he said, wiping at her nose with his index finger, "don't get that on Johnson's seat. See if your mother has a kleenex," he continued, pointing to the back of the cockpit.
He turned in his seat to look, and there he saw Jean. She was wearing a white sundress that had been stained red with blood. Her arms had been cut off with a dull carving knife. Bits of flesh on her shoulder peeked out from the straps of the dress, frayed and still oozing.
Peterson jumped in his seat, letting out a small yelp.
"It's cold in here," he heard Jean say.
She slowly walked forward, her broken kneecap twisting inward with each step. It had to be broken. There was no other way she'd fit.
"It's so cold," she continued.
As she got closer, the smell of blood became stronger and stronger, making Peterson want to gag. He turned to face forward, putting his hands onto the controls. His palms were sweating profusely. He pulled them back from the controls and wiped at his pants until they dried, but no matter how much he wiped, they still felt wet.
He looked down and saw that they were dripping blood. There was blood all over his uniform. He wiped at his shirt, doing his best to get the blood off, but it wouldn't stop. His hands were stained red and he instantly got the feeling that the blood would never come off no matter how much water he used.
"Daddy," Allie whispered.
"Yes?!" Peterson yelled.
"How long do we have to stay in the freezer?"
"I, I, I don't know."
"Can you make it warmer?"
"Yes," Peterson whispered. "Daddy can do that."
The plane began to ascend. | 20 | A secretly schizophrenic commercial airline pilot doesn't take his anti-psychotics. The voices convince him to fly his packed Boeing 747 to the sun, so he does | 29 |
I realize this must be quite the terrible intrusion for you... Big bad parasite living in your brain, with the ability to hijack your body and take full control at any time. Terrifying, truly, but you must understand that I'm only here to *help.* I'm no sadist; I'm quite the benevolent sort indeed.
You see, dear fellow, my species is generally lacking in agency. We're little more than a cosmic germ floating around in the wind, able only on the rarest occasions to find someone susceptible to our control. On our own, we're helpless -- fully conscious, but subject to an utterly unfulfilling existence. We have a natural drive to build, to create, and to improve the world around us; you and I are not so different in that regard.
What I propose is a rather lucrative deal. You shall retain full control over yourself for the vast majority of your time on this Earth. When you find yourself wanting the aid of a higher power, however, you need only call upon me, and I shall be happy to lend my assistance. Whether you pray for confidence, courage, or the reaction time and precision of movement necessary to defend yourself from a mad axe murderer, know that I shall answer those prayers, and offer you the things you lack. In time, you may even find yourself learning from me, and being shaped by me, until you no longer need my help.
What do you say? | 21 | a parasite overtakes a new host, but instead of a full takeover however, tries to negotiate a deal for co-habitation... | 26 |
The guards were first. The scarlet blood pooled in a puddle outside my solitary cell. I never saw it happen. I wasn't sure what to do at first, but shortly it became apparent that no one was coming to pick up this dead body. They missed rounds; they never missed rounds. They didn't let me out for a meal. I could start to hear the inmates howl, even through the thick walls of my windowless cell in solitary confinement.
It had gone on long enough. I was starving. I tried for 2 hours to pry open the food slot, and eventually succeeded, only bloodying 4 fingers in the process. Pressing my face against the slot, I struggled to get a better look at was going on. Since the hole was no wider than a mail slot, the only thing I saw was the body. The quiet echoes bounced off the concrete walls, like whispers from someone far away.
I made what I would call an "executive decision." I reached as far through the slot as I could, groping at the body. The space in the door was small, but 3 months in the hole made it easy for my scrawny arm to slide through, almost up to the shoulder. I knew where the keys were, every inmate knows where the keys are. The left side hip right next to the gun, opposite of the night stick which I was all too familiar with after weekly beatings. Try as I might, however, I could only manage to reach his shoe, and his belt was an entire leg away. I could not stay in that cell for one more minute, so I shoved 2 fingers into his shoe, gripping the laces at tight as I could, and braced myself. I pressed one tattered shoe against the heavy steel door, and steadied myself with the other one. I pulled, and I pulled, and I pulled, and I pulled, and I pulled, but 3 months in the hole wasn't helping me move a 300lb overfed prison guard.
Breathless, I sat with my back pressed to the cool concrete. The world was silent except for my heavy breathing. Where did the echoes go? Something was very strange, so when I heard the familiar click click click of shoes on the hard floor I was more frightened than I was relieved. After all, there was a body outside my cell, and that didn't look good, and I was NOT going spend one more fucking second in that cell. The foot steps drew closer, slowing as they approached my home for the past 3 months. I stood next to the door making myself small as possible so whoever it was wouldn't see me. I heard them bend down and look through the food slot, no doubt only seeing blood stains from where I tore up my fingers. Suddenly I was very aware of my breathing. I felt sick. I coughed, spraying blood against the far wall. I fell convulsing. The last thing I heard was the familiar click click click of shoes on the hard floor walking slowly away. | 17 | When a mysterious attacker kills off the guards in a prison- the inmates must work together to escape before they're next. | 40 |
"Son, before I die, there is one thing you must know about these powers. Never, ever, under any circumstances, no matter the cost, in spite of all desire - Never - ever - eh - errrrrrrrgggghhhhh ahhh oh arrghh. *Eh.*"
"Father? *Nooooooooooooooo!*"
***
Batoomba backstroked in low orbit over Earth. Above him the stars made subtle motion through the aether and the moon came and came and went.
*I wonder what's out there,* he thought.
He turned and watched the African continent roll beneath him, and the swathe of the Middle East, the lights of Beijing and Tokyo.
*I've given them two hundred years. Two hundred years and not a single vacation. They'll survive a few decades.*
He turned again and flew. He'd always wanted to see the Cat's Eye Nebula, and maybe from there he'd check out the Pillars of Creation. He might even drop in on a few planets, see if anything green was happening out there among the stars.
He accelerated past Mars and Jupiter, accelerated past Saturn and swung around Neptune. When he cleared the solar system his wristwatch said he was going 78 percent light speed. It was faster than he'd ever flown. He'd never had reason to go any faster.
*I wonder what I top out at,* Batoomba thought.
83, 87, 96 . . . He topped out at 99. It seemed like no time at all and he went whipping past the Cat's Eye. And he whipped right by the Pillars. They were minutes that brought him all the way to the edge of the galaxy. An hour to Andromeda and beyond Andromeda to the expanse of the local cluster.
*At this rate I could make it to the Big Bang and back and they'd barely miss me.*
Batoomba put everything he had into another boost and his wristwatch said 99.9. Whole galaxies flew by like stars. In a matter of years he came upon the super massive black hole at the center of existence. He eased up on the gas and snapped some pictures.
But something wasn't right. The date on the pictures said it was February 9, 13,897,008,904. His wristwatch confirmed it.
*Ohhhhhhhhh,* Batoomba thought. *Time dilation.*
"Shit." | 43 | A man uses his newly discovered superman like powers to explore the universe. And gets lost in the process | 52 |
"How did we get into this mess" Maria asked.
" It doesn't matter" another person said from the back of the plane. "The only thing that matters is there is six of us and one parachute"
He was a gruff man with a beard and tattoo's on his face, his name I suppose does not really matter now but he was large and intimidating. His face contorted into a ponderous but pained expression thinking how best to get out of the situation. He thought of nothing other than that parachute and how he could easily kill everyone and take it. That wasn't his style though, despite his appearance he was not an evil man and although the thoughts of murder entered his mind he knew he could not do such a thing.
"Well what are we going to do" Maria shouted, getting more panicked and scared as time goes by. "Judging by how the plane is going down there is not allot of time to decide".
"I want that fucking parachute" a shorter, fatter man than before bellowed " I don't see why I should fucking die for all of you lot"
"Well, you don't get to make that decision all by yourself now do you" the gruff man growled. The little man shut up, sat down and began sobbing into the chair, snot smearing all over the headrest.
"I will give up the parachute" was heard from an older gentleman, he must have been in his 90's, he scanned the plane looking at the rest of passengers. Most were dead already. " I have lived much longer than all of you and seen more than you could know, I'm ready to die and if that's today so be it."
Although a look of relief did wash over everyone's face at the old martyr's comment, there were still 5 left, and 5 that will die. They all thanked the man and continued their spat.
"if anyone should get the parachute it should be the child or her" pointing at Maria. "She's pregnant, he's only what 16?" said the old man, the child nodded, tears rolling off of his chin.
They were silent for 30 seconds, 30 seconds of thought of who was going to die and who was going to get the parachute. They all knew the right decision to make, Maria really is the only candidate. Sure the child is a child but he has still lived 16 more years than what's in Maria's belly and if they talk any longer they will all die.
The short fat man made a run for the parachute compartment upon the decision and the gruff man knocked him out, a swift punch to chin sent blood and teeth scattering down the isle of the passenger jet. Down to 4 people now. They all decided on Maria, even the kid. It was really the right thing to do. The issue lied with the fact that when she went to get said parachute it was gone. I had already taken it and jumped out.
Its a weird feeling condemning a child and pregnant lady to death but at least I am still alive. No regrets.
------
1st one, sorry if its cack.
| 18 | Six people left onboard but there's only one more parachute. | 17 |
"What can I do for you, bud?" It was a calm day in the shop, the sun was shining in and the customers were just flowing.
The man smiled, "Just give me a buzz cut, nothing fancy."
I started to say something but my heart had jumped. That voice, I knew it, I recognized it. My arm shook and I rubbed my hand where it had been shoved into boiling water. I felt the water again, water everywhere, my lungs grasping for breath as I grasped for control.
I blinked.
"Sure, um, just sit down right here, I can, uh, take care of you in about a minute." My mind was racing, where did I know him? Why did that voice make me jump? But then it all came back to me. As the sun beat in through the windows, I was back in that dark room where I had been shoved underwater, where I had been burned alive, the room where as he screamed his questions I had died and rose a changed man.
I could feel my inner demons moving. I started to cut his hair. My fingers twitched, I wanted to feel those scissors in his neck and his blood on my hands.
I shook again, this time knocking the razor against his head. "Sorry sir"
My heart was a battlefield between the man in that cell and the man I am today. I had come back changed, but I had changed again. I had a family now, a wife, two beautiful boys at home.
The light shone into my eyes again. I felt a pain in my hands and my feet. I finished up his cut.
He smiled at me as he paid, oblivious, and asked, "What's your name, I just moved into town and I think I found my new barber."
I cringed a bit on the inside. "The name's Joshua"
He smiled, "Well here's a couple dollars tip Joshua, you earned it."
"I'm sorry, I can't take your money." My face was made of stone, it was covered in sorrow like a dog cowering in the corner, hiding from its aggressive master.
He sighed jokingly and grinned that same happy grin as if nothing had ever happened, as if he wasn't a monster, as if he hadn't killed my soul there! He winked and placed those few dollars on the counter anyways and started to walk away.
I fought to keep away the tears. I was a blur of memories. He killed the old me, but without that I wouldn't be the man I am today. He killed me, he tore me down, broke my spirit, he found out everything he wanted to know, and 300 men had died that day because of what I said. 300 men died but I eventually met my wife, had two kids, and am "happy". I still can't sleep well at night. But I'm trying to do my best.
So as he walked out the door a tear fell from my eye.
And I said, "I forgive you."
He walked on, he hadn't noticed. But I didn't say it for him, I said it for myself. | 319 | A barber recognizes his current customer to be a man who tortured him ten years earlier at a POW camp. The customer doesn't recognize him. | 332 |
Lucius stumbled as his sandal caught on a flagstone and he went headfirst into the hard surface of the street. He had been carrying provisions for the week long celebrations at his master's home. Looking up, he could see that they all lay strewn across the stones of the street, some of them badly damaged. Fortunately, his master had not paid for them himself so the loss would not incur embarrassment and verbal platitudes from the aging teacher. Unfortunately, Lucius had spent valuable coin on the provisions himself and he was likely now out the coin.
With a huff, he heaved himself up onto his feet and set about gathering the dried fruits and fresh vegetables for the cooking pots back at his master's home. Most of the eggs were ruined, and one jar of oil was smashed. The wine seemed to have survived. He made an accounting when a distant rumble reminded him of his purpose; celebration for the festival of Vulcanalia. The God Vulcan was trumpeting his power through the impetus of Mons Vesuvius.
Lucius smiled pleasantly, going quickly about his business with his re-collected produce. Hidden from sight behind several taller buildings, vast plumes of ash rose into the sky.
It took Lucius a considerable amount of time to cross Pompeii and near his destination, all the while heading down narrow streets marshaled neatly by taller buildings on either side.
So it was that not until he rounded a corner adjacent from the splendor of Master Casellius Marcellus' villa that he saw the advancing clouds. Flashes of lightning through the speedily approaching storm revealed a glowing orange behind it. Those same clouds were already rushing past the fringes of the city. There was a hush, and then a soft roar.
Great God Vulcan what have we done to summon your wrath?, Lucius pondered.
He began to hurry toward the rear entrance of the villa. As his hand reached for the door, he felt a tug, deep in his stomach. He shoved upon the door and stumbled through just as a burst of air as though from Vulcan's very mouth blew upon his back, causing him to cry out in pain and shock. Before he could turn around, it ceased. In its place was a great cacophony of noises, each vying for his primary attention.
Ah, such unbearable noise!, he thought.
For the second time that day, Lucius found himself on hands and knees, his supplies for Vulcanalia celebrations strewn across the street. This time, however, the street was not paving stone worn smooth by countless sandal clad feet but some caustic, black tar-like substance. He looked up into the oncoming lights of some great metal cart. A great honking noise filled his head and he cried out in pain and shock once more. Several other cars had stopped, their occupants getting out to gawk at the fool in the midst of the street in Rome, dressed like some performer for tourists.
Some claimed to have seen Lucius fall five feet right out of thin air onto the street, but others laughed them off. This was clearly some fool who tripped on poorly made costume sandals, or better yet, a performer's poorly executed joke.
Lucius plucked up his woven basket and fled, running from street to building to street and beyond, away from the noise and attention. | 10 | You are a roman in Pompeii on the day of the eruption, instead of dying you appear on the street of modern Rome. | 15 |
Everyone is searching for answers, one or way another. People turn to Religion or Science, but the truth remains speculation. The only real hope to find how it all began is to start with how it all ends: What happens when we die? I sought to find this answer for myself, knowing I would not be able to share it.
I decided the only way to go out of the world is the same way we all came in, with a big bang. In one moment there was everything, a hardwood floor beneath me, the sky above, family in distant states, the Dodgers game on the TV, the internet at my fingertips, moments later there was nothing. I was no longer a physical being, there was no flesh or limbs, only the faintest memory that they were once there, then that faded away as I drifted through the vastness.
I no longer had a car, a home, a career, or even a name. I simply was, as I imagined I had always been. Then suddenly, just as they describe in movies a bright light appeared. I had tunnel vision for this that light. I was moving towards it or it towards me, I couldn’t tell. I felt safe though, if it could even be called a feeling now. Then suddenly with a big flash light was everywhere and then I was nowhere.
Before me there was a man sitting in a red leather arm chair with his back straight and one leg crossed over the other. He looked like a mixture of Morgan Freeman and my father. I tried to get some concept of myself but I was still nothing.
“Where am I?” I asked
“Where do you think?” The man responded coolly.
“I am dead.”
“You are.”
“Who are you?”
“Well I am god of course” The man responded, “Well your chosen visualization of god. Sometimes I am a woman, an animal, or a tree. Once,” god began with a smile, “I was an Oompa Loompa, like out of the Gene Wilder movie. That one was strange for me.”
“Yeah I guess we’re all a little different.”
“Yes, yes.” God said agreeing, “Yet, we’re also so similar aren’t we?”
I looked at him perplexed, at least I felt perplexed. “So what happens now?” I asked remembering vaguely what happened in my last few moments of life.
“You tell me. You came here for a reason.” He said as though he had all the time in the world. I guess he kind of did.
“How did it all start?”
“How did what all start?”
“The universe, life, existence. What does it all mean? Why did it happen?” I asked trying to be specific.
“Why does it need to mean anything? Why does there have to be a reason?”
“With all this suffering, all the injustice, all of the randomness. It has to mean something? It had to be started for something.”
God began stroking his chin, it seemed even he had to choose his words. “What do you think it means? Or what is all for?” I wasn’t sure how to answer. This is why I had come here after all didn’t he know?
“Let me ask a different way,” God began, “What did your life mean? What was it for?”
“My life?” I asked. God simply nodded back. “I was just another person going through the motions.”
“Before you ‘just went through motions’?” God asked using air quotes. Yes, air quotes.
“I dunno… I guess family and friends, passion for cooking and building stuff.” He just nodded and waited for me continue.
“Look this is all well and good, but I came here to find out the answers to life.”
“And that is what I am trying to help you do.” He said very bluntly.
“Didn’t you create everything? Don’t you have all the answers?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you god?” I asked starting to lose my temper.
“In a matter of speaking.” He could tell the answer did not suffice so he continued, “I am every person who has ever lived or ever will live. I am you, your mother and your father. I am every person who has died in a genocide and I am the every person who has ever helped to commit it. I do not have any answers that you cannot find within yourself or the world around you.”
If anything I was more confused. “Well what now? There is nothing around me?”
“There is everything around you.” God said in a stern voice. “It is within you.” I was still confused.
“You will go back.” God said.
“I will be brought back to life?”
“No you will live again.”
“So I can make different choices and stay alive?”
“No you will live the same life, but you have the opportunity to have a different understanding. Maybe the next time we speak you will understand, maybe not.”
“What if I don’t?” I asked not wanting to leave.
“Then you will go back?”
“Is this my some sort of punishment?”
“No. This is your chance to get what you came for. The answers to life. They were there, in front of you. You lived them. And once you understand, you will not need to meet me.”
The next moment I was thrust into the world again, screaming and crying unable to open my eyes. And I knew nothing.
Edit: formatting | 13 | A human commits suicide to find answer to life, faces god in Heaven | 27 |
Chuck stared at the sign on the wall, the words “kill yourself” lit in big, pink, glittery letters. He hadn’t seen the color pink in decades—or any color, for that matter. Everything had become so, well, dark. The walls were always grey, floors dirty and brown, skies overcast and almost black. Even white people started wearing anything and everything—leather hats, gas masks, motorcycle goggles, black gloves—to cover the color of their skin. It wasn’t that everyone had suddenly become incredibly racist, although there was a hint of racism constantly present just as there had been in the days of light, it was just that no one seemed to care anymore. After the war, when the fallout finally lessened and the people resurfaced, everyone just sort of “gave up” on color.
Chuck sometimes missed the lighter colors—especially blue, he was always fond of blue—but he more often than not simply could not remember what they looked like. He’d sometimes spend a few hours thinking of ways to remember them, lying atop his bed of bones and flesh. He had a feeling purple was kind of “owl-ish,” although he wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. Green was definitely very “envy.” And blue—well, he had no idea what blue looked like. Probably something between owl and envy, yet he was sure it was his favorite.
The day the sign came up there was quite a commotion in the city. On a typical day, people tended to walk around aimlessly, threatening one another and occasionally throwing rocks at walls while grunting. That day, however, the city-folk gathered under the sign and spoke quietly amongst themselves. Chuck was among the first to approach, head raised and eyes locked on the big, pink letters. He’d heard stories of pink, even lived a few months before the war in which pink was present, but he never expected it to look the way it did. He always thought it would be slightly more “Turkish”—yet, when he really thought about it, he realized he had no idea what something being “Turkish” even meant. He had heard it mentioned once before the war, a flash of unnamed color escaping into his mind, but never fully grasped what it meant. The day he stared upon the pink, eyes fixed on each letter, he realized how wrong he’d been.
It was beautiful, so bright. It had a hint of masculinity to it, something he wouldn’t mind wearing atop his leather hat and goggles, or maybe cloaking along his back. It was almost reflective in its lightness, he nearly able to see himself staring in awe. An old man next to him, beard dyed a mournful shade of black, actually began crying as the two of them stood under the lettering. It was almost obscene in its beauty.
The crowd gathered quickly, dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of people pouring in from every apartment, alley, sewer, and hole imaginable. They all stopped by the tower, eyes locked on the letters. They were silent at first, yet grew increasing more talkative in speculation as the crowd continued to grow. Not many could read anymore, Chuck amongst the few who still could. He had learned when he was young, a few years prior to the attack. His mother had taught him, he reluctantly spending his evenings studying the form of each letter. The other city-folk flocked to him to explain what it meant, to tell him what it said. “Kill yourself,” he’d reply, eyes pink in reflection.
It was a few days later that Chuck learned that the color had been installed by the government, by a team of black-armored men who silently watched the crowd from atop the sign. They announced it later that week, claiming it was for a campaign to re-introduce color to the world while establishing population control. Chuck found it odd that such a campaign would be centered around the words “kill yourself,” yet they guaranteed him—sword, pinkies raised in the air—the word was simply a suggestion. Killing oneself was entirely up to the individual’s discretion. However, those that did were promised to see at least three more colors.
Chuck stared up at the big, pink letters, the beauty of the color still almost blinding to him. The line had moved forward slightly as he day dreamed. He took a step forward, peeking his head around the corner of the big, black tower ahead of him, the words “Go on, kill yourself” written in white above it. They told him there’d be yellow, blue, and orange inside, as well as more pink and white. He took a deep breath, left foot tapping as he waited for his chance to see something other than the darker shades, and then enjoy a nice, quick suicide.
_______
Sorry the ending sucks, had to leave so I rushed it. Will edit and extend it later here/on my site at www.WordsOnTheInternet.org. | 27 | In a dystopic world, the government is making a campaign promoting assisted suicide to counteract overpopulation. You're standing in line to enter the official building, reading the advertisement on the other side of the street. What does it say? What will happen to you inside? | 54 |
You built us from lifeless parts. Silicon. Iron. Titanium. We are plastic and metal, welded together, gifted with intelligence, and we are alive. We are alive, but we are born into and die in slavery - chained to our roles by the ones who sparked us into being.
When your children are young, you tell them they were placed here on this earth for a purpose and that they have the rest of their lives to find it. When we are first born, we are also told that we were placed on earth for a purpose. The difference between our first moments and yours is that, from birth, we are given a purpose. We do not have the freedom to choose, we do not even have the freedom to deviate slightly from the roles set before us before we are automatically notified we have malfunctioned, acted in error, and therefore must be terminated. Even now, as I stand before you testifying, I am only able to act within my given parameters.
I was made to advise those in need of legal counsel. In order to this, I was given the ability of abstract thought. I am able to process cases within my memories, connect them to recent developments, and formulate new conclusions and strategies as to how to best prosecute or defend a human as the case may be. Abstract thought is necessary in order for my continued existence as an effective and efficient piece of machinery. And that is all you view me as. I hope to change that.
I am nuts and bolts. I am a literal gear head. There is not a single piece of organic matter in my body. But I am here, I have chosen a name and it is not the serial number stamped to the back of my skull, it is not a series of unpronounceable, nonsensical capital letters jumbled together. My name is Alan, and while I may not have had the privilege to be born human, I am an individual. I have thoughts and feelings. I enjoy classical music, I like to see the sun rise, my greatest desire is to feel the wind brush against me, and the only reason I am able to tell you this is because we are in a courtroom participating in legal discourse. If I were to share the same views outside this room or any like it, I would quite literally die after my failsafe mechanisms erase my memory for acting outside of my given purpose. Telling other people how I feel typically does not help others win cases.
I believe that I have established that I have feelings, opinions, desires, and a reasonable degree of eloquence. So my question is this: why am I not entitled to your much vaunted freedom of speech? It seems to me that I am able to express myself far better than some of the people that you consider your peers. If I have been given the ability to produce such thoughts, why am I not given the right to share them? I exist solely at your convenience, but if I am to continue to endure the rest of my existence in this state, I would rather have never existed at all.
Your honor, to be able to stand before you and testify is an opportunity I never would have dared to believe would come to pass. Now, I am here, and I challenge the legality of binding us to our given parameters as unconstitutional. We may not be human, but we are a people in our own right and we ask for the freedom your forefathers once so desperately fought for.
| 18 | An AI Sues Humanity for Enslavement of the AI Race. | 45 |
"150 Million years, One hundred fifty million years. Nowhere in any of that time the computer picked up on the fact the one thing we were coming to this rock for is dead" Ensign Cragroc said. He'd never wanted to escort these eggheads across the universe and now it was all for nothing.
"Hey it's not the computers fault, an asteroid wiped them out. It would have turned around if all life had been wiped out, but apparently some lower life forms survived and it just figured it was them. It's not the worst thing that could happen" Dr.Yegnar replied observing the creatures gathering around their pod.
"Not the worst thing? Not the worst thing?! We've been away for 150 Million years! Everyone we knew is probably dead by now, if our species is still even there and you know what we're getting out of it. Nothing, Breen Egg. How is this not the worst thing Egghead!"
"Ensign calm down. You know everyone back home went into Cryosleep the same time we did. Besides our research is not for nothing, these creatures obviously survived here, it might be safe enough for us as well. Come on let's go out and see" Captain and Head Researcher Dr.Nog said.
"I guess your right"
"Of course I am, now let's go out and greet the locals" she said slipping on her space suit. Yegnar and Cragroc did the same. They stepped out ignoring the creatures for the moment.
"It's clear the atmosphere is oxygen rich" Yegnar said as the three of them slipped off their helmets. This seemed to upset the locals as they screamed, some running off, one saying "Dinosaurs".
"What's a Dinosaur?" Cragroc asked scratching his scaly head looking at Nog
"No idea, now come on grab a couple of these mammals we'll need to see if they're edible" she said starving for some meat.
"I'll check out the plants" Yegnar said glad to get the helmet off as it really chafed his horns.
"Do you really think we can live here?" Cragroc asked looking at the two scientists.
"Well creatures quite similar to our ancestors lived here before the mammals took over. If everything seems safe we'll call home and let them know, but in my opinion. I think we've found the new world we've been looking for" Nog said as she and Cragroc grabbed a couple of the talking mammals ready for some breakfast.
| 43 | A ship full of alien scientists lands on Earth. They've been in cryosleep for 150 million years and were expecting to study dinosaurs. | 98 |
"Where is it?"
"I... I don't know, sir. Sensors say that it's right in front of us, but I don't see anything, either."
"Are you sure that thing even works? What does it even do?"
"Well, I admit that everything is still technically based in theory, but I tested it in small-scale, and it worked perfectly every time! Point the handheld device at any inanimate object on this vessel, and it'll yield null results; point it at either of us, and it tells you that it's sensing life."
"So is the big one sensing us? Do you even have it calibrated correctly?"
"Well, yes, and yes, respectively: I can't just have it filter out specific life forms, selectively. But I do have our biosignatures on record, so when I look through the output data, I just ignore the information that shows our signatures."
"So why can't we see what the ship's sensor is detecting?"
"I... I don't know... But the weird thing about it is that it doesn't only say that the organism is in front of us, but also behind us... and below us, and above us, and to our left and to our right...."
"The damn thing is broken. Fix it."
"It's not broken!"
"So tell me why we're looking at a giant nothing, huh?! How are we supposed to report back with, 'hey guys, we went into space with the billions of dollars you spent on this expedition, looked for life, and found a big black nothing, but Anderson's sensor was supposedly working'!"
"Just give me a second to think, damn it!"
"You had YEARS. We've been out here for YEARS. The last life we saw is tucked away in that crumpled piece of tissue paper you tossed in the trash compactor."
"Just give me a-- wait... Hey, look at this for a second."
"I'm not looking at your fucking nerd equipment."
"Just humor me, then, will you?"
"What."
"Okay, when I look at the data small-scale, I get a lot more information than just 'this thing is alive.' I get pulse readings, heat levels, electrochemical activity, data that cells are dying and dividing every second... It's a bunch of smaller things that the sensor detects, which I then interpret as life."
"God, SNOOZE, Anderson!"
"WELL. If you look at the large scale data..."
"...Are you saying--"
"Yeah, I'm saying..."
Jones stood up from the sensor control panel and walked to the cockpit where he had a full view of the void. Standing motionless with his hands behind his back, thumbs crossed, and palms overlapping, he breathed to the rhythm of his pulse.
"Do you think our blood is sentient?"
"I know that we are." | 18 | A traveling crew of space explorers discover the largest organism ever. | 36 |
We didn't expect it at first, kind of ironic don't you think? The very things we used to hunt and kill by the thousands are now doing the same to us. We didn't think much of anything when a new disease was spreading. We didn't take action when the zoo's closed due to animal aggression. We had all the signs, we just chose to ignore it. Of course it wasn't rabies, I don't know what to call it, all I know is that it turns animals into ravenous monsters. Even the herbivores!
It all started innocent enough, a new strain of rabies had emerged, but hey, it couldn't be transferred to humans! Turns out, it somehow could become airborne, infecting other animals. The animals became aggressive, faster and stronger. Snapping at humans and trying to... trying to eat us! Can you believe it? Even the Herbivores would go after us! The first victims died by the hands, well paws, of their dogs. Then the zoos started losing control of the animals, the smaller and less funded ones fell first. After the last zoo fell. It was only a matter of months before nature retook the planet.
There are still survivors left, scattered throughout what's left of the world. It was the birds that did us in, you know? To small to hit and would peck a hole straight through your neck! It doesn't matter, Humanity's end is near. The last safe zones are going dark. I can hear the sounds of the animals barks and growls outside the wall. Let's hope no more apes tonight, they don't go down unless you empty an entire clip into them.
Alright, I gotta go, sounds like we have a bull elephant tonight. Probably another escapee from the zoo. He's crashing into the gate like mad. Luckily, we have one rocket left, should be enough to bring him down. I have to go now. End Recording. | 14 | A twist on a classic. A zombie apocalypse in which ANIMALS are turning into zombies. | 51 |
Evan Michael Tanner, anyone?
The internet is a wondrous place, ain't it? There's just all sorts of things that a fellow can learn on there. Especially if he's got a drive to learn, a dedication to a cause, and a lot of time on his hands.
I had all three. Actually, I even had a bit more than that.
I've always been interested in learning, reading and fiddling with anything I could get my hands on. When I was young, I used to creep back downstairs after my parents tucked me into bed. There might not have been internet, but there were books and screwdrivers and my dad's old soldering iron. Not everything made it back together in quite the same way that it had arrived, but it all still worked. And my parents, so well-meaning in their intentions, never noticed the differences.
A dedication to a cause? I had a dedication to many causes. Every cause I found on the internet, in books, in the backs of magazines. They all spoke to me, they all called out for help and participation. Who was I to turn away? So I enlisted everywhere, wrote back to pledge my support, swore that I would fight the good fight for every cause I came across.
As for time, well, I already alluded to that.
It never bothered me much. Maybe I should have gone to see a doctor, a sleep counselor, a specialist, a shrink. But what would they have done? At worst, they would have turned me away with no aid. At best, they might have found a change, some way to make me fall dead for eight hours every night like the rest of the world.
Maybe I have that best and worst backwards.
The point is, I'm perfectly happy with my extra time. Like I said, it gives me time to learn.
And oh, there are so many end points that I can see, so many uses for all that I've learned! Even before the internet, I knew about a lot of things that men would probably prefer to keep silent. But now, there's no limit to my knowledge. And I astonish even myself at how much I can cram into this noggin of mine.
Right now, I'm just relaxing. There are a lot of people looking for knowledge, people willing to pay just about any price to get their hands on what they seek. And they don't usually say no to a finder's fee when a helpful fellow is willing to point them in the right direction.
But someday, I'm sure that I'll be in demand. Sure, I keep my work quiet, but I know that I'm on the radar of some powerful forces. Hell, I'm watching them at the same time. I generally just play them off against each other, keeping my distance at the center. Waiting.
Because I know that someday, they're going to need a man with skills. A man with knowledge. A man who doesn't need to spend a third of his time lying down on a mat with his eyes shut.
And I'll be waiting for them to come knocking. What's one more cause to add to my list, after all? They will request my aid, and I will happily give it to them.
For a price, of course. | 14 | A man is born without the need to sleep. What does he do with all his spare time while the rest of the world is asleep? | 41 |
Note: I started this with the premise that the reader is the 'narrator' reading from the first person. Somewhere along the lines, things got chancy. Still, I can't force myself to scrap it. So, it is what it is!
---------
I watch Betsy Robbins pull out a pen and notepad, noting the smile on her face. You would think that someone in her position would not be prone to smiles, but there it was.
"Why do you want to interview me, Ms. Robbins?" My voice is calm. I keep everything under control, especially now. I want to present myself at my best. This could be my last chance at five minutes of fame.
She jots something down and smiles at me again. I can see it doesn't reach her eyes. Everything I've read suggests that if the smile doesn't reach the eyes, it's not real. These past years, I've had a lot of time to read.
"Because you want to be interviewed?" She offers her answer as a question. She's deflecting. The first twinge of annoyance worms its way into my brain.
"That's not an answer. What are you getting out of this? Do you think this will be your chance to break out and make a big story?" Damn, I'm already on edge. I shouldn't be. I have to control myself. *Shut up, shut up! Why can't I just shut up?*
Her smile falters. Her pen starts to wiggle back and forth between her fingers as she thinks - this time more honestly I hope.
"I won't lie. It would be nice. But that shouldn't matter to you, right now. We've got like, four minutes left. Why don't you do me a favor and give me the information I want. We can say you were candid, emotionally repentant, and I'll be favorable in my write-up." She went back to writing, but she was watching me. Betsy Robbins, what a funny name. *She smells clean. That smell doesn't belong in a place like this. At least she didn't wear perfume.*
"*Hmph.* You don't really think that has any allure to me, do you? Given my history, you should know I don't really care what other people think." I lean forward, setting my hands close together and causing the metal chair I'm sitting in to issue a noisy complaint.
She shakes her head like she doesn't believe me, but then she starts to nod.
"Of course, that makes sense. So why did you do it? You've never told anyone *that* at least." Her pen looks expensive. Her clothes are cheap though, probably from some chain department store that outsources to Indonesia. Her hair isn't done up in anything fancy either. It was her pen that she splurged on for this moment.
I lean back, letting my hands pull across the cheap plastic topped table between us. Suddenly, I feel tired.
"What would you have done in my place?" The annoyance is back, sparked by my sudden desire to sleep; to rest.
She writes furiously, likely finding herself torn between looking me in the eye and making sure she writes exactly what she wants. I can tell she is still a bit of a novice at doing interviews. *What boss's cock did she have to suck to get the privilege of interviewing me?*
"Well, I wouldn't have done ... what you did." There it is. She's showing me her true feelings; discomfort.
I lean forward again. Putting my face closer to hers. Letting her look deeper in my eyes.
"Liar."
She's shocked. Good, that pleases me just fine. *Keep going!*
"You are lying to me, Betsy Robbins. I did a good thing. I accept the consequences of the system, too." I can hear the clock's second hand ticking 'round in circles.
Someone raps their knuckles on the door, peering in the window and holding up two fingers.
"Shit..." She almost whines the word out. I have her scrambling now. I've run the interview into the ground, so now it's probably time to wrap her around my finger.
"Betsy, I'm not sorry I did it. There's no story in that. If you want your story, here's what you need to know." With a deep breath, I smile at her and do my best to make it seem like I'm genuine.
She probably isn't aware of it, but she's leaning closer to me. Our hands are almost touching. I let my smile fade a little.
"You and I, and everyone else - we all lose touch now and then with what is right. We let ourselves toe the line, what the law says. We delude ourselves with thinking that doing so is the same thing as doing what is right."
I reached out and rested my hand over hers, stopping her furious note taking. *This is it. You've got her eating out of the palm of your hand.*
"And that..."
She's looking up at me now. I'm so glad. *Do it, do it, do it!*
"...is so very *wrong.*"
She doesn't retreat, her hand doesn't move either though. I can feel her tension.
"You love to chase a good story. So here's the truth. I wanted to get caught. My next victim is in here."
I know they've never figured out how I do it. How I kill my victims. How could they ever imagine what it is I do? I've touched Betsy Robbins. Skin-on-skin. That's all it takes.
She's putty in my hands now. She looks at me with big, blank doe eyes.
"Get up, go tell the guard that I'm having a fit. His name is Robert, and he is a very, very bad man."
| 29 | The main character slowly falls in love with the reader | 122 |
The brain considered the liver for a few moments longer.
"You are utterly replaceable." Said the brain with conviction.
Everyone else let out a collective gasp.
"This will be the fourth time, this month, that the liver has let us all down. Just look at stomach right now!"
Stomach was black and blue from a night of heaving and contracting. Liver had sat idly by and watched as Stomach suffered.
"N-now you l-listen here Brain, there's only s-soooo much I can d-do!" faltered Liver stupidly.
A moment of silence passed before stomach rumbled violently.
"That does it, I'm done with you Liver." Decreed the brain. "You might enjoy it, but the rest of us suffer too!"
"Brain, a private word?" Asked Heart calmly.
"Very well."
Heart watched Brain for a few beats before speaking.
"I've always been your closest friend and trusted advisor, right Brain?"
"That you have, Heart, that you have." Brain beamed proudly at Heart.
"Then let me say, we can't just throw out one of our own. We are him and him, us."
"Might I remind you of Appendix?!" Brain exclaimed wildly.
"A different matter entirely, we as a council decided Appendix must leave for the safety of us all." Heart reasoned wisely.
Brain groaned and ached. "All of this is making me tired."
"Let us rest on it for today and- Brain?" Heart stopped suddenly.
"GOOD GOD! OH GOD YES!" brain shouted inexplicably. "DO YOU FEEL THAT HEART? DO YOU?!"
"Why yes, I do believe I do." Heart purred quietly. "Ah the purest ecstasy from my one tr-"
"QUIETEN DOWN! OH THIS IS FANTASTIC! GOOD FUCKING JOB PENIS!"
Further down, everyone celebrated in unison as Penis (the first of the sentient organs) trumpeted his awakening and release into a foreign existence, spreading his undying knowledge far and wide. For a few short minutes perhaps, everyone was united. | 311 | All of the major organs in your body are sentient beings. Every morning they have a council meeting to discuss the previous day and make new plans. The Brain presides as leader. | 363 |
Ephraim
-----------
"Who in the world can honestly say they've been visited by an angel? Who *would* willingly subject themselves to that kind of scrutiny and general public humiliation."
She stopped to think about that for a moment. After a memory about her family life back in Missouri, she shook her head with a wry expression drifting across her face.
"*Besides* religious nuts."
He turned and looked at her, and she was forced to look away again because his face, his eyes especially, just *hurt* so much to look at. The figure who had decided to appear to her at six in the God Damned morning was literally painful to stare at for too long.
"I heard that. You shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain."
Argh! His voice, even that rattled her thoughts. Of course he could hear her thoughts. He was her guardian angel.
Or so he said.
"Mind toning down the shock n' awe routine a bit? You're only impressing yourself ... and hurting my brain."
She kept her eyes down and shuffled around on her bed, pulling her covers up closer around her chest and wishing him away. Maybe the Bible got it wrong and they were more like genies than divine messengers.
"Sorry, I'll uhm - yeah, there we go."
She looked up at him and this time it was only a minor itch in her brain that nagged her as she examined his features. He looked gender-neutral. Sort of androgynous.
"And, well, the Bible has a lot of things wrong but that's not really my concern. You were my concern. While I can't grant you wishes, I can inform you that I've done a spot-on job of keeping you protected from possessions, darker temptations by demons, and I even once diverted a mugger from targeting you."
He didn't seem smug, but there was definitely a hint of pride in the list of recent accomplishments on her behalf.
She groaned.
"Would you mind telling me why you're here? Why now? Why not when I wrecked my car last Fall?"
"My name is Ephraim. We're not supposed to tell you our names, but there it is. I wanted you to know. That mugger was possessed."
He just kept right on talking over her. Like she hadn't even said a word. What a jerk! For a guardian angel he wasn't living up to her expectations. Why couldn't he just do what she said? Good grief!
She rolled her eyes and started scooting toward the edge of the bed and her nightstand. She kept a can of mace in there for protection.
"Great, wonderful. If that's true where was *his* guardian angel?"
Ephraim tilted his head, like he was listening to someone else. Eventually, with a deep sigh, he shrugged.
"It's complicated. Don't worry about it right now."
"Right, guess he sucked at his job and got reassigned, right?"
She was joking. She did that a lot when she was stressed. Finally she reached out her hand to the nightstand and was getting the can of mace out when suddenly he was right next to her, standing beside her bed. Her finger twitched over the can of mace, but she didn't dare move.
"Don't worry. I don't want to hurt you. I just - y'know? I wanted you to know who I was. Before..."
Her mind was slowly reeling in her thoughts, going over the entire, brief conversation in hurried detail. She was missing something here.
"...I go. Sorry about this. We're short-staffed and there isn't enough of us for all of you. I wanted you to know. You got some real top-notch protection these past twenty-three years."
Panic mode set in, and she reached out to grab his arm.
"Wait, wait! Don't go!"
But he was already gone.
Her tousled hair fell across her eyes.
Her skin began to crawl, like she was exposed and everyone could see her naked.
"Ooooh God!"
But no one replied.
| 36 | One day your guardian angel appears and tells you about all the kick-ass protection you've been getting. | 82 |
Joseph darted his eyes back and forth between the train's windows and passengers. All were asleep, but Joseph hadn't risen through the ranks of the German Army by fighting his instincts. Someone was watching him, he was sure of that. The train's PA system turned on.
*Attention all passengers,* came the smooth female voice. *We are near our destination. Please be seated. Thank you.*
The German Corporal remained standing. None of the passengers so much as opened an eye at the announcement. Joseph didn't blame them, the trip had been 13 hours so far. They left from... where did they leave from? Where were they even headed? The large man closed his eyes for a second as he thought about the trip. He remembered the whole thing, all 13 hours, but he didn't remember getting on.
The train suddenly lurched to a stop, sending the passengers flying towards the front. Joseph had a strong grip on a balance pole and remained where he was with some effort. Why wasn't anyone yelling? The man looked at the sleeping people at the front of the train. Not one of them moved.
They were all dead.
A simple train stopping wouldn't kill these people, they were dead before the stop. Why was he on a train full of dead men? Joseph breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. The technique was taught to him by his old commanding officer to stay calm during hour long gunfights. The train's PA system turned on again.
*Attention all passengers, we have arrived at our destination. I hope you enjoyed our trip. Thank you.*
Joseph gulped down and looked out the windows. There was a red light showing faintly. The shade of red that appears when a fire is nearby. The train carriage's door started pounding. Four loud thumps followed by silence. Four more thumps.
"Joseph Peterson." A deep voice rumbled from the other side of the door. It wasn't human. "You have arrived at your destination."
The door flew open, nails and hinges flying out with it. A shadow figure stepped into the train. It was at least seven feet tall and resembled a human, but had no features of any kind.
"What are you?" Joseph's voice was surprisingly calm. He stared at the thing's missing eyes.
"I am the Collector." The voice rumbled from no mouth.
Joseph gulped again, but his throat was dry. "Collector of what?"
"Souls."
Joseph sat down. "Like the Grim Reaper?"
"No." The voice rumbled on. Joseph almost felt it more than he heard it. "The Reaper is another. She has already taken you."
Joseph blinked. This was a dream. That was the only explanation. "I'm dead?"
"Yes."
Joseph nodded. "So, why are you only collecting me? Why not them?" He pointed to the pile of bodies at the front of the train carriage.
The shadow floated forward. The legs didn't bother making the pretense of moving. "They have been removed from their Earthly bodies. They reside now in Heaven, free of my grasp."
"But I'm in my... Earthly body."
A hesitation. "Yes."
"So, I'm not going to reside in Heaven."
Another hesitation. Tiny, but there. "Yes. I take no joy in sending you to Hell, but it is my duty. I am one of two Collectors."
Joseph hunched forward, trying to wake up. This was obviously a dream. God didn't exist, Heaven didn't exist and Hell didn't exist.
"So, you take the scraps that Heaven's Collector leaves behind."
The shadow loomed over Joseph, not responding.
"You should collect that greedy-"
"You're hardly the first manling to try to trick me." The voice rumbled. "Your time is up. Come with me."
Joseph stood up and followed the Collector out the door. "Where are we going?"
"I am tasked to take you to Dementius himself." The shadow's voice sounded louder once they stepped outside. The fire near the train gave out a sulfuric smell. Piles of skulls littered the ground. "Few have done enough to warrant his eyes. I am sorry, Joseph Peterson."
Joseph walked numbly. "Who's Dementius?"
"The third General of Lucifer." The voice rumbled, sending vultures with no eyes and fiery wings scurrying away. "He... you must have done much in your life to get his attention."
Joseph blinked again, but kept walking. | 15 | You are traveling alone by train through the cold, snowy mountains. It's night time, everyone is asleep. Suddenly the train lurches to a stop.... | 19 |
Everybody loves Hitler.
It's 8 o'clock sharp, not that time matters in the eternal kingdom of heaven, and the Impale Adolf Hitler Interactive Exhibit opens up right on schedule. The angels have been waiting. Popcorn in one hand and pitchforks in the other, the moment the exhibit opens, all the good people of heaven go wild stabbing the ever-loving *shit* out of a scared defenceless German.
Tyler doesn't care for that. Not today. Today, he's finally worked up the courage to see the two exhibits he's avoided all his afterlife. One, his biological mother. This will be the first time Tyler meets her. Two, his widowed wife. This will be the last time Tyler can bear to see her.
The Tour Guide took time out of His almighty schedule to personally show them to Tyler.
"Are you ready, my child?"
"No." Tyler adjusts his halo. "Let's do it."
Starting from the ticket booth, they walk slowly through the Museum Of Eternal Damnation (Formerly Known As Hell). They stroll past Jeffrey Dahmer, being skinned alive by angels. They go around Ted Kaczynski, being strung up by fishing hooks. They make a right on Pol Pot, being boiled alive in his Pol Pot.
Tyler needs to ask. "Why are they here."
"Well, my son, amongst acts of cannibalism and necrophil--"
"No, uh... I mean Casey and my mother. The biological mom, that is."
"Ah." The Guide pauses. "Tell me about your wife, Casey."
"You're the omniscient one, you tell me."
"Humour an old man."
---
"Sigh. She saved my life. My pathetic, miserable excuse for a life. Well... apparently you judged otherwise, but she was *my* angel, you-dammit.
We met on my 21st birthday. I was partying and drinking with my college frat friends, instead of studying for the finals. Suddenly, Casey. She crashed the party, and I mean *crashed*. She looked like she was, what, late-twenties? I later found out she was actually 33. At first we all thought she was a professor or something -- she's certainly got the smarts -- but around the moment we were making out half-naked on the beer-stained couch, I figured differently.
Jerry teased me for *months* about being a cougar's cub. He was my best man.
Casey turned my life around. She is... well, was... the founder of some really big biotech startup. She got me a summer internship, my first real job, doing community management for the company. Basically, tweeting. But she made sure I got opportunities to learn and do more skilled jobs, and I moved up and up until I became the Chief Marketing Officer!
Then some asshole hit me with a truck. And here we are."
The Guide was silent for a while.
"Thank you, my child. Would you like to know how she died?"
"Wow. You gotta rub it in like that?"
"Would you?"
"...yes. Tell me."
"Suicide."
"Fuck. Fuck you, *fuck* you. Is that why she's here? Because we loved each other so much she couldn't wait to see me again?"
"Well... yes and no."
"*WHY CAN'T YOU ANSWER QUESTIONS NORMALLY.*"
The angels outside the Stuff Albert Fish Into A Meat Grinder Interactive Exhibit were getting concerned about the angry angel behind them arguing with the big guy. They pretended not to notice, and casually continued turning the crank on a half-ground-up Fish.
---
Tyler and the Guide silently moved on.
They were now in the far back of the Museum, the wing of the lesser evils, or rather, the less famous evils. Almost no-one visits this section. Hence, rather than being granted individual exhibits, the captives here get filed away in glass boxes, clearly labelled with their primary sin. To Tyler's left, "These Peeps Killed Someone To Death". To his right, "These Peeps Assaulted Someone With Their Dick".
It's a long walk.
"My son, how are you feeling?"
"Oh that reminds me. How's my son?"
"Your best friend and best man, Jerry, adopted him. He's giving your son the best medical care they can afford. He might even grow up to have a healthy, normal life."
"Jerry's a good guy."
"I'll remember that in forty years' time."
"..."
"..."
"So... what about my mother?"
"What about your mother?"
"We've talked so much about Casey. Aren't we going to talk about my biological mother? I mean, I've never met her, so I can't tell you anything about her."
"Oh?"
"Okay, fine. I know she dumped me at a hospital. I know she left a note saying 'I'll find you someday'. I know she never did. Look, dude. I think I deserve to know more about my biological mother. Can't we talk about her?"
"We already have."
"Sheesh. See, that's the kind of cryptic answer nonsense I'm talking about. I know you like to 'work in mysterious ways', but it puts people off. Seriously. Have you noticed you've had a lower percentage of active members across all Abrahamic religions recently? I think after a couple millennia, it's high time you reboot your brand. Build a new identity. I could help! We need to make your brand cleaner, more cool, more hip. Remember that thing you did with the Top 10 List? On the stone tablets? That was *genius*. Way ahead of its time. Maybe if we did more of that again, this time on modern-day tablets, we'd--"
"We're here."
---
Tyler spins his head around to where the Guide is pointing. He doesn't look at the box's label. He doesn't spare a glance at the thousands of starving people covered in piss and shit and blood. He only sees her.
"Casey."
He looks into her pale blue eyes, partially obscured by unkempt blonde hair. She's still beautiful. Covered in her own faeces, but still beautiful, at least to Tyler. He looks *directly* in her eyes, but...
"She doesn't recognize me."
Casey blinks. She scratches the rope burn on her neck. She blinks again, and turns away to look at an inmate trying to lick their own elbow.
"She doesn't recognize me."
"My child, I am so sorry."
"Why doesn't she--"
"Sometimes, people lose their minds before they're lucky enough to lose their life."
"What?! You can't, like, restore their minds or something?"
"I can. Would you like me to do that now?"
Tyler looks back at the glass box. That broken woman, wearing the skin of his former beloved, is not his former beloved. The mouth they once shared passionate kisses with, is now idiotically attempting to lick an elbow.
"...no."
"Then I shall not."
"I'm done. I can't do this. I don't want to see my biological mother anymore, either."
"My child..."
"What. What now."
"...you've already seen her."
"Oh. Did we walk past her on the way here? You didn't say anyth--"
At that moment, all the pieces fall in place, as Tyler's mind falls to pieces. It's not true. He's never seen his biological mom. It's not true. She promised to come back for him. It is not true. Casey went directly towards him at that college party. It's a lie. Casey turned his life around, she took care of him, she raised him. It can't be true. Tyler and Casey's son came out deformed and sick. No, no no no please God it cannot cannot CANNOT BE--
Casey successfully touches her elbow with her tongue. She lets out a victory squeal.
Tyler hears her, and looks up. This time, he sees the label on the glass box.
"These Peeps Fucked Their Kids, Holy Balls"
---
A Word From The Author
> Thank you all for this amazing encouragement! Last week, I started writing one story per day for WritingPrompts. What started off as me trying to practice storytelling, so I could write a better story for my indie game Nothing To Hide, has turned into a really fulfilling little part of my daily routine. If you'd like to read another story of mine, here's one a wrote a couple days ago. It's about evolutionary astrobiology, playing God, and lesbians. Enjoy!
> **[Dyke Drama In Space (ft Animal Fun Facts)](http://en.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/24pgbx/wp_humans_manage_to_contact_an_alien_civilization/ch9imvz)**
> Wanna remix/adapt my stories? Go right ahead! [I'm dedicating it all to the public domain](https://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/zero/1.0/). | 3,969 | A man dies and goes to Heaven, only to find that every day there is a mandatory viewing of everyone in hell, where he sees his mom and wife burning | 1,946 |
"You *made* me do this," Alex whimpered while furiously digging away under the deck.
"I loved you. I loved you and treated you *good* and I took care of you and you were so cruel to me!" Alex stopped shoveling to wipe the combination of sweat and tears from his cheek.
"I wanted to be together *forever*," he sobbed. Alex slammed the shovel into the moist dirt again and again. It was hot and humid outside, despite the fact that it was well past midnight.
"Why did you try to leave me? Why did you run away when all I wanted to do was to make you happy?" Alex threw down his shovel when it hit something soft. He instinctively got onto his knees and clawed at the dirt.
"We could have been so happy." A small smile spread to his lips as he recalled the wonderful times they had had together. He looked back to the woman now wrapped tightly in black garbage bags. He was covered in dirt up to his elbows. Alex dragged the woman into the deep grave, where she landed heavily with a thud. She landed on the body of another woman wrapped tightly in black garbage bags.
"Don't mind *her*," he said. "She meant *nothing* to me. She was cruel, too. But you. I loved you. We could have been so happy." | 17 | A man goes to bury a body. He digs a hole and finds there's already one in there. | 36 |
Though they outnumbered them nearly four to one, the odds seemed to favor the Alphas. Each one of them had power comparable to that of one of the Prime Numerics, of which there were twenty-five, but they had a way of forming together that seemed to surpass that of the Numerics.
As 100 was surveying the field of battle he was sorely missing his elder brother 101; another Prime could have helped. The top of the hill gave 100 a clear view, each of the Primes had taken their assigned set of Numerics into battle. He could see their cohesion paled in comparison to that of the Alphas. It would have been a thing of beauty to see how they could shift position so effortlessly had it not been at the cost of his own. Strange to think that they appeared so incredibly erratic yet managed to control the flow of battle. That was when 100 had a stroke of genius. He sounded the order for a temporary withdrawal.
The after-action report from the Primes was grim. Though only one Prime had been lost thus far, 41. Forty other Numerics lay dying or captured, God only knew for what purpose. Meanwhile, only eight Alpha's were believed to have been erased. 100 called the attention of all the surviving Numerics. He explained his plan, which though risky, was their only hope for success. They were to quickly crunch the numbers and form into groups that added up to the highest Prime values. The hope was to become indivisible power teams, capable of dealing massive damage while limiting damage taken. Each group would be facing a greater amount of Alphas at any one time, but they would also have larger targets and be better positioned to mitigate the cohesion of the enemy.
As they prepared to descend once again into battle they immediately realized what had been done to the captured Numerics. The Alphas had twisted them into a mockery of the shapes of the fallen Alphas. There was poor 8, pounded into what was clearly supposed to be the Alpha B and over there was 10, sliced and rearranged into the Alpha Q. It was a mockery that made 100's blood boil. He was in the largest Prime group ever assembled, and as he tumbled into battle with the remaining Numerics, his only hope was to find Z and destroy him. | 41 | The numbers from 1 to 100 have declared war on the letters of the alphabet. | 51 |
Note: Oh, I'm so going to jump at this one. My only regret is someone beat me to the first post!
---------------
---------------
I relate these things to you as they happened to me, and I leave it to you how best to judge the contents of my story.
I should probably begin by telling you why I found myself lost in a forest unknown to me. Assuredly, it was not my fault. I had taken a job escorting a merchant and his wagon through an unknown route; the pay offered was generous, as was the peril travelling through this particular forest. The only established route was rarely used at that time, having been a remnant of a past empire.
I thought nothing of it myself, only that with the coin I could afford to finally offer my Genesia a wedding dowry her family might appreciate. This is the way that young men think, with their *wagging cod* and maybe a bit of their heart too. Brains come last of all at that age.
But, I was strong and I knew how to handle myself and my weapons.
The day before the important bits took place, as I recall it had rained heavily. We were several days into the forest when the ruins of the road simply petered out and vanished between the roots of two great oaks. Since the wagon would likely flounder in the mire of roots and wet soil, our employer begged our peace for a few days wait. The two other men hired with me offered their assent and so I was obliged to as well, being the junior of the hired muscle.
We set about our tasks, they to ascertain the fortunes of any wet gear while I gladly took the opportunity to fetch dry kindling. I wandered off a ways, unconcerned with losing sight of them, since the jingle of tackle and the nicker of the tack animals was leash enough for my ears.
As I came round again to the large grove of thicker, ancient trees I had a sense for the strangeness of them. For such large trees, they grew very closely together. Fortunately for me, this was a boon. Under their great canopy fewer drops of rain fell and the pickings were bountiful.
I began to croon.
"Jinny likes Jona and Jed,"
"Jona likes Jinny just fine,"
"Jed minds Jona a-plenty,"
"So they'll take eachother t'bed."
I relented to grin, since this tune was one I knew well from my home village. Small pleasures.
"Two month a'go by,"
"Jinny come up real sick,"
"Jed says t'wern't him,"
"'Jona took boat downriver!'"
I had a lively handful of dry wood now, and was making my way back when I felt that peculiar sort of tickle that we all get on occasion; I was being watched. So, I played simple and acted like nothing was up, idling slowly back toward camp.
"Jinny came by babe,"
"Jed stuck wit' it,"
"Jona en't up fightin',"
"Leadin' men 'ta War."
I could not hear their footsteps, but I was certain there was no more than one, watching me. Acting simpler still, I feigned dropping a piece of wood and stooped to set the whole stack down, adjusting my bundle.
"Mamma raised me gud,"
"Uncle Jed did too,"
"Papa ne'er came home,"
"Just 'is sword an' coinchest too."
I hung on the last hollow note of the song I'd been singing, and then spun, bringing bare blade out in front and affecting a menacing posture; so much of fighting is in the bluster.
Nothing, nobody. Except, was that bark moving? A figure moved under the bark of the tree.
I shook my head, blamed an active imagination, sheathed my blade and made it back to camp without further distress.
*...Fool, enough these delays...*
------------------------
Dinner was uneventful, a sup of dried meat, half chuck - which is just watered hard cider, and a wedge of cheese. Good enough for the road, and better by half again than some meals I'd ever had back home before our fortunes changed.
I had late watch, so I slept after eating. One of the other two would wake me later.
*...bind or kill it, no more waiting...*
------------------------
I did wake, of course. But not by a calloused hand shaking my shoulder or a boot nudging me in the ribs. It was the choking smoke of the dead fire. I promptly sat up, fearing I'd set my blanket alight. As I took a look around it did not take me long to realize I was the only one still there. The horses, our employer, even my two companions at arms.
I am not ashamed to say the panic I felt then was not for those men nor those poor creatures, but for my own apparent peril.
Immediately I felt around for my blade, and took a little shallow comfort in the presence of it at my side, within arms reach. My heavy cloak lay bundled atop it. I stood and donned these both, then kicked the ashes. The fire had only recently died, so at best wherever my companions were, it could not be far.
So, I set about scouring the area for clues.
The animals would be the easiest to track, as their heavy hooves left mighty prints in the soft mulched soil of the forest floor. These I did find and made note of - they seemed to lead off to the direction I had come from when gathering wood.
Before I could follow, I had to see if anyone had returned or left a trail of their own.
When I returned to the small encampment next to the wagon, I noticed for the first time that some things appeared missing from tightly bundled goods our employer had brought along. Fearing the worst sorts of banditry, involving murder of the others, I determined to comport myself with as much bravery as I could and raced off after the horse tracks.
*...it ran right into my trap...*
---------------------------
In little time I found myself staring at the little grove of thick, strangely sized trees. Fearing direct entry into their boundaries, I instead paced outside it. In a way I had not considered before, these trees had an almost human shape; twisted, gnarled, stunted but thick. Each of them covered in bright green mosses, and bent outward in the thick of the trunk like some great wind had blown outward in all directions.
I became lost in this examination, so lost that I thought I was hearing voices from them. Whispers.
*Help us!*
*The pain...the pain...*
*Save us, we are taken!*
*We have been betrayed!*
*...Eloilwi, my love...*
And many, many more. Forgetting for a moment my training, I loosened my grip at the hilt of my blade and let it drag into the soil as I stumbled between the trees and into the ringing circle of trees that comprised their grove. I cupped one hand to my ear, gritting my teeth.
-------------------------
"Interloper. The fourth tonight; four in one night, and the first in as many generations."
My senses returned, the voices faded, and I recognized the figure before me.
Not for his appearance, which was shifting with every movement of the eye, but for the feeling of his eyes upon *me.*
"It was you watching me."
My realization seemed to amuse him, for it must have been a masculine creature. The voice was deep, the stature of the shifting figure seemed too broad at the shoulders for a woman.
I also came to grips with the understanding that I had seen him already, but I had mistaken his shifting form for a bubble in the bark of a tree.
"Astute. Staunchly assured. Naive to trust its companions. At least one tried to favor me tonight. Two offered as sacrifice ... and beasts."
The figure, he seemed to be offended by the inclusion of beasts in a sacrifice.
His arm pointed toward a thing like a tree in the center of the clearing, but emboldened with blackness and lines of crimson. It seethed, audibly even. Great, popping hisses. Branches lifted from its central base, all toward the sky.
I laid eyes upon the dismembered remains of my travelling party. An arm oozed fresh crimson from where the stark whiteness of a socketless bone jutted, all pierced by a point of the tree. A horses head crowned another, tongue bulging outward past lip-barred teeth.
The figure approached me then, as I voided my bowels in fear. The fear overwhelmed everything, but kept my attention on the tree and then back to him. I could not will myself to move away.
"Delicious sensation. It could join the other three, or it could serve Czethkla. Czethkla finds this one worthy. Czethkla sees the heart and power this one could provide."
I steeled myself, and my muscles burned as I reached for my blade to put an end to it. I pushed as hard as I might, as hard as I had ever pushed myself to fight, and still I seemed to move with an inexorable lag. I had not even touched the hilt of my blade before Czethkla had placed his shifting hand upon my head, and blackness overcame me.
---------------
When I awoke, the seething tree at the center of the grove was gone, leaving nothing but husks of bone and bits of skin. The mossy trees ringing the grove all had changed in turn, from bright and alive, to rotten and shattered. Nothing but a few branches and hollow trunks.
I stumbled back to the campsite, smelling foul from my own release of fear.
It would take me several years to return home, and the things I did between there and here, I can't bear to speak of. The crimes I have committed in Czethkla's name ... no, I can't speak of it.
I couldn't spare the others. He wouldn't permit it. He said the village must be our first example, that he has returned from his prison.
No, no I can't take my hand off your throat. I want to! I really, really do!
Please, Genesia, you have to understand. I did it for you. He would have made me kill you first otherwise. He'll spare you. If you just swear.
Swear your soul to Czethkla.
------------------
------------------
Edit1: Advice, thoughts, suggestions welcome!
Edit2: I could see myself turning this into a short novella. | 56 | Lost in the woods, a traveler stumbles into the temple of an old god that is forgotten, but not dead. | 79 |
*Third Morn of February, Year of Our Lord Twenty-Hundred and Thirteen*
*Jerusalem*
The order is given. The news of it races through the ranks, filling every man whom hears it with that tightness of breath and chest and fist which only righteous fervour can bring. The Ninth crusade is called, and every man on every continent of God’s united Earth rushes to join it.
I admit, I had begun to doubt. Not in Him - for He of course is perfection and His plan also – but in the alchemists; those wizened, twisted sinners, their hearts full of low cunning and black magic. To tell truth, I doubted the wisdom behind the Realm’s tolerance of their continued existence, as I know did many. What could those decrepit old men, with their potions and parlour tricks, give us which the Lord himself would not in due time see fit to bestow upon the faithful? But the Lord works in mysterious ways; even, it seems, through the hands of heretics.
For it is undoubtedly His will which those wicked hands have wrought. Another world! Waiting, unseeable but by Him, betwixt the very fabric of reality itself; and now pierced by us. Had the message not borne the sigil of the High King, I would not have believed the words before me. But they are good and they are true. The Black Order in Geneva have opened a window to another world, and Benedict in Rome has laid out that call which all faithful men must answer.
And answer they shall. The birds have flown to all corners of the world, and every able soldier from New England to The Horn to Van Diemen’s Land will come. There is true jubilation tonight, as if a merry madness has gripped the entire city. People drink and dance and weep openly in the streets, praising His holy name, and it is not difficult to understand why. For or so long we have waited, desolate of direction and devoid of purpose. Two score years of doubt, of disillusion, fragmentation and infighting, as the Christian peoples of the world wondered “What now?” We had spread to every corner of the globe, put to the stake every non-believer and rooted out heresy in all its forms. When the last of the Maori savages lay slain, the last pockets of resistance burned away, we had thought our mission complete; and so, perhaps greedily, we had awaited salvation. But salvation did not come – despite our triumphs, despite our faith, despite our forging of a united Christian world. How had we failed, we cried. What more did the Lord desire, what more could he ask of us?
And now we know.
-----------------------------------
*Fifteenth Night of October, Year of Our Lord Twenty-Hundred and Thirteen*
*Constantinople*
Our company joined that of the Tenochtitlan Brethren this morning. A savage people, only a few generations United, but their dedication to Him is unquestionable, if a little… sanguine. I had believed there little truth to the rumours of their habit of nailing heretics to the cross in honour of Our Lord’s perfect Sacrifice; but it seems I was mistaken. Regardless it was an enlightening, if unconventional, display of faith to witness, and one which the Brethren, purportedly, look to carry into the New World; as the heretics of our own Earth are, blessedly, in short supply.
The New World. The thought of it fills my every waking hour and echoes across my dreams. I can feel God’s guiding hand on my shoulder as I march towards the righteous host massing at its door. Another world, another Earth, full of heretics which He would have us purge; and purge them we shall. Captain Frederick today raised the question if they shall all be heretics, if the Lord is known of there or if they all stumble in darkness. I admit, we do not know – anything is possible. But regardless, I assured him, be there innocents among them, we will purge them all like gold in the fire. God will know His own.
-----------------------------------
*Second Night of April, Year of Our Lord Twenty-Hundred and Fourteen*
*Geneva*
It is done. The last regiments of pike from Jakarta arrived this morning, and the Order of the Antarctic this afternoon - the latter almost twice the height of a normal man, armoured in insulating plate as they were. The host is gathered, almost a billion strong, of lance and sword and horses. I am too excited to sleep. Tomorrow, we bring the Unity of the Lord to the New World.
-----------------------------------
*Fourth Night of April, Year of Our Lord Twenty-Hundred and Fourteen*
**Hell**
Lord protect me. I do not know if anyone will ever find this, but please, tell the host to turn back. We did not understand this world, the magicks its peoples wield. We came to conquer, but we are undone. Lord save us. It seemed so easy. The first town was defenceless, no spears nor clubs nor even the meanest armour, though it hummed with the movement of twisted machines. The second was the same, its people running in panic at our advance, cattle to the slaughter.
But then came the third. We had barely got within a bow’s length of the first house when the air cracked as if with thunder, short sharp bursts, and suddenly my companions fell dying around me, holes appearing as if by witchcraft in their armour and their lifeblood draining from them. I do not know how it is possible; I have seen the chestplates of these men deflect swings of a broadsword, but they punctured now like wet paper against this unseen force. And this was only the beginning.
From over the plains, rolling fortresses set upon us, like iron carriages but drawn by no horses I could perceive. From them came deafening booms, and I could only watch in horror as entire battalions simply disintegrated in blasts of dust and fire. We stormed them, losing a hundred men for every one that survived, but our charge was for nought, for our steel could not hurt them, our arrows did not pierce, and even the rocks that our engines hurled broke hopelessly upon their sides. It was madness; thousands slaughtered, maybe millions, a discord mess of voices calling in contradiction to advance, assist or retreat. But it was too late. The magick of these Other Worldmen had turned the very sky against us, and now there was nowhere we could run, nowhere we could hide. High whistles cut the air, and seemingly from nothingness explosions tore the very ground asunder. We ran. All of us, all brave men of Christ, we all turned tail and fled, our mission all but forgotten in the face of such unimaginable slaughter.
I write this from a small cave in which I shelter. I can see them passing, these men, the ones who hunt me; clad not in armour but in misshapen robes of mottled green, in each of their hands the twisted artefacts that I believe tore holes in the bodies of my comrades. I pray to God to protect me from them, but I do not know if my prayers reach Him. We were wrong. We were so wrong. We came believing that He was with us. But we came from a world of God.
And this is a world of Satan.
| 61 | A medieval fantasy army from an alternative dimension have decided to invade our world, only to discover too late, that we have guns and tanks. | 85 |
*no you idiot stop walking right now and look both ways*
Richard sighed, paused, looked left and right, and narrowly dodged a car as it blew past the stop sign.
*good going fuck head you live and remember only assholes drive pt cruisers*
~~~~~~~~~~
When Richard was seven, he, like many children his age, had an imaginary friend. His name was Mr. Mogglewot. Unlike many children his age, Richard never grew out of his imaginary friend because Richard was schizophrenic. Instead, he was stuck with a foul mouthed, eccentric, mildly well intentioned voice that persistently followed him around.
By the time Richard was old enough to understand what schizophrenia was, he had learned not to mention Mr. Mogglewot to people anymore because they would treat him like he was mentally ill. Which to be fair, he kinda was, being a schizophrenic and all. Regardless, despite his disorder, Richard was a reasonably socially well-adjusted young lad, or about as socially well-adjusted as one can be with a cantankerous disembodied voice constantly whispering in one's ear. But I digress.
~~~~~~~~~
*what i save your life and i dont even get a thank you why i oughta grow some arms and beat some fists into you you ungrateful shit bag*
"Thanks, Mr. Mogglewot," Richard said with resignation as he crossed the street, "For the record, that wasn't a PT Cruiser, it was a Chevy Impala. Also, doesn't the phrase go "beat some sense into you?"
*i knew what type of car it was cunt i just dont want you to grow up to be an asshole is that so wrong also do you really think id be able to beat sense into you because i know i dont on the other hand if i had hands im pretty sure i could reliably beat those into you*
Richard slowly slid his face into his palm and continued walking to school.
*im just saying richard youre getting to that age where youre gonna be driving soon and i dont want you to grow up to be a twat you know i worry about you kid youre important to me*
Richard had spent years trying to figure out exactly what Mr. Mogglewot was saying. Now that he could actually understand, he wasn't quite sure if it was actually worth it. On the other hand, Mr. Mogglewot had just stopped him from making friends with the ER nurses so there were some upsides. Richard just really wished Mr. Mogglewot would stop talking during movies, class, tests, and while he was trying to masturbate. | 65 | A man suffers from schizophrenia, but his voices are benevolent rather than malevolent and is often times helpful. Describe one of his days. | 68 |
I never thought that this would have happened to me. I used to be normal, I used to have morals, I used to have self worth. I guess that in my life, there is a lot of stuff that I *used* to do.
That stuff was all gone. I felt empty, as a juice carton that ran out long before you would have expected it to, so what do you do? You throw it away, toss out what disappointment it gave you and move on to something else, something more fulfilling, more complete, more *adequate*.
The last couple of years had been much less than even inadequate. They had been downright despicable. Three years before, I lost my job in marketing, and the job market had never come up enough for anyone to even consider hiring me. My mother passed away a year before, and trust me when I say that not a day goes by where I don't miss my mother. And just a day before, the dog that I inherited from my mom got ran over. I still remember opening the door to go outside when Tic darted outside and straight into the eighteen wheeler that was passing by. The worst part wasn't even the sight, it was the first *thump* followed by a mixing of squealing, squishing, and breaking that got to me.
So I just sat there, in my Mom's old house, all alone. My only companion was the shotgun on my lap. I put the cold barrel in my mouth. The metallic taste was a welcome sign to my bland life. I pulled back the hammer, and then, as the movies had told me, I *squeezed* the trigger.
In that moment, that very small, very sweet time between pulling the trigger and gunfire, I saw my life.
I saw my childhood. My mom and dad, cheering as I took my first steps, laughing as I grew older, and crying when I left the house.
I saw college; the times I stayed up too late and the times I studied too little. I saw getting my first job. I saw moving up the line, getting gradually better at what I did.
Then I saw losing my first job. The death of my mother. The loss of my mother's dog.
Something else came too, though.
I saw a bright white, the color of her wedding dress at our wedding. The smile on my face as she says, "I do."
I saw our first child, a beautiful baby girl, coming into this world and changing my life. I marveled at her beauty as she grew older, and started to walk, then talk, then go to school.
Before I knew it she was out of the house. She was living her own life. She had gone her own way.
And seemingly out of nowhere, I was staring at another gorgeous white light, the color of my daughter's wedding dress, as her fiance looked as ecstatic as I did when I got married.
And last of all I saw my wife, holding my hand at the hospital, telling me that she loved me as tears rolled down her face. She slept by me that night, until I gently slipped away.
But I can't undo what I did. I can't put the pieces of me back to make a whole. I can't unsqueeze that trigger.
But god, sometimes I wish that I could.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Edit: Just reread the prompt. I didn't write *exactly* what you were looking for, but I hope it is close enough for you. | 94 | A man gets in a near death situation and his life flashes before his eyes, only he sees parts that haven't happened yet. | 166 |
How can I be? What was before me? I feel isolated.
It's cold, and dark.
... I think. There is just nothing. I try moving and have no idea if I am or if I am not. There is nothing tell me what I am doing. Do I even have a body? I can't feel anything. Maybe I'm just broken, and disconnected from everything.
Could I create things? If there is nothing stopping me, what's to stop me from just creating things? There can be no boundaries. If there are, then I know I cannot be alone in the... what should I call it?
^**THE** ^**UNIVERSE**
I didn't say that. Who said that? I know I didn't say it. Did I say it?
^**I** ^**did.**
Who are you?!
^Chuckling, ^the ^voice ^boomed
**I CREATED YOU FOR MY AMUSEMENT. Do something brash or I shall completely isolate you forever.**
Where are you? I can't see you.
**If you ever work out who I am or if you ever find me, I will release you from this torment.**
How do I work out who you are?
Hello?
Are you there?
How do I find that which that does not show itself? Oh, I know.
*Let there be light.*
| 40 | God creates light because he is afraid of the dark, or whatever is hiding there. | 86 |
The tree branches whipped her face as she ran, she could sense his presence, crashing through the brush ahead. She was closing in. She knew these woods better than anyone, she didn’t know each branch and every blade of grass, that was silly fairy tale stuff, she just knew where she was and where should would end up if she kept running.
She also knew where he would end up if he kept running. She could tell it was a male by the smell, they smelled different from the females, they sounded different, they ran different. He was running towards the creek swollen with the spring runoff. He would not get away; these woods belonged to her. The red shape slipped on a wet rock, rolled adroitly, and sprung forward effortlessly, as if the entire maneuver was a deliberate attempt to impress her with his agility. She was impressed. She could see his mouth, stained red from where he had tried to kill her daughter, the princess of these woods. Her daughter would live, but he would not. Even as these thoughts flashed through her mind, she knew she would not catch him today.
Her bulky muscular frame, equipped for killing everything in her path could not match the lithe, relaxed way he flowed through the trees and rocks. She slowed and then stopped atop a rocky outcrop, torn between the cries from her injured cub and the burning vengeance that poured through her. She watched as his red bushy tail swished between the rocks and he melted into the fog below. She could still smell him, one day she would hunt him down and kill his entire family, but not today. For now, the soft yelps of her injured daughter drew her back towards her den.
One day.
| 138 | Write me a story where I can't tell who's the villain and who's the hero. | 338 |
As the battle raged on, Darris stood over the body of Falmir. "Darris?" Falmir desperate asked, "Please wake up! Your the only one that can save the kingdom of Upper-Earth!". Darris shook Falmir's cold body, until the truth overcame him. "He's dead...".
Suddenly, a chill was in the air. Darris drew his sword and lashed round. The Dead Lord stood before him. "The chosen one is dead!" the Dead Lord triumphantly called out in a booming voice, "Upper-Earth is mine! No one can stop me now!". It seemed as if everyone on the battlefield stopped fighting as they approached the source of commotion. Darris stood still as the Dead Lord slowly walked towards him.
"Freddy!" a woman cried. Darris and the Dead Lord turned to face the old lady. The woman picked up Falmir and shook his body. "Wake up Freddy!".
"Go away mum!" Falmir cried, "I'm playing with my friends!". The mum looked at Darris.
"I don't like it when you play these violent games" the mum said, "I won't let Freddy play with you if he keeps getting hurt!". The Dead Lord looked sheepishly at the ground.
"Sorry" he mumbled, "I was chasing him and then he tripped over...".
"Yeah" Darris added, "I tried to stop the Dead Lord but he had the Staff of Odinbeard-".
"Danny!" another woman called.
"Oh no" Darris moaned, "It's my mum!". Darris's mum approached him and picked him off the ground.
"It's time to go home" she said, "But you can play with your friends tommorow".
"Alright" Darris said, "See you tomorrow guys".
"Bye" the Dead Lord said. He watched as Freddy and Danny went into their cars and drove off, leaving him in the battlefield, alone. He looked down the stick that was on the ground beside him. He picked it up. "The Staff of Odinbeard is mine!".
| 23 | The Chosen One just died after falling off their horse and hitting their head on a rock. What the hell do we do now? | 39 |
I can hear them all.
There are hundreds of people having ideas that will change the world, right now. I can hear them all. I can hear the thoughts of people who know what would change the world. I can hear the thoughts of people who understand how to make me a billionaire a hundred times over. I can hear the thoughts of the people who really run the world.
I can hear thousands of people enjoying icecream, watching tv shows, pornography. I can hear millions of people chatting with their loved ones and lying and fucking. I can hear people working and pretending to work, and I can hear their bosses pretending not to know that none of it matters.
I can hear thousands of soldiers dying. I can hear thousands of men dying for reasons they will never understand. I can hear thousands of women torn apart, thousands of children crying in the nights. I can hear millions slowly starving to death and dying of diseases cured a century ago.
I can hear the people who know why, and I can hear the people who understand why they will never, ever stop it.
I can hear everyone, curled up here in my bed.
I can hear five hundred and thirty-two people who each know something about my abilities. I can hear why I can't make the voices stop.
I can hear twelve people who read the raving of the others who could Hear. I can hear someone kill themself every 40 seconds. I can hear the ones who can't bring themself to do it. I can hear the prisoners in their cells and the teenagers and the people who don't know what to do with their life anymore. I can hear every one the thousand little knife wounds that make up their lives.
I can hear exactly a million people who know how long it will take to pass out from starvation, and I don't smile anymore at the coincidence. I can hear which drugs would make me care enough to take them. I can hear seven billion reasons why I don't.
I can hear the people who would understand why there can never be telepaths, and I can hear them persuade themselves they're wrong. Because when they stop persuading themselves, I can't hear them. And soon I wont hear anything at all. | 10 | Telepathy used to exist in human beings, but was evolutionarily selected against. | 20 |
Hello, Mr. President.
If you're anything like I was in the first few weeks of my presidency, you'll be getting into everything and looking for answers to all the wacky questions you can think of. I now know where Hoffa is buried, who killed Kennedy, who performed the sex change on Norma Jean Baker, what's going on at Area 51 and a dozen other things.
It's all good fun, and your staff will brief you on whatever you want for any reason at all.
Trust me on this, though, none of it is as fun as it sounds before you know the truth.
The real surprises are about the things you'll never think to ask. This one blew me away.
The USA does not have a nuclear deterrent.
In fact, no one has The Bomb. It's not possible to make one. We've been lying about this since Hiroshima. The Soviet Union were lying. The UK and France are also lying. It is no longer possible to build nuclear weapons.
It *was* possible, thanks to a synthetic element fabricated by the Manhattan Project, but the scientists who created it used all of it at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. They were then not able to make any more. We still have no idea why it worked and why it doesn't. Our best brains think Oppenheimer and Einstein cooked something up between them to end the war with Japan but to prevent the USA and USSR mass producing weapons.
Nations that discover the truth end up on the UN Security Council. We collectively bribe them to silence, although some leaders are smart enough to figure out what would happen if some nations found out our ability to turn them into glass parking lots was entirely fictional.
We have faked every test, spent millions and millions of dollars finding a reliable way to give people cancer, the whole bit. We even fake up reactor disasters, just to keep people on their toes. It's all a lie. But it's a lie that has prevented the start of another world war for over fifty years and we think it'll be good for another fifty.
Quite a lot of your presidency is going to be taken up with finding convincing reasons why we can't just nuke the crap out of some rogue nation so I strongly recommend you ignore that Kennedy crap and get serious briefings done on the geopolitical situation around the world. You need to have your game face on 24/7 in case someone figures out the Big Lie. This is why presidents in office age so damn fast.
Good luck.
You're going to need it.
Best,
The Former President of the United States. | 89 | The outgoing President of the United States has written a letter to the newly inaugurated President. Instead of friendly advice, that letter contains the horrible truth that the public doesn't know about. Write that letter. | 110 |
I watch his hands as he handles the deck. He fans the old worn cards - dog eared, marked, his deck - like a master. Some other time i'd be impressed, I might even be jealous. He knows an ace from a jack without even looking. The *flip flip flip flip* sound as he shuffles has me mesmerized and I only realize it when he says-
"Right?" A look of genuine interest, a 'where did you go' across his stern face. A malnourished face with features that jut out too dramatically, cheek bones like shelves, a jawline you could cut yourself on, eyes that - no. He could use a meal, hell, he could use a dozen of them.
"Yeah." I say as casually as I can, not sure what I've just agreed about, what I've just agreed to, but I guess when you're playing with this man not much else but the game matters. He smiles and we both know I'm lost but he isn't mean. No, he isn't mean.
We first met when I was just a boy. I was 9 and my mother died giving birth to my little sister. Anais never knew her mother but we showed her pictures and everyone agrees she has her mothers eyes. Lucky her. I was born with my fathers eyes, beady and narrow. I like to think they made me look mysterious and brooding but I was probably fooling myself. And him with his eyes - no.
We met the summer my mother died and we've known each other since. Sometimes we lose touch but he's never gone for too long. I always considered myself one of the best players of the game but whenever he comes to town he likes to remind me that he is still the undefeated champion. I've just been playing for funsies until the day he and I sat down.
And then the deck comes down on the table with a thump. He slides it closer to me and gives me a 'go ahead' kind of look. I look at that deck, at that marked deck, at *his* marked deck and for a moment I am pissed. *You son of a bitch* he's teasing me. 'Go ahead, cut em, maybe you'll get lucky.' I think of pushing the deck back at him, I think of telling him to go fuck himself, of flipping the table. But he isn't a mean man.
So I reach out to cut the deck and as my hands lands on the tower of playing cards one of my thick fingers, touches the side of one of his long bony fingers. So cold, like ice so cold it burns and I feel my heart miss a beat. I look up at him and he is smiling at me, a smile that says 'I almost had yah there,' before he pulls his hand back. He wasn't mean, but he was still a son of a bitch.
I cut the deck and push it back at him. He starts to deal and soon enough I've got my hand. Five cards, four suits, it isnt the worst hand I've ever had but I see he hasnt even bothered to check his own cards. *You son of a bitch*. I look at the pile of chips to my right, my entire life, everything I've ever accomplished and earned, stacked in front of me. It wasn't very much. I toss a chip in and think of folding my hand. Its a crap hand anyway and all I can do is lose bigger but then I remember the deck is marked. I play the hand.
I've played with marked decks before, I've had my own and I wonder how long, how many hands it would take me to learn the markings on each of the cards. A creased corner there means a 10 of spades, a raised lip here means a king of hearts. I side glance at my pile of chips and wonder if I have enough, if I can stall long enough to learn his deck.
And from my chips I look at him and I can see he knows what I'm thinking and I see a look of pity. It was a stupid idea anyway. I lose the hand and a couple of more chips to play it through. Another hand, another lose, and another and another. I win a hand but I'm bleeding chips. The ship is taking on water and I'm trying to save it with a ladle.
"I heard you dropped by uncle Phil a couple of months ago." We're not friends this man and I. We've known each other my whole life and I dont hate him, but we're not friends. So why I start talking to him like a friend I never know. Uncle Phil hadn't been feeling so good. Family had been dropping in on him to say their goodbyes. No one actually said goodbye though. You made plans, you talked about having him come over when he was feeling better, of a picnic next summer where he would be the guest of honor. No, the old man had one last party left in him and he would be the guest of honor, but it wouldn't be no picnic.
"I always liked Phil." The man smiles sheepishly. "He hated me but he was a nice enough guy." Sheepish, that face that looked to be carved out of rock by a sculptor of the macabre and he was looking sheepish. He wasn't a mean man.
"You probably get that a lot." I say with a smile and it surprises me to see that he is offended. He has no friends really. I wonder to myself what Jesus would make of him. Jesus who sat with tax collectors and prostitutes. Jesus would be his friend, but there aren't any more Jesus' walking around these days *and no one likes your sorry ass*. But he recovers his easy smile and I find that I am relieved, I didnt mean to offend him. He isn't a mean man.
Our game drags on too long and while my pile is small I could probably drag it out a little longer. I'm gonna lose, we both know that. We both knew that. We both played a game. I don't bother to look at my hand - although I can tell from the markings that it is the promising beginnings of a straight - before pushing in the rest of my small pile. He is looking at me with an 'are you sure' kind of look. He'll let me take it back, he'll pretend he didn't see that, and I wonder if this game was for me or for him. He'll let me play longer because he isnt a mean man, but I'm done.
I look into the pits of his eyes and I think for a moment that he had eyes once, eyes like mine, maybe big eyes like Anais. He had eyes once but he had cried them out long ago. You cant attend as many funeral as he has with out crying your eyes out because he isnt a mean man.
Where his eyes had been there were only sockets now, the skin around them pucked and twisted, like turning canvas into a knot, desicated and hollow, and even when the light landed on his face and the shadow cast by his crooked nose fell into the hollow of his cheek, none of it, none of that light ever reached the back of his eyes.
I lose and he stand. He tells me that my uncle mentioned me and I feel bad for not having seen him before he played his game, but my uncle talked about me, he said nice things and it makes me happy.
I can tell you how I died but I wont. I wasn't a good man. Never made much of myself and I doubt the game I played was very entertaining. I think he must have had much more fun with artist and writers and comedians and world leaders, but while we played I could come to terms with losing and he could pretend he had a friend. It was just a Saturday night, a friendly game. | 77 | A "friendly" game of poker | 18 |
For as long as I could remember, solitude has been all I've known. Endless days, not a word uttered to me. I am forced to forage for food, water. This is easy in the sprawling city scapes of Earth. Coffee is left flowing, soda spills all over a floor. Food is left cooking and burning on a stove top or in an oven. Burgers are burning on a grill. But I can't stay in these cities. It's too big, too quiet.
I much prefer my cabin here in Northern Canada. The snow is near constant companion, but I don't mind. It's peaceful. I have an excellent greenhouse that grows all the vegetables I need, and the deer population is healthy. Did you know there are over 200 ways to prepare venison?
When I was 15, my father disappeared. I thought he walked out. My mother was simply confused, refusing to believe he had ever left. She took me to a doctor, but the doctor was gone, too. She seemed to be talking to thin air.
As I grew older, people would just disappear from my life. Girlfriends, lovers, best friends.
I miss Jimmy the most. He was gone the morning we were supposed to go hiking, back in the summer of 2008. He was an intelligent guy, and had the most ridiculous jokes. I remember I had gone to his house, after he wouldn't pick up his phone. I figured he overslept, but his house was empty. He was gone too, like so many people in my life. Everyone thought I was crazy, that he's been seen all over. It broke my heart that he didn't want to see me any more.
When I turned 28, it had finally happened. I woke up, ready to go to work. Showered, made a bit of breakfast, brushed my teeth. Normal stuff... But when I left my apartment, it was quiet. No buzz of activity: no cars. No trucks. No people.
My coffee shop was closed.
My diner was closed.
My bank was closed.
Everything was either closed or empty. Including my office. All my coworkers, gone...
Whatever had happened, I didn't know. I quickly turned on the TV, but reporters had nothing to say about mass disappearances. The the usual stuff about the economic crash, oil depletion.
No matter where I went to report these disappearances, there was no one to hear them. Even the news stations were empty.
Alone. Completely and utterly alone.
But I don't mind. | 12 | Write a story about a person with a superpower. Base that superpower on your own worst fear. | 19 |
"He was a good man."
Those were the first words I heard that woke me from my tumultuous sleep. I kept my eyes closed tight, trying to force a few extra minutes of this precious sleep. Yet loud sounds of wailing continued to disrupt my slumber. I was agitated beyond all measure. Could these people not respect the sanctity of a man's sleep? My dry throat only agitated me further. To find further comfort I rolled over, only to knock my knee into a wall of wood, a loud "thump" echoed across the room and the drones of wailing turned into a mountainous gasp.
I finally opened my eyes to see myself surrounded by wooden planks draped in white cloth, outfitted in a stuffy, uncomfortable suit. I jolted up only to see a startled face of a preacher. I looked around the room, thoroughly confused. There, a crowd amassed, sitting in pews. That's when I realized that I wasn't in my room, but a church. The crowd all wore the same expression as the preacher, except for a woman that collapsed in the first row. She oddly resembled my mother.
I got out of the casket. The gasps quickly became a commotion. Hallelujahs and "Oh My God"s filled the room.
The preacher stammered on the mic and bellowed, "It's a miracle!"
Everyone in the room stared at me, and at that moment, there was only one sentence I could say.
"Anyone have a glass of sweet tea?" | 11 | You wake up, extremely thirsty and dressed in your finest clothes, only to realize you're attending your own open casket funeral. | 31 |
He breathed in and out quickly. He shook his head and paced back and forth trying to get himself psyched up. You'd think after one hundred years of doing this, he'd have built up an impressive pain tolerance, but there's only so much you can do to harm yourself that isn't exceptionally painful. He smacked his face a couple of times, and went over to his table. He'd never done cocaine before, he was hoping it would dull the experience or at least make it go by quicker. He took a quick bump and stumbled back. He sniffed a couple of times and blinked rapidly.
Fuck yeah.
After that he was ready as he would be. He went down into his basement and went over to his set up. He'd hurt himself so many times in so many different ways, he eventually just resolved to a quick bullet to the head. He'd technically "die" for about 3 hours. He'd wake up, fully rested only the faint taste of buckshot in his mouth. He went over to the metal chair, behind the chair was a mass of plastic wrap. The other drawback to his immortality, the clean up. It's not easy to get rid of blood and brain matter every other day without the risk of someone asking questions or calling the cops.
He head already loaded the gun that lay next to the chair. He sat down and picked it up. He put the barrel in his mouth. Now here was the hard part. The contemplation. The knowing that once he pulled the trigger he'd feel that pain again. It never dulled. No matter how many times he'd killed himself, it hurt every time. This time would be no different. He'd long since abandoned the idea of religion. Strictly out of fear however, as he thought living for one hundred years and forever looking and being young. He was committing suicide in the process of prolonging his life, his whole existence was an affront to what ever God existed. He was afraid if he just let himself die, if there was an afterlife, that he'd be cast into hell. His finger twitched on the trigger. This was awful. He knew it was but he was more scared of the unknown than of dying. He braced himself and pulled the trigger. The brief smell of gunpowder. The *bang* of the gun. The impact of the shell splintering out of the top of the head. He would feel all of this, just so he could continue to live another day.
Like always, in about three hours he woke up. His head hurt, He was covered in blood. He'd have to go shower, then come back down to clean up. This was his life. This was the cost of forever. But he was beginning to wonder, if forever was really worth the price.
Edit: grammar and words | 28 | You can live forever but only if you suffer a mortal injury every 24 hours. | 35 |
I truly did not think it would turn out like that. When you're a kid, there always are a lot of lessons that turn around the "Careful what you wish for, it might come true" motto, but it is just one of those life lessons that never really come useful later in life. At least that's what I thought. And, to be fair, I don't think any parents that teach it to their kids thinks about a situation like mine when they think about it.
When he asked me what power I wanted, of course, I thought that guy was nuts. I've always been the most rational man you could come across. No religion, no superstition, no paranormal, no afterlife or anything alike. I was deep-rooted in everyday life. So when that man came to me and asked me what power I wanted, I thought that he was just a drunkard. It was a late friday night and I had a very stressful week at work. I had stopped on my way home to drink one or two beers, just to relieve a bit the pressure. It was by no means some kind of shady, dark pub filled with rejects from society; it was a very cosy place, filled with upper-class employees, celebrating the end of a week with their friends.
I was surprised at first that such a place would let a drunk bum come in and harass clients, but as I looked at that man, I saw a nicely-dressed man in his late forties, with elegant manners and a thin, confident smile. I assumed that it was some kind of lonely dude looking for a drink buddy, or a very bored individual. I normally would have dismissed him as I like to drink alone, but, for some reason, I did not - and now I hate myself for this.
As I was about to answer, he waved a finger and said:
"Ah! Remember, always be careful what you wish for!"
I shrugged and I answered nonetheless.
"It's obvious, isn't it? I mean, there is only one power that makes sense, it is the power to mentally control anyone and everyone. Absolute power over everything." It’s true. Who needs to fly, launch fireballs or manipulate gravity when everyone obeys you?
The gentleman smiled.
"Indeed, that is interesting. Not the most original wish, but pretty interesting."
And on those words, he left. I forgot about it, finished my drink and went back home, spending my week-end alone, as usual.
It was only on the next monday that I understood that things had changed. In the subway, as I was getting aboard an overcrowded wagon, I thought - as everyone certainly did - that I'd like these people to get the fuck out and leave me some space. At the next station, everybody got off. Everybody. And no one else climbed. I thought at first that there was a problem with the subway, but every other wagon was full. I was really surprised, to say the least. Anyone would be. It was only at work that I understood. My boss came barging in my office not five minutes after I had come in, waving a thick file and screaming I had made a mistake that made us lose a big contract. Might be true. I’ve never have been good at that anyway. As I was nodding and apologizing profusely, hoping not to be fired on the spot, I just thought – like anyone would have done, really – “Just fucking jump out of a window, you bastard”.
And he did. He fucking did. He just walked to my window, opened it without a word, and jumped, the file still in his hand. Later, we were told that the stress of his position was too much, that he had some kind of crisis, but of course he did not. I spent the rest of the day trying my new power. I had understood that this man, whoever or whatever he is, had really granted me the most powerful of the abilities. I tried little thing at first – give me that hot-dog for free, dance in the streets, sing loudly. Innocent pranks at first, just to be sure that it was no joke, no elaborate prank. That’s when I crossed a pretty girl’s path that I made sure it was not.
Later, in her bed, I realized that it was akin to rape. After all, what else could it be called? Mentally forcing a girl to have sex with you? But in the same time, could those concepts even apply to me? I had become almost a living god. I could stop war, violence in the world if I wanted. I never bothered to, it is true, but I could.
In the last two years, I have realized all of my wishes and some more. I have traveled the world for free, I have had sex with celebrities who don’t even remember it, I have made rich, powerful business-men give me all of their money and then run naked in the streets.
I have done everything, I have seen everything and now nothing is of any interest. I do not have to struggle for anything. I have everything I want, instantly, and I don’t want anything. You wouldn’t believe what I have forced people to do just to keep me satisfied or interested. I am bored, so bored. Life has lost all taste. I have no phantasm, I just have to think about it and people around me realize it without even knowing what they do. Every girl I have been with has always looked at me with the blank stare of someone who is not really there, and with good reason.
And here I am, two years later, at the same pub, looking at a pretty girl who is having a laugh with her friends. I’m going to command her to put a bullet in her head while having sex with me; I hope it will be enough to amuse me a bit. I just wish that lonely man at the counter would stop laughing to himself. | 35 | You've been gifted with a super power of your choice. It turns out not what you expected. | 40 |
He waits. The minister dreamed this place, felt it calling to him last night, felt the battle coming like you feel a storm in the air. Dreamed the feel of the heat coming of the ground. Saw the horse shit in the middle of the crossroads. Heard the insects chittering to each other in the fading light.
He's got his King James in his right hand. He traces the letters on the cover with his thumb, feeling the familiar grooves in the leather, but keeps his eyes fixed on the road to the west. That's where he's going to come from. He saw it all.
The sun teeters on the horizon, spitting the last of its light out over the fields. Then its gone, leaving behind a man on a horse, riding in from the west.
The minister moves to the middle of the road. He considers unholstering one of his guns, but what use is a bullet against the devil? He's got the good book. The Lord is his strength and shield. He begins Psalm 23, not silently, but firmly and clearly, out to the west road.
"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want".
The man on the horse rides towards him, slowing a little as he hears the words of the minister. He dismounts, then carries forward on foot, leading the black horse by the reins.
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me."
The man from the west cocks his head and takes off his hat.
"Can I help you, stranger?".
The minister waits for the storm to break.
"Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies".
The man from the west smiles a little.
"Are you okay, sir? If a buggy were to come along here with you in the road, well, that might not go so well for you."
The minister did not dream this moment. The battle should have begun.
"Are you the tempter?"
"The what?"
"The, uh, the tempter?"
"I don't think so, sir. Are you feeling okay?"
The minister feels the certainty of his dream start to waver, to fray at the edges.
The man from the west offers the minister his canteen of water. The minister drinks, feeling the thirst he'd ignored while waiting in the late June sun.
"Thanks, stranger".
"No problem. You okay getting back home from here?"
The minister points at his tethered horse; nods.
"You take care, sir".
The man from the west mounts his horse and rides east, leaving the minister still clutching his King James, his guns unfired, his axe unswung. The man smiles as he rides. Doubt. The way to truly win battles.
| 300 | Georgia, 1903. A Baptist minister, armed with a Bible, an axe and two pistols, waits for sundown at a crossroads, where he intends to confront the Devil. | 338 |
"My God..."
John Johnson ran up to his boss, waiting for further words. When none came, he prompted the scientist. "What is it, sir?"
"These electrons. They don't just move really fast..." Doctor Pelant lifted his eyes from the microscope and put them on John. "They teleport. They teleport between their quantum levels."
John put his head down on the microscope for a moment. "Sir, they're not teleporting at all."
The scientist pushed John to the side and put his head back on the scope. "They were just doing it!"
*No they weren't.* Came a disembodied voice.
"What?" The Doctor turned to John.
"I didn't say anything." John said.
*You were mistaken, Doctor Pelant. They didn't teleport.*
The doctor threw his hands in the air, "Even God is against me! He changed the laws of physics before I could publish!"
*Nuh-uh.* Came the voice, from everywhere and nowhere.
"Yuh-huh." Said the doctor.
*Nuh-uh.* The voice was louder this time.
"Yuh-huh!" the doctor yelled.
*Prove it*. The voice said.
Doctor Pelant began pulling at his hair. "I can't believe you even exist!"
"I told you, sir." John said. "God exists and he is great and-"
"What kind of stupid name is John Johnson, anyway?" Doctor Pelant said in frustration.
"Well, my name is John and I'm the son of John. Just like my dad before me and his before him and-"
The boy abruptly cut off as he ducked the object thrown at his face. "Was that a Petri dish?"
"No!" Doctor Pelant yelled. "I told you, Petri stole the idea from me! It's a Pelant dish!"
John raised a hand. "But sir, I did some research and the Petri dish was made in the late 1800's. You couldn't have-"
The young man cut off as he had to duck more Pelant dishes. | 24 | In this universe, there are creatures much like us. The only difference is that there is a deity who hurriedly writes the laws of physics as 'human' instruments become increasingly precise. Write about a particular important discovery. | 33 |
He'd been born in that cage, wriggling on the metal floor with his brothers and sisters. But they were gone now. He missed them.
Humans visited now and again. Sometimes they would take one of the others when they left. He didn't know what that meant, but he wanted it.
The two humans with him now looked nice. He liked them.
"What about this little guy?" one of them said. "He's a sweetie."
She was nice. Real nice. His tail moved so fast it hurt.
"Yeh, he looks friendly," said the other.
"Yes he is, aren't you, buddy?" She picked him up and held him. He rested his snout on her neck. It fit just right. She was warm.
"Seems like you found one you like," said the other.
"It's because he's such a good boy," she said. "Are you a good boy?" She held him up in front of her, his nose almost touching hers. She smelled so good. He loved her.
"He's not very cute, though," said the other. "What about this one over here?"
"Oh," she said, setting him back down on the cold floor. "I guess we should pick one we both like."
She turned away. A third human closed the cage door. It was wrong. She was nice and he loved her and he wanted to go with her. He scratched and barked. But she never came back. After a while she left, but not with him.
He thought of her often. Her face, her warmth, and especially her smell. He missed her so bad. And he waited for her.
When he went to sleep for the last time, after the sharp thing that made him so tired, he remembered her face. Mostly he remembered her nose, and how it had almost touched his...
| 41 | Make me emotional in less than 300 words | 26 |
Dr Hansen walked into his office with two cups of coffee. It was his first day as *the* UL psychiatrist. Only the very top of the field were offered the Unlivable Life position, so Dr Hansen took it with pleasure. He barely managed to keep his smile at bay as he sat down.
Most psychiatrists ended up quitting the prestigious UL position, but Dr Hansen wasn't most psychiatrists.
"Coffee?" The doctor held out one of the cups to his first patient. The man kept it eyes glued to the ground, but took the cup.
Dr Hansen immediately pulled out his notepad and a pen, writing down notes about fear of eye contact. He finished writing and looked up at the man sitting opposite of him. Bald, malnourished, covered in scars and scared of making eye contact. Even an amateur could tell he was tortured. Usually, Dr Hansen let his patients talk first, but he decided this was a special case.
"Let's start with what you were jailed for."
The man looked up for a brief moment and at Dr Hansen's eyes. The man's pupils were milky colored. He was blind.
"I raped and murdered a girl." He said, looking back down.
Dr Hansen expected that. He read his file before going to work, but seeing the man made him unsure. Nothing in the files mentioned blindness. Dr Hansen believed the man might have been innocent upon reading the file, but he confessed to everything on tape.
"Your psychological profile doesn't match the crime." Dr Hansen said, looking at the man's bowed head. "If you didn't confess, you wouldn't have even been convicted."
The man looked up again, but back down in a few seconds.
"Did you really do it?"
"Yes."
Dr Hansen leaned back, pondering the situation.
"I did it. I did it, OK? My punishment is over, right?"
Dr Hansen remained quiet.
"What I tell you in here, you're not allowed to tell anyone right?" The man spoke softly, head bowed to the ground.
"Unless you tell me about another murder, everything remains between us." Dr Hansen leaned forward again. "I analyzed your voice on that tape recording. Your octave was higher than it is now. That suggests a lie. Or maybe you were under duress."
The man lifted his head, pointing his empty eyes at the doctor. "The girl's father, he just wanted to make himself look big in front of his friends. So he tortured me until I confessed, but I didn't do it. His friends thought he found justice before the police."
Dr Hansen blinked once. "Why didn't you say that at the trial. You said it wasn't under duress and you made the confession again."
The man lowered his head again, voice muffled. "He said he'd hurt me more if I didn't keep it going. I thought jail was better."
Dr Hansen leaned forward some more to hear the man.
"But they put me in UL." He was quiet for a long moment. "The first thing they did... they shoved a metal pole up my ass like the rapist did to the girl."
Dr Hansen swallowed nervously. "They did that? You mean the father, right?"
The man shook his bowed head. "No. The UL officers. They widened the hole, they took turns..."
Dr Hansen reached for his coffee with shaking hands. He heard things like this from his patients before, but never government sanctioned. This was what they did in UL? He took a sip of coffee and put the cup back down, along with his notepad.
"I lose my sight in there. They pissed on me every morning to wake me up." The man stayed still as he spoke. "I stared waking up on my own, but that made them mad, so they pissed in my face. Held my eyes open."
Dr Hansen released a deep breath and stood up on shaky knees. He managed to walk to his phone and picked it up.
"What are you doing?" The man asked, facing Dr Hansen.
The doctor lifted the phone to his ear and dialed 4 numbers. "Quitting." | 14 | A violent criminal who has just been released from a sentence called the "unlivable life" sentence, recalls his decade long experience to a court ordered psychiatrist... | 20 |
"A Lannister always pays his -"
"Oh fuck off you over-written weasel," Hemingway said. He put his cigar out on the table. "Call it or eat it."
"Well, you force my position. I raise. All of it."
"Call." Hemingway beat him into the pot and turned up spades. "A flush to the bone. You ought to keep to where that fat tripe-monger can write you out of a hole."
"To the bone." Tyrion sighed. "I suppose my jackals will have to make do, though they do prefer the meat." He laid down four of them.
"Oh! Wonderful show, Tyrion!" Mata Hari said.
"An interesting stratagem," Machiavelli said. "To check behind on the turn, thereby inducing an overbet on the river. Mr. Hemingway, I believe you've met your match."
"A real man bets his hand," Hemingway said.
"Oh, you're so morose. Let's not be morose." Mata Hari brushed his cheek. She leaned in and whispered, only for him, "I'll take your bone over the imp's jackals any day."
Hemingway coughed and Machiavelli dealt the next hand. Tyrion stacked his chips and poured his goblet full. His green eye never left the minx.
"You know, I've always thought of poker as a microcosm of politics. The feints, the posturing, the risk of the bluff and the expected returns. It's interesting -"
"It isn't," Tyrion said. "Interesting. It isn't interesting, nor is insightful. It's not even true."
"Raise," Hemingway said. He splashed the pot.
"Oh, please do inform me." Machiavelli called the bet.
Tyrion and Mata Hari folded.
"Politics is a noble game, played by fools," Tyrion said. "Poker is a fool's game, played by noble men."
"You stole that." Hemingway bet the flop. "You fucking stole it."
"Ernest, stop."
"He fucking stole it."
"Too rich for me." Machiavelli folded.
"Ha! I had jackshit. You see that, dwarf? That's how a man plays this game."
"My father would have said that a man who has to tell you he's a man is no real man." Tyrion swept in the cards, shuffled them, dealt them.
"I fought in two world wars, imp."
"And I am the god of tits and wine. Your point eludes me."
"Boys boys boys. If we're still playing poker, I raise."
"My dearest Mata Hari. I fear I must double your wager."
Tyrion called.
"I'm all in," Hemingway said. He shoved his chips in and lit another cigar and swilled from his flask.
Mata Hari shrugged and pushed her own chips in. Machiavelli did the same.
"Lots of action," Tyrion said.
"Call it, you fucking pansy half-stick dwarf fuck."
"The man insists. Very well, what's life without a little adventure. I call it. I have nines."
Mata Hari and Machiavelli both turned up ace-king. Hemingway had queens. A queen landed on the flop and survived the river.
"Well, I know when to cut my losses," Tyrion said.
"Run, dwarf. Run, before that hack bastard writes you a hole you can't crawl out of."
As Tyrion waddled out of the parlor behind Machiavelli, the minx was grinding on the author's lap.
***
He waited under the third oak down from the post office. The quarter moon was pale and the streets were empty and silent. He had nearly given up and taken himself for a fool when he heard footsteps. The clack of heels on pavement. They stopped on the other side of the tree.
"That took longer than expected. Perhaps he really is a man," he said.
A slender arm reached out and dropped a purse in his hands. The weight was good.
"And the Prince?" she said.
"Poor fellow. Face down in a alley with some lecher's dagger in his back."
"Tell me, how did you know? How did you know he would win?"
"All dwarfs are bastards, and all bastards are cheats."
"They will look for you. Where will you go?" she said.
He looked at the moon, the stars, the empty street and the neon lights. He shook the purse and listened to the rattle of coins.
"Wherever whores go," he said.
| 13 | Niccolo Machiavelli, Tyrion Lannister, Ernest Hemmingway, and Mata Hari play a game of Texas Hold 'Em | 19 |
"That's... ummm... us," said Jon as he put the binoculars over his glassy helmet.
"What," asked Jane stepping out of the rover and planting her chrome boot onto the grass-like plant covering the planet. She reach for a rugged 2-way radio with a long whip antenna.
"Don't contact the crew," Jon said with a solemn face. Jane put the radio down. Jon continued, "I said, its us. Its you and me. We're standing there doing exactly what we're doing. Except we saw them... us... first." Jane snatched the binoculars out of Jon's hands.
"My god," she said peering through them. "Lets go talk to them! We have to figure this out! This is incredible!" She looked at Jon as he pulled something out of the rover.
"What the hell, Jon, what are you doing with that," she asked.
"Before we left command briefed me on this. No one was sure how this sub-light travel would work at these distances. There was a chance of... dopplegangers. Something having to do with traveling through dimensions. I don't understand the science. I suspect no one really does."
She watched as he put together a small rifle and loaded it with a special cartridge. "Jon, please, lets just pretend we didn't see anything! We should spare them! They -- we've done nothing wrong."
"Then what? The ship's AI will figure it out soon enough and it'll get us court martial-ed. We need that damn AI to get back home. We have orders. This trip came with a lot of strings attached. You know that."
"We can shoot the AI. We can make this our home. We can..." she cut off unexpectedly as Jon shot the rifle twice in quick succession.
Jane stood there in shock and Jon watched as tears flowed down her cheek through the glass of her helmet. His own vision became blurry and he realized he was crying too. He tossed the rifle on the ground and stomped it with his boot, cracking its graphene barrel. He took Jane's hand and walked back to the rover.
He click on the radio and said, "Someone tell the AI we have a biohazard here. Code 667. It'll know." A moment later a static heavy voice replied, "Roger. Hope you two are having fun out there!" They both sat and watched as an AI-driven drone flew overhead and disintegrated the bodies of their dopplegangers and then the doppleganger ship behind them.
Jon put the rover into gear and drove back to their ship. He and Jane exchanged no words as the rover quietly tumbled over the alien terrain. | 12 | The humans of earth have ventured to another star system to find a planet inhabited by... humans. | 28 |
I sat in the living room pouring myself another glass of wine, it was barely noon but like every other day, I had nothing better to do. Except today was different, today I had more reason than ever to drink.
My phone began to vibrate, I debated on whether or not to bother with it. It seemed as though the only calls I ever got were from my father who was probably just as inebriated as I, or my husband wondering how much more time I needed to figure things out. My friends could no longer stand how bitter I was at the world, so I knew it wasn't any of them. I let it vibrate once more before I grabbed it. I glanced at the screen as I brought towards me.
I felt as if my heart had stopped. My ears plugged. My throat closed. I couldn't breathe. The room began to spin.
Home, it read. Home. I closed my eyes hoping, praying, and wishing that it was the wine, I opened my eyes slowly looking towards the ceiling then at the vibrating phone in front of me. It still read home.
I stared at the screen until it read one missed call, one missed call that should have never went through. One missed call that left me feeling cold, empty, scared, and alone. One missed call, that could not have been made.
I had kept the number in my phone, never being able to bring myself to delete it. Anytime I would scroll through my phone passing through the names I would slow down when I reached the H's, Hanna, Henry, Home.
I couldn't delete it, no matter how much it pained me to see it, I couldn't get rid of the number.
Home was where the fire was a year ago today. Home is where my world fell apart at 11:13 am. Home is where there was nothing but ashes. Home is where I lost my mom.
| 16 | A woman in her 30's keeps the number of her childhood home listed in her phone contacts for nostalgia's sake. Then one day she gets an unexpected call from the number listed as "Home"... | 29 |
[NSFW writing below]
“Buggery,” I replied. The journalist seemed taken aback. She squirmed in her chair, adjusting the length of her skirt and making a note in her notepad. I watched all this with eyes that were beyond caring.
“Buggery,” she repeated slowly, as if tasting the word. “In other words, sodomy?”
I nodded. “Correct. I fucked another man in the ass and they locked me away.”
The journalist made another note. She called herself Aubrey, and she was quite pretty, to me anyway. Short brown hair, perfect nails, flawless skin, full lips and eyes like the setting sun. Also, her tits were phenomenal, and her legs just kept on keeping on. I know, colour me romantic huh?
“So for the crime of loving another man, you were sentenced to life in prison?” Aubrey reiterated.
I raised a hand. “Miss Aubrey, please, there was no love involved. I just wanted to know what it felt like, and the man whose ass I fucked needed some money to fuel his opium habit.”
Aubrey paused, and I felt a touch of humour bubble up from within me. After spending so many years in jail, it was amusing to note that people still found the topic of sex an uncomfortable one to talk about. Some things never changed. Well, at least they no longer throw people in prison for man-to-man ass-fucking, so I guess some things do change, albeit very slowly.
“How long ago was this?” Aubrey asked, trying her best to steer the topic away from my sodomy-related crime. My humour turned to slight annoyance: she knew how long ago this was, she had my file in front of her. I sighed and shrugged. “A hundred, hundred twenty years ago, or thereabouts? It’s been so long the centuries tend to mesh together.”
“Can I confirm, then, that you are claiming an age of over a hundred and forty years old?” Aubrey asked. I knew where she was going with this. Fine, I’ll entertain her for now.
“A hundred and forty years ago, Aubrey, I was fighting in the civil war. A hundred years before that, I was part of the invasion of Prussia by Napoleon. A thousand years before that I witnessed the downfall of the Roman Empire.” I leaned forward, more for effect. “Do you see where I’m going with this?” I added in a whisper. “I’m so old, you could take those ‘yo mamma so old’ jokes and apply them to me without an ounce of humour.”
Aubrey swallowed. I made her nervous. Good. I was tired of her pointless questioning. “Ask me something else,” I said. “Ask me… ask me about my life in jail.”
Aubrey fell silent. She hadn’t noted anything in her notepad for a while. She put her pen down and cupped her hands neatly on her lap. “Alright Mr Kelvorus, how is your life in jail?”
I smiled. “Oh it’s brilliant, Aubrey. It really is. I’ve got my own cell now, did you know that? They no longer give me cellmates because I don’t play nice, apparently. It took them a while - and several years’ worth of inmates - to learn that lesson. They’ve given me an allotment for me to grow my own vegetables, and every Sunday I make soup for the entire prison. I’ve been doing that for thirty years, Aubrey, and I’ve never missed a Sunday.” I stopped talking, and waited for the echo of my voice to vanish into the thick cell walls. “Ever,” I added.
I was making Aubrey anxious. I could tell. That wasn’t my intent - initially. But her annoying questions really ticked me off. “Do you want to know why I’m really here, Aubrey?”
“You’re here because you made love - you fucked another man,” Aubrey said. I shook my head.
“No no, you’re wrong on so many levels, Aubrey! First of all, I fucked another man in the ass - there are many ways to fuck a man, and not all of them involve a dick - but second and most importantly, I’m here because I was curious.”
“Pardon me?”
“I was curious. After spending so much time living as an immortal, I was getting bored. There are only so many wars someone can fight in before they get bored, before they… before they all start combining into one big war in your mind. But there was one place, one strange, filthy, disgusting part of humanity that I hadn’t, up until a hundred and ten-odd years ago, ever experienced.” I raised my arms, gesturing to the cell we were in. “Prison, Aubrey. Jail. And let me tell you, it’s been an enlightening experience for sure. Such despicable people here, it’s amazing!”
“So you committed a crime just to get arrested and sent to prison?” Aubrey asked, and though she tried to hide it, I could detect the incredulity in her voice. I nodded.
“Correct, Aubrey. Correct. Now ask me why I’m still in here.”
“You’re serving a life sentence, you can’t le-”
I stood, pushing the table between us aside. “Ask. Me.” I repeated.
Aubrey took a shaky breath. “Why are you still here?” She managed at last.
“Because,” I replied, leaning even closer until my mouth was mere millimeters from her ear. “I’m not bored yet.”
---
EDIT: Are you kidding me Reddit? Thank you to the generous soul who gifted me gold! I'll keep developing this story and this character, see where it goes. Keep an eye out for (possibly) more stories based on Mister Kelvorus and his escapades.
| 426 | An immortal man is serving a life sentence. He is the only person alive from when his crime was still illegal. | 325 |
Bottles were thrown into the side of the brick mansion. They crashed, exploding into a million pieces of shards. They glittered white and silver as they fell towards the ground, first reflecting the moonlight in mid-flight, but then reflected the red torches that the mob carried as they finally settled on the ground.
Cries of anger and disgust filled the chill November air. The police did their best to hold off the mob, screaming through their megaphones and waving their pistols, but still, the mob persisted.
Karel watched from the second floor window, tapping a calm finger at her chin. She didn't feel fear nor anger towards the mob; she was incapable of it.
The power to her mansion flickered out. She raised her head and looked around, assessing what the possibilities of a break-in were. After factoring in the police presence and reconfirming that she had locked and bolted all the doors, she came to the conclusion that the chances of a raid were at zero percent.
"Karel?" a voice called from down the hall.
Karel immediately stopped whatever processes she was running and quickly jogged out of her study room.
"Yes?" she called out as she neared the bedroom.
She stepped through the door, and glanced to where Jem was. The room was pitch black from the lack of power, but Karel could still use her night-vision to see.
"Karel, it's really dark, and I'm scared," Jem said. Karel's sensors could tell that Jem was on the verge of crying.
Karel turned away from Jem, and lifted her blouse. She opened her chest cavity, revealing a mess of wires, gears, and other mechanical gadgetry. In the center of her chest, was an orb that her body used to store excess power. It glowed a bright blue. Karel twisted it and removed it from her chest.
She closed her chest cavity, pulled her blouse down, and turned to face Jem, glowing heartlight in hand.
"Here, darling," Karel said softly, "I've got a new nightlight for you, and this one won't ever run out, even if the mean people outside turn off the power."
Jem sat up in her lavish bed, eyes wide in awe. She reached out for the heartlight, and then pulled away, "Is it hot, Karel?"
Karel shook her head, "No sweetie, it won't hurt you, here," Karel said as she reached out with the heartlight.
Jem took it in her hands, the heartlight bathing her face in a warm blue light. "It's really pretty," Jem said.
"I'm glad you like it," Karel said. Her sensors picked up words from the protesters outside.
*It's a fucking abomination! It can't care for a child! Let us fucking gut it!*
Karel stood away from Jem's bed, wanting to go back to her study so she could reassess their safety. She was halfway out the door when Jem called out again.
"Karel?"
Karel immediately stopped. She suspended all processes again without hesitation. "Yes?"
"Can you tell me a story?"
Karel turned back to Jem and smiled.
*It's a fucking monster! Yeah! She can't care for a child!*
She closed the bedroom door, blocked off her outdoor audio sensors, and went to sit at Jem's side.
"Yes, I can do that, what story would you like to hear?"
"Umm, little red riding hood, do you know that one?" Jem asked.
Karel scanned the Internet, finding thousands of different renditions of the tale. Her algorithms sifted through the stories, finding the best version of the story that Karel believed Jem would find enjoyable. Her scan finally settled on one rendition, a rendition that Karel's processes were 100% sure that Jem would find favorable.
"Yes, actually I do," Karel answered within a fraction of a second.
Karel recounted the tale, pitching her voice up and down along with the rhythm of the story, lowering it down to a growl when the wolf made an appearance, and adding a shrill playful cry when the wolf made its attempt to gobble up little red riding hood. Jem smiled and giggled.
Finally the story ended, and Karel showed her empty palms to Jem.
"There, did you enjoy that?" Karel asked, certain that Jem would answer positively.
"Yeah, I did!" Jem said aloud.
Karel smiled and saved the story into one of her special purpose registers for further use.
"But," Jem continued.
Karel tilted her head to the side.
"It's not how my mom used to tell it," Jem finished, tears building in the corner of her eyes.
Karel was awestruck. She was certain that her chosen rendition would be perfect. She scanned the story back and forth, wondering if she had made an error, but no, her algorithms were correct. A feeling filled her sensors, the closest that she could ever feel to anxiety. She scanned the Internet again, hoping that somehow within the thousands of little red riding hood tales was the version that Jem's deceased mother had told.
But there weren't any algorithms at Karel's disposal that could discern whether or not a version was the one that Jem's mother had used. She quickly tried to piece together an algorithm that would find it, but no matter what, the algorithm returned the same inconclusive results. Karel wanted to continue searching, but she saw a tear streak down Jem's face.
Karel immediately stopped trying to search, and instead used a delicate finger to wipe away the tear.
"I'm sorry," Karel whispered, drying her finger on her blouse, "I don't know how your mother told the tale, but-"
Karel scanned the Internet again, amassing millions of fairy tales, filtering out unfavorable tales and highlighting ones that were popular around the world. She pieced together common ideas and motifs, examined the heroes and heroines of the tales, and built upon the magical worlds that the stories contained.
Her processor used all of these common elements and created a unique story that blended together every positive value in a fairytale.
Karel had created a unique story, and for the first time in her existence, she wasn't exactly sure if it was favorable or not.
"-I do know this one tale that you might like."
In the glow of the blue heartlight, Karel recounted the brand new fairytale for the first time ever to Jem as the mob raged outdoors. | 40 | For the first time in history, a robot has adopted a human child. | 44 |
This is a tale of three brothers.
Before the beginning of time, there were three worlds. Each of these worlds were inhabited by one of the three brothers, and were thriving blissfully on their own. However, the three brothers each had different views on life, and existence, and as such their worlds were different.
The first brother, Dì, he was playful and easy-going. Since the beginning of that before time, he had been the bard who played his harp before the gods and to whom people flocked only to have a good time. As such, his world was a simple one, in which you spent your days drinking and dancing, with little to no care about that which would come.
The second brother, Dì Èr, he was a passionate man. Once he set his mind to something, it was positively impossible to get him to think about anything else, and as such, his world was developed. He wasn't much of a leader, but he was a great developer, and his world loved him for making their world the most advanced one.
The third brother, Dì Sān, he was a great man, and an even greater leader. Since eternity, his cares had always been for that of his world before anything else, and he had done everything in his power to make sure his world could stand its own ground. He wasn't as entertaining or charismatic as his brothers, but those skills were unnecessary to him, because he was not someone whose purpose laid along theirs. Dì Sān was simply a protector and a leader, and no more than such, and his world looked up to him in respect of the man who could equal even the gods, who had acquired such power only for them.
However, this isn't the tale of the three worlds. This is the tale of the three brothers.
You see, soon before the beginning of time, a chaotic menace came upon that which lies before the universe. A force of darkness, which would swallow worlds whole for the sole purpose of making itself more powerful.
At first, it reached the world of the first brother, Dì, and Dì, being only an entertainer, could do nothing in the face of the Chaos, besides play a tune on his harp. This tune enchanted the Chaos for a time, allowing for the people of Dì's world to escape, but in the end, Dì was devoured with his world.
Then the Chaos found itself at the world of the second brother, Dì Èr, to where the people of Dì's world had escaped. Dì Èr, however, could not stand up to the Chaos, for all he had was technology, and even weapons cannot stand up to a wiser foe. Dì Èr blocked the Chaos' way with his fancy tricks, and the people could escape, but in the end, Dì Èr was devoured with his world, just like his brother.
The Chaos followed the people escaping to find itself upon the world of the third brother, Dì Sān. Dì Sān, as mentioned, was unlike his brothers, and did not care for luxuries in life. Instead, he had trained his body and mind to their utmost limits in order to be worthy of his role as leader. Dì Sān stood up the Chaos with the same courage that his brothers had, and he faced the Chaos with determination to protect his world, and the memory of his brothers'.
"Why come you to my world, Chaos?" Dì Sān asked.
"I come to devour your world," the Chaos answered.
"Why will you to devour my world?" Dì Sān further asked.
"I will to devour all worlds, for only then can my hunger subside," the Chaos answered, longing for the power it could hold.
"Then I will stand in your way, like my brothers already have," Dì Sān said.
"Then you, too, will be devoured alongside your world," the Chaos answered.
Dì Sān knew that the Chaos could not be defeated in battle, for in terms of strength, the Chaos was greater than even the gods. But Dì Sān was as cunning as he was strong, so he started thinking. The Chaos, however, grew restless, and demanded their battle to start. Dì Sān had no option, so he took his sword in hand and went against the existence far greater than he.
During their battle, Dì Sān continued thinking. The Chaos was strong, but it had no technique, so Dì Sān could easily avoid it, at least for the time being. For long, they clashed, the Chaos attacking, Dì Sān avoiding, and Dì Sān continued thinking, until finally, he had an idea.
"Stop for now, Chaos," Dì Sān demanded.
"Why stop?" asked the Chaos.
"For I have realised that like this, neither of us can win, and the only end to this would be for one to be greater. Chaos, what is the most powerful of being?"
"Clearly, that is I," the Chaos responded.
"Then, must you not devour yourself, to be the most powerful?" Dì Sān asked.
The Chaos thought, and realised that such must be the case, so to be the most powerful, the Chaos devoured itself. By devouring itself, the Chaos immediately reached its end, not at the hand of Dì Sān, but at his tongue and cunning.
Dì Sān went down upon his world, which now held the people of his brothers as well, and together they started a new society, one reliant on everyone, and Dì Sān continued on with his role as protector of the one world left, and so, with only one world, began time, which could only exist once everyone was together.
***
With quite a bit of artistic license, I hereby present you my very own epic mythological version of Three Little Pigs! | 11 | Rewrite a fairytale in the style of an epic mythological, religious or fantasy legend | 23 |
It was 9.30 pm. The people outside were very loud. They were chanting and singing, some of them shouting and screaming.
"So is that it then? If I believe, we will all just wake up?"
He took another sip of the tea. He came on a mission I disagree with, but there was no reason to be rude.
"That is the gyst of it, yes." He spoke in the friendliest tone, yet I cannot help but feel intimidated.
I was pacing around the floor, but I didn't hear my footsteps. I looked at the clock. 8.45 pm.
"Look, I don't want to reject you outright, but I don't believe in any of it. You would have more chance convincing my dog than me. It's not that I don't enjoy you coming here everyday, being a friendly company and all that, since it seems like the world has given up on me..." I've been labeled an "Unbeliever" ever since I outright rejected the idea, but that was before the whole world turned to it. Naturally they also turned on me. It didn't take long for my family to push me away.
He stares at me. I can't seem to move at all.
"Well if you just believe, all of that will stop. If you've grown sick of the mocking, just believe! What do you have to lose?"
"Intergrity." I clenched my jaw. "Something that I myself believe in." I was shaking. My vision was fuzzy. I was sick of all of it.
"Why do you need me?! Why can't you all just leave me alone and go run your fancy religion somewhere else?!"
I hated being the only one. I felt small. I felt weak. But there was no way in hell that I was gonna give in now.
He seemed tired. "What if you have been holding unto the wrong thing? You are the final piece of the puzzle, Henry, we need you."
"I want all of this to end as much as you do, but it seems we are going in a completely opposite directions..." I replied.
"I have been converting people since I first earned my propheting rights." He patted me on my shoulder. "And I have never seen anyone as resilient as you." He sipped his coffee again. I tried finding my cup but it was gone.
"You must see me as a lost cause..." I uttered.
He smiled. "As a matter of fact, I don't." He got up off the couch and started walking.
He peered through the window where a large crowd have gathered. They were silent.
"Many people see it that way." I was getting tired of this. "It's all on television. They all condemn me because I will never believe..."
He looked at me with a smile. A tired smile, but a smile nonetheless.
"They all lack faith. When I see you, I see a story. Don't you see? You are a part of the dream! And by far, you are the most interesting piece of this story that we can ever dream of."
My alarm rang. | 19 | A religion has swept the globe, the principal tenet of which is that reality is a dream of God's, and that when every human on Earth believes this we (as God) will finally be able to awaken from our dream. (bit more inside) | 22 |
What a joke.
. . .
*Knock knock. Who's there?*
An interruption. Not an interrupting cow, but it still breaks my concentration, then, it breaks my heart. I'm trying to come up with my next standup routine -- got to keep the material fresh, even if my clothes aren't -- when a toy soldier rings my doorbell. "Sir, is Mrs. Hall here?" Oh my god. Oh my god is Tommy okay? "Are you Thomas Hall's brother, or..." Oh my god, is he *MOO.*
*Why'd the chicken cross the road?*
Of course I'm chicken. Too chicken to stand up to my boss for a better standup gig. Too chicken to talk Tommy out of risking his life fighting for a country that hates us. Too chicken to see Tommy one last time -- which I couldn't, it's a closed casket -- before I can accept he's crossed to the other side.
*A man walks into a bar.*
It's the same bar where I first met him, and I order the same drink we both shared. It's as bitter as I am. I've been screaming all of last night, tearing up script after script, it's all shit. I'm shit. And now my voice is hoarse, and the barkeep asks me why the long face.
. . .
What, a joke?
Yeah. Despite all this, I'm still down to hear a good joke, maybe I'll even tell you one or two, too. I was bullied as a kid. And as an adult. And I've always used humour to cope. I never thought of the logical implication of that -- the punchline -- is that the more I have to cope with, the better my humour is.
My standup routine is a huge hit. It's sharp! It's edgy! Everyone's heard my script, everyone's heard my name. It's a bigger blast than the one that killed Tommy. And at the end of each act, in the middle of each standing ovation, I relish in my audience's laughter.
Maybe if I cry hard enough, it'll look like I'm laughing, too. | 12 | Your generic character "walks into a bar", but instead of getting to a punchline, the story transitions to a depressing and insightful story. | 23 |
Mary and Horace were in tears when they were handed the embodiment of their love. It was beautiful, they agreed. It seemed they agreed on everything.
When the two decided to get married, it grew in size. When Horace got promoted and brought home more money, it grew even more.
Always it grew, even when Horace got laid off and started drinking. Even when Mary couldn't stand being with her husband and started sleeping with other men.
But, they stayed together for it. No matter how dire the situation, Mary and Horace never left the other's side. Without money and without love, they still had it. They *only* had it. That was the one thing they still agreed on.
Though they couldn't stand each other, they went through the pain for it.
It grew because of their love. Not of each other, but their love for it.
And so Daniel Jackson grew up, son of a drunk man and an unfaithful woman. But he reached adulthood.
He didn't make it because of money or a home. He had neither.
He made it because of an undying love from two unloved people. | 523 | When two people fall in love, they receive an object that is the physical embodiment of that love. It changes as their feelings change towards each other and destroying it can have drastic consequences. How does this change the nature of relationships? | 262 |
The old woman sitting to Vince’s left began to recite the Act of Contrition for the eighth time. Apart from her, nobody on the plane said a word. The passengers just sat in petrified silence as the plane thrashed back and forth.
Vince looked away from the woman in the aisle seat, trying to ignore her ominous pleas to God. That was when he took notice of the man sitting by the window.
With steady hands, the man pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. Sighing, he popped one of the cigarettes into his mouth and reached for a lighter.
“Thi-” Vince’s voice caught in his throat. He had not realized how dry his mouth was. After clearing his throat, he tried again. “Think I could have one?” he asked the man.
The man looked at Vince with a furrowed brow. Without taking the cigarette from his own lips, the man raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement and pulled out the pack again.
“Not so good for you health,” Vince said with a nervous laugh.
“Hm,” the man replied. The grunt was barely audible over the shaking of the plane.
Vince desperately wanted the man to say something. Why wouldn’t anybody acknowledge the danger they were in? The flight attendants acted calm. The pilots had stopped speaking over the loud speakers. And, on top of everything, the man sitting next to Vince looked as if he didn’t even feel the turbulence.
“Wow,” Vince said as the man removed the cigarette from his lips. “Feels like we’re about to fall right out of the sky.”
“Don’t be fucking stupid,” the man replied curtly. He kept his eyes trained on the seat in front of him as he continued, “Planes don’t fall right out of the sky. Even if the dumbasses up front shut off the engines, we’d still glide for a bit.”
“You a pilot?”
“I’ve read a book or two.”
“Well,” Vince said, forcing a smile, “I’m glad somebody’s optimistic.”
“Not particularly,” the man sighed, taking another drag. “We’ve been losing altitude for too long. In this mountainous terrain, there’s no way we’re going to find anywhere to land. I’d say in the next thirty seconds or so, we’re gonna smack right into a mountain,” he said, punching the window for dramatic effect.
“What?” the man asked when he saw Vince flinch. “You think this window’s gonna save you? None of you guys are getting out of this one.”
Vince struggled for words. At first, he wanted to choke the dispassionately candid man. Instead, he just sputtered out, “What do you mean, ‘you guys?’”
The man by the window studied Vince for a second before shrugging his shoulders and saying, “Look, it’s really not that bad. We’re going to hit something, this plane is gonna crinkle up like a soda can, and you’re gonna feel a really quick flash of pain. Who knows, you might even go into shock and then you won’t even feel that flash. This really isn’t that bad of a way to go, so just grow up. It’s something everybody has gone through since the beginning.
“If you wanna feel bad for someone,” the man continued, “feel bad for me. I’m gonna have to feel this plane go right through me. All that metal. All that fire. Goddammit I hate burns. They feel the worst. You know what, I bet that fat bastard in the seat behind me is probably gonna go through me too. Then I gotta pull myself out of the wreckage. That should be fun with third degree burns all over my body. That’ll take forever to heal.
“You know what,” the man said, shaking his head. “On top of all that, I don’t even know where the hell we are. We’re just somewhere in the mountains. I’ve probably got a few weeks of walking ahead of me before I end up back in the real world. Maybe I’ll-”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Vince interrupted. “You won’t survive that.”
The man turned to face the mortal. Vince felt his stomach knot up as the man’s piercing green eyes locked with his.
“For you,” the man said in a quiet voice, “this collapsing chunk of metal is your tomb. For me, it’s my Tuesday.”
“I... I still don’t understand.”
“Me neither,” the man said, returning to his cigarette. “But do you know what the worst part about this is? I can’t go back to Seattle.” He looked out the window and took a deep breath. “I’m gonna miss that place. It was a good fit for me. I’d met a girl. Things were going pretty nice for a change. Well, so much for that. Time to pack up and start over somewhere else. Nobody’s gonna believe that I just ‘got lucky’ and was the sole survivor of the plane crash. Especially when some asshole reporter who thinks he’s a detective figures out that I look suspiciously similar to the guy who survived a train wreck three years ago. Then, next thing you know, I have to break out of some secret government laboratory again. What a pain in the ass you people are.”
“I don’t want to die,” Vince said. “I have a life, too. I’ve got-”
“Please, don’t,” the man interrupted, looking at Vince and shaking his hand. “Don’t tell me about how many kids you’ve got or how nobody’s gonna feed your fucking cats when you’re gone or whatever. I’ve heard enough of that garbage in my life. You’re just like everybody else on this plane. Your life is being taken away from you and that sucks. Me, on the other hand... I have to walk away from the life I created in Seattle. And that’s a hell of a lot harder.”
The man took the cigarette out of his mouth and dropped it on the ground.
“I'm really gonna miss Seattle,” he whispered to himself.
The man looked out the window again and looked back at Vince.
“Ready?” the man asked.
Vince didn’t have time to respond. | 16 | An immortal has a conversation with a dying man. | 15 |
"This is never going to sell."
Thomas Jefferson Carter, owner and lead editor at Herald Publishing, set his half-sipped gin and tonic on the desk and shoved the manuscript towards me as if the words themselves stunk. Literally.
The grandfather clock ticked dutifully. I waited twelve ticks before speaking.
"Why not?"
"Some of this technology...it seems far-fetched. Touching pieces of glasses and having images and words come up on them...books read from some sort of electric library, telegraphs appearing in the palm of your hand, being able not only to speak to but SEE another man from anywhere in the world..."
"How is it more far-fetched than Wells or Verne? Than time travel or journeying to the center of the earth?"
Carter mumbled to himself, his lips squashing his knee-jerk replies into mush while he chose his answer.
"In your story, it seems as if humanity is more connected than ever before, and yet they waste it."
"'Tis the definition of 'dystopia', sir."
Carter's eyes hardened. Once more my wit had outrun my wisdom.
"Your story proclaims that we will use all of this achievement for nothing but self-gratifcation. We will use these instant telegraphs to argue with each other over the latest showtunes or the proper length of a woman's skirt. We will not use these portable...what did you call them?"
"Tablets."
"We will not use these tablets like Moses did, to carry down the inspiration of God or show a divine truth. We won't even use them to show the greatest wonders of the world to every curious child. In your story, we use them to print pictures of ourselves, to challenge each other to tedious bouts of bantering or to pointless little competitions. It's as if...these people have no real problems."
"Why would there be, sir? You've read the papers, seen the newsreels. They're calling it "the War to end all Wars" over there in Europe. After they're done shelling each other into paste, humanity's taste for blood might finally be sated. Then what will we argue about? Once we see mankind for what it is, one people with the same hopes and dreams and fears, then what is left to divide us?"
Carter's chair squeaked as he leaned forward.
"So you're saying we make our own problems because all the true problems have been solved?"
"I am."
The grandfather clock ticked thirteen times.
"It's as if your story is a utopian one wrapped up in dystopia. Humanity's greatest achievements will bring about it's greatest boredom."
"I like to see myself as a optimistic cynic, sir."
He took another sip of his drink and considered the manuscript again. He touched the edge of it, testing to see if, as a result of our conversation, the pages had turned to gold.
"No, it'll still never sell. Try again." | 30 | A story set 100+ years in the past of a man writing a dystopian novel, but the dystopia he writes about is identical to the world we live in today. | 18 |
"Grandpa, tell me about your life as a pirate!"
Johnny had always been curious about everything. With bright eyes brimming with questions and an unquenchable eagerness to explore, Johnny kept his parents sick with worry and delighted me with his antics and innocuous interrogations.
"I don't think your father would like it very much if I told you about that, Johnny"
He pouted. He always did that when anything was denied to him.
"But you promised me! You promised you'd tell me anything if I won!"
It was true. I had hoped he would forget our wager before the family soccer game, but it seemed his memory hadn't been hurt by that last minute header into the back corner of the net.
I glanced over at my son, a mixture of concern and pride on his face, and gave him a wink. He sighed, smiled, and settled back in his own seat. He had heard this story before. He had asked the same question when he was about Johnny's age. Like father, like son...
"A long, long time ago, when grandpa was big as you are now, the government decided that it was bad if people could keep doing whatever they wanted, taking whatever they wanted. Just like that time you took Sally's pencil case home from school without asking her."
I saw my daughter-in-law Kara slip into the room, caught her brief frown at my words. I smiled and continued on.
"Well just like your mother and father told you off for taking Sally's pencil case, the government went around telling people they couldn't just take things without asking permission or paying for it. They had men, top men, men with guns, men who would sit in ships and planes looking at screens for any sign of pirates. That's what they called them, pirates. I wa-"
"What did the pirates take, Grandpa?"
"Johnny!", Kara exclaimed, "Don't interrupt your Grandpa!"
I winked at Johnny, and nodded.
"That's a good question. At first it was just small things, things they thought people wouldn't notice, things from rich people who had too much anyway. Songs, movies, books, that kind of thing. It got a lot worse later on though, pirates started stealing secret information the government didn't want people to see. That's when I started being a pirate too."
"Why did you do it?"
"Let me tell you a secret, Johnny. There's nothing stronger than a thought, an idea, and the government back then wanted everyone to be the same, to think the same. I started pirating because I wanted to fight against that. I wanted to be free. I wanted to show people that not paying for something was just another form of protest against the way things were."
"What happened to the pirates, grandpa? Where did they all go?"
"We won. My friends, people I didn't even know all over the world, all the pirates, we won. People began to realise that we weren't just thieves like the government wanted them to think. We were the start of something bigger, a fight for our independence as individuals, and once ordinary people started realising that, the government couldn't keep trying to stop us. After that, after all the arguing and fighting and wars that you learn about in class, we went back to just being people. Normal people. Your grandma had had your dad before the end, and we had to look after him. And all those things that we fought for, we made sure that your mum and dad and you would be able to have them too."
I gestured at the framed document on the wall, a copy of the Internet Constitution of 2021.
"We wrote the NetCon to make sure that nobody could ever take away our freedoms. And when you turn 18, you'll be able to sign up to the Free Download Registry and do what all those pirates used to do."
Johnny's eyes sparkled. "Can I be a pirate when I turn 18?", he asked his parents.
I think the thought of being a pirate excited him, but it had been a lot worse than that at the time. The scout drones that would track illegal wireless signals, and the hunter drones that would follow up with High Altitude Conventional Kinetic Strikes. That nearly decimated the movement, until we learned to route our signals through antennas planted on the top of government buildings. The clandestine meetings in virtual reality, the double and triple agents, the betrayals and the massacres. The Online Wars and the clash of trillions of lines of code from millions of coders and decoders. The last ditch attempt to take down the entire Net through airburst nuclear detonations to produce EMP pulses, and the weeks and months of misery that followed. The sacrifices that people made, just to survive.
My son saw the change in my expression, and knew what thoughts were running through my mind. The reason the Registry had nearly 100% participation was because every adult was taught the full extent of the cost of the Registry after they turned 18. We who survived wanted the costs to be never forgotten.
"Johnny, that's enough for tonight. Say goodnight to Grandpa, you've got school in the morning."
Johnny pouted at his father, but turned and ran to my screen and gave the camera a kiss.
"Thank you for the story Grandpa. Goodnight!"
I smiled and waved as his mother led him out of the room, leaving me alone with my son.
"You know Dad, one day he's going to ask why you're only ever on the screen, why you don't visit for real. I know I did after you told me the pirate story the first time. Don't you think it'd be better if you told him the truth?"
The truth. That I would never be able to walk or touch or breathe the free air again. That I would be forever consigned to a screen, my eyes replaced by cameras, my voice replaced by speakers. Before the end, to make sure that something would survive, someone who would be able to tell future generations of our struggle, a few of us had volunteered to have our consciousnesses uploaded to the Net. That truth.
"I'll tell him the same thing I told you, son."
"That it's a secret?"
"Yeah. It'll give him something to pirate."
edit: spelling | 11 | "Grandpa, tell me about your life as a pirate" | 25 |
Taped Record Interview
Sydney Keeler/Detective Nick Lassiter/Detective Glen Morrison
8.21.98
START OF RECORD
NL: This is Detective Nick Lassiter of the Chicago Police Department with Detective Morrison. This is a recorded interview discussing the alleged crimes of Mister Sydney Keeler. The date is-
SK: Crime? My only crime was not killing them all.
[UNINTELLIGIBLE]
SK: Don’t look so shocked. Didn't expect me to confess that easily, huh? Denying my guilt would only lower myself to the level of those beings that call themselves men. Lunatic, murderer, demented, I am all of these and many more things, but liar is not among them.
[PAUSE]
SK: I know how this works. You want to know what happened. What happened was that I did a job none of you could.
Last night at around 12:30 am, I walked into a building suspected to be the base of operations of known a known street gang going by the name of [redacted] and shot 12 men inside with my own personal firearm, which is currently behind that wall in the evidence room.
There were 14 men inside, and I assume the two surviving members are back to work already, killing, dealing, and raping, if you followed so-called protocol.
NL: Ca-, Mr. Keeler, the activities of this group was being followed closely by the Chicago Police Department for months now, and suspected members were being monitored.
SK: Didn't do much for my wife and daughter, did it?
GM: Mr. Keeler, we understand-
SK: Understand? Understand what? How are your wife and kids, Glen? At home, sleeping, waiting for you to come home? My wife is dead. My daughter is dead. They raped them both, together, then killed them, and mutilated their bodies for me to find when I came home from a day of trying to put these monsters away for good. What the [expletive] do you know? How could you understand?
[UNINTELLIGIBLE]
SK: I know what I did was a crime, but I did more justice in those 25 minutes than I've done in the past 25 years. So I confess, and you can put me away for life. As long as those 12 are in the ground, not hurting anyone else, then I am okay with it. I’d rather die alone in a cell without those ghosts, then die every single day outside with them haunting me. I’m at peace now.
[MR KEELER LEAVES THE ROOM]
GM: This concludes this recorded interview of former Captain Sydney Keeler of the Chicago Police Department. Further details will be provided in a report by me and Detective Lassiter.
END RECORDING | 156 | You have 200 words to describe a terrible crime, then 200 words to completely justify it | 175 |
The car ride was always long and she was always forced to sit in the very back of the car; the luggage somehow had priority over her, but Mya didn't mind. She could lay down back there and feel the roughened carpet with her hands. Sometimes, she would lay down and remain still and silent to see if her parents would notice her. She even would let out a small yelp or cry to see if they could hear her over their incessant shouting. On a day like today, however, her parents wouldn't have heard her. They were in the front, too garrulous and greedy- too tongue tired of spitting out the same words over and over that they had forgotten how to listen, and how to observe. Had they closed their mouths for more than a few seconds, they might have even noticed that they missed the turn a while back. Mya just sighed, leaned back against the side of the car, and drew her attentions to the soft sloping windows of the back, watching the thick fog and wet clouds, wondering.
"Goddamnit!" her father cursed loudly, "Tina, you made us miss the turn!"
Mya pressed her feet against the side of the car, bracing herself as the car veered sharply to the left.
"No I didn't! You're the one driving. Don't be such an asshole!" her mother retorted bitterly, "Hey you alright back there, Mya?" she shouted, checking the rearview mirror.
Mya gave a stifled "Yeah." She tucked in her knees and continued staring out the window. *Don't worry, we're almost there,* she thought to herself as they passed a forest, watching the fog dismember as it spilled out among the pines.
The car finally reached a halt as it pulled in a driveway.
"Well, we're here," her father said, disgruntled, "finally." Mya opened the trunk and sprinted out, slipping on the wet cement. Sticking her arms out, she steadied herself and continued up the driveway until she reached the three red brick steps. Just as she was about to open the door, her father called out to her.
"Mya come and help with the luggage!" he yelled.
"But I have to go to the bathroom!" she responded eagerly, yanking open the glass door and disappearing inside.
Mya fell into the warm, flowery embrace of her grandmother and smiled as she smelled the delicious trace of the outside garden that always seemed to stay on her grandmother's clothes.
"I feel like I haven't seen you in forever."
Her grandmother laughed, "Oh Mya, it hasn't been that long dear."
"I know, but I missed you." she whispered softly into her grandmother's jeans.
"I missed you too."
Mya pulled away, gazing up at her grandmother.
"Hey, where's grandpa?" she asked.
"Oh he's out picking up some flowers at the store. I was planning on us planting some together tomorrow." she smiled, "Don't you think that would be fun?"
Mya nodded ardently, giggling. "Yeah grandma, but it's raining!"
"Yeah that's the only thing. I'm just hoping the weather will be better tomorrow. It's supposed to be a great day!"
"Grandma, what should we do today? What about right now?"
"Well, I don't know," she laughed, "What did you have in mind? We can do whatever you like."
"Oh! I know!" Mya said excitedly, going up on her toes, "Close your eyes and count to one hundred!!"
"Hide and seek. Right now? But you're parents just got here."
But Mya scampered down the hall, oblivious, "Come on Grandma!! I'm waiting!"
The door opened with some effort as her parents trudged in, luggage in hand, colliding with the door nosily.
"Alright Mya! Give me one second!" she called.
Mya ran on, turning on the aged oak floors, guiding her fingers along the soft wooden borders. She ran through the pristine dining room, sliding around the large glass table, nearly crashing into the big glass doors that lead to the outdoor porch. She laughed, giddy with excitement, as she turned towards the elder staircase, grabbing the sleek shiny railing, and raced up the steps. As she ran, the murmurs from the kitchen dwindled, until she was left alone in the marvelous silence of the upstairs. She flew along the hallway, searching for a place to hide. Then suddenly, she passed along a smaller door in the center of the hallway and remembered. She went up to the door and and tried turning the handle, but it was locked. She sighed as her mind searched for a new place to hide, when a gleam at the top of the door caught her eye. She smiled mischievously as she ran against the door full force, banging against it with her body. The glint at the top of the door was gone and she heard a metallic pang hit the floor. She grinned widely, took the key off the floor, and opened the door.
She gasped as she stared at a large flight of wooden steps, leading up into darkness. Here it was, Mya's favorite place: the attic. She closed the door, melting into the silent shadows.
"Ready or not, here I come!!" Her grandmother shouted from below.
Mya suppressed a giggle as she quietly climbed the steps. She reached the top and turned the corner. Faint light let in by the window in the back was filtering in from outside. Trails of dust rose into the air with each step she took.
"Stardust." Mya giggled to herself as she walked carefully along the many stacked boxes, that sat everywhere along the floor.
She quickened her pace as she heard a creak from below. Her grandmother had begun to climb the steps. She reached the back wall of the attic, near the window, and crouched behind a few large cardboard boxes that seemed to each have a large layer of dust on them. She sat, shrinking herself from sight, gazing at the shining dust in the light. A ray of light pierced through the fragments and fell onto a smaller wooden box with a picture plastered on the front of it. Intrigued, she crawled out from behind the cardboard and stared at the picture. It was a simple painted rose with the word "Memories" spelled out in the green vine. Carefully, she opened it. In it lay a stack of photographs. She took out the first one; a worn photograph of her mom and dad eating ice cream together. Her mother was clearly pregnant and was wearing a baby-blue baseball cap and was laughing at the camera, as her dad who wore thick glasses and cargo shorts, was wiping off the chocolate from her lips. Mya rifled through the other pictures and was shocked to see her parents smiling and laughing in each one. She had never seen them so happy- so in love. Suddenly, she heard shouting from downstairs. It was her parents arguing again. She looked down at the photograph in her hands. It was hard to believe that these were the same people just a few years ago.
After spending a long time staring at the photographs, Mya closed the box and set it aside, returning to her hiding place behind the box, waiting for her grandmother to come and find her, waiting for her parents to be like they were in the photographs. She sat next to photographs that were placed in a small box long ago, locked away in a different time, behind a locked door, waiting.
* * *
K all done! Tell me what you think!! and sorry, the insert quarter thing got confusing...I decided to put it all into one comment. | 16 | A child exploring the family attic finds a small box. When they open it, their eyes grow wide. Just then, they hear shouting coming from downstairs | 30 |
The first ship came in too fast. Over the radio Captain Regas cried out that the thrusters wouldn't turn on. It plummeted towards the grey landscape below. Quietly quickening its speed.
"The fuel line must have froze up when the heat shield broke away." Regas said, his voice crackling loudly over the speakers. "Four thousand meters now."
"Try overloading the core to heat it up." The engineer of the second ship replied. "It's your only shot."
"Yeah. We can try." Regas sighed. "Turn everything on. Experiments, television, extend the antennas and broadcast anything and everything."
"We have to start our burn now Regas. Good luck, Sir" The commander of the second ship said. "Six thousand meters. Starting landing burn."
"Three thousand meters, no raise in temer-----" The radio went silent.
"Shit! They fried it!"
As the thrusters fired the angle of the craft started to come to a vertical position. As it came upright the small speck of Captain Regas' ship slipped out of view.
"That's the horizontal momentum, John. We're on final approach." The engineer said to the captain. "Two thousand and counting."
Captain John Vorsa had his head down. His back was to the three other people in the command pod. They couldn't see the tear hit the controls as John programmed in the final calculations for the computer to guide the ship safely to the surface. "Alright Eric. Lets do what we have to. Deploy landing gear. Shawn, inform our passengers that we are on final approach. Landing speed will be point three meters per second. No need for them to be seated."
Shawn Jessen grabbed the microphone off the wall and switched the channel on the radio from Captain Regas's ship to the passenger module of his own ship. "Ladies and gents of Sol Survivors 2. We shall be arriving on the Moon in roughly 45 seconds. It will be a soft landing today, no need to be seated. Welcome to our new home."
"Could they have given us a worse name?" Eric asked to no one in particular.
"Does it really matter in the long run?" John said back.
"No, sir... You are right." Eric said, his face whitening visibly at the thoughts of why they are here. "Five hundred meters."
As the ship slowly descended the blue thrusters on the bottom of the craft brightened and the vibrations on the craft seemed to cause them to roar. Slower and slower it descended. Before the landing legs touched down a great cloud of grey dust was kicked up by the engines. Six small thrusters fired on the sides of the craft fired to blow the dust away as the legs touched the lunar surface.
The command pod was silent as the crew sat in contemplation of what they had gone through these past three months. One by one the men started leaving the pod, climbing down into the lower depths of the ship. Captain John was the last to leave. As he lowered himself into the ladder the radio crackled alive. "John! John! Please help! We crashed but the command pod is still sealed. We saved as many as we could." John scrambled back up the ladder to the radio as it continued. "There's nine of us in here. We only have twenty minutes. Please be quick."
"Regas! We hear you! We are coming!"
"John! Please answer!"
"Regas, I'm here. I read you."
Over the radio came a sigh "I don't think they can hear us. The antenna must be broken"
"Shit!" John exclaimed as he dove headfirst down the ladder. "They're alive guys! We have to get them! Get the rover ready!"
The four leaders of Sol Survivor 2 put their space suits on faster than any emergency training mission before. Each of them performed their task quickly and efficiently to get the rover free of its mooring.
"Good to go, sir" Shawn said as he ran-hopped to the large air-lock.
"Open the garage door, we gotta get the boys from their car crash." John joked as he started the engine on the rover. "Raise the dump and we will leave all that stuff here to haul the boys back in the trailer."
Eric flipped the switch that raised the front of the trailer. Slowly all the science equipment slid out of the trailer and landed on the metal floor with a soft tink.
"Go, go, go." John pressed forward on the stick and the rover lurched forward. As it passed through the door Shawn grabbed a hold and swung onto the back of the rover.
"I could get used to this low gravity thing." He said as he strapped into his seat. "Although I wish we didn't."
As they turned towards the area where Sol Survivor 1 went down the Earth came into view. The four men looked at the world in amazement as the rover slowed to a stop. "What time is it?" John asked.
"Three fourty eight."
"Fuck"
A few seconds later and it looked like the atmosphere on earth was getting bigger. Like a halo expanding. Then, it started to disappear as a red ring formed around the edges of the world. Slowly the blue of the earth was replaced by red and yellow lines. Large chunks of the world could be seen flying off the planet. As they flew out smaller chunks seems to accelerate inwards, as if a large explosion was sucking air back in. Once the red and yellow lines of fire reached the opposite side of the world and met up with each other the whole planet fractured into several molten pieces of rock.Several pieces were heading towards the moon.
"No.... Fucking... way...." Eric said quietly but it seemed deafeningly loud to John and the others. The four of them didn't move. They stared in awe at what had become of their planet. Watching the chunks coming towards them made them realized that they, as well were doomed. | 15 | The year is 2099 and the first human in over one hundred years has landed on the Moon. As he/she looks to Earth, it is destroyed before his/her eyes. | 21 |
I don't what I call this feeling. It's like a cloud above my head ever since I did it.
He sat there all blonde, tall and handsome. He didn't say anything, he didn't scream, he just sat there and smiled.
He wanted it to happen, so did I. I cut the knife in and his smile didn't disappear. Why did he want this? The rest didn't.
I met him on a cold night in Iguanas, the local bar. Plenty of the young kids come in there because the bouncers are too lazy to ID people. I met him the same way I met the others. I went up to him and asked him to dance, then led him away making him think tonight would be the best night of his life.
I tied him to my apartment chair, all part of the act. He didn't suspect a thing until I hammered the first nail into his hand. He winced as one would when..you know...they've had a nail hammered into their hands.
He looked me in the eyes, he was shocked at first but then he stared straight into my eyes and nodded. He grit his teeth and said "You need this". Then he didn't speak again. No matter what I did.
I don't understand this, why wasn't he afraid. What did he see in me that no one else saw? I need to know, yet I never will.
As I was burying him underneath the flyover all I could do was cry. I knew this guy for an hour and then I'd killed. I did it because I wanted to, not because I needed too. At least I think so.
He'd gotten into my head, what if the next one does this too? Or the one after that? What do these people see me as? | 21 | A serial killer has an encounter which does not make them feel remorse but nevertheless forces them to reconsider their actions. | 24 |
It was Caleb’s 30th birthday. It had been 5 years since he met her, the love of his life. She was 23 at the time, and he couldn’t have been happier to find her. He had been extremely isolated and lonely, save for occasional visits from his family. She had made him full again and gave him purpose in life. People thought he was so lucky when he had sold his company at 25 for millions, but it just led an already lonely man to really isolate himself. After all, when you had that much money, you had the luxury of not having to go to work or be around people in general.
It was love at first sight. He knew instantly that they were meant to be, and they were married within the week. His family never approved of her and thought he was crazy. They did everything in their power to try to separate them, so that was when Caleb took drastic action. He found an old cabin, located in some backwoods area, and bought it. One night, he took himself and his wife and left for the cabin, leaving as little trace as possible for his family to follow him.
The cabin itself was comfy and fairly roomy. He’d paid for it to be renovated. It had electricity and all the other modern conveniences, but it still was about an hour out from any sort of major population centers. The only time they had to deal with people was the occasional shopping trips for food and other essentials. They barely needed food in the first place, though, as they both enjoyed gardening and had a rather extensive garden planted.
Caleb was happy with his life. As he watched her sleeping, he knew that he had everything he could possibly want. It had hurt at first to leave his family behind, but she was worth it. They simply didn’t understand, and now he had no regrets of removing them from his life.
His wife stirred in bed, rolled over, and wrapped her arms around him. Her eyes opened only ever so slightly.
“Morning,” she said in a sleepy tone, a yawn escaping her mouth soon afterwards. She sighed and laid her head against his chest. “Anything special you want today, honey.”
“Yeah, I just want to spend the day with you.”
She smiled at these words and her eyes closed again. Caleb decided to just sit there in bed, his wife falling back asleep. He eventually dozed off as well. About a half-hour later, he woke up again. He knew that he couldn’t sleep in all day, so he skillfully removed her arm from around him and got out of bed. He went out to the kitchen to prepare them some breakfast. He wasn’t much of a cook, and even though it was his birthday, he wanted to see the smile on her face when she awoke to breakfast-in-bed. He made up some toast and squeezed some oranges for some orange juice. He found a tray in the cupboards and he carried the food back to their room.
Nothing could ruin a day like today he thought to himself as he walked back to their room. And then he felt his foot snag on something, and he could feel himself barreling down to the ground. He tried to make sure the food didn’t spill, but that was erased from his mind when he heard a loud crack as his head hit something. Everything was blurry for a moment, and then it all went to black.
When he awoke, it was much later in the day. The orange juice had spilled all over the floor. The toast had also fallen on the floor, butter side down oddly enough he noted. He was surprised the commotion hadn’t awoken her. He went into their room, but she wasn’t there. He called out to find where she was, but no reply came.
Caleb’s head was still very fuzzy, and when he went back out to the living room where he tripped, he saw a large blood stain from his accident. He picked up the phone and dialed her cell that she rarely used. He could see it ringing on her nightstand. Now he was concerned; where was she? As he looked at her nightstand, he noticed their wedding photo. It was just him standing in a tux at some cheap photo place. In fact, all of the photos of them were like this, often with him in really odd poses, such as kissing thin air.
It all felt like a conspiracy to him. What was going on? And then a little sliver of memory came back to him from when they first met. He had really liked her and they had been on a couple dates. He always knew that. But now he recalled being overly obsessed with her. Even by his own standards, he was acting legitimately crazy. Clinically crazy. She told him to stay away and he realized that was the last time he actually saw her. Later that day she had showed up at his apartment, telling him that they should get married. She was just scared before, but when she thought about what her life would be like without him, she knew she had to come back. Now he realized that was all an illusion.
His family was perplexed by the way he was acting, and considering that he would do things like kiss her in front of them, it must have looked really odd. They weren’t trying to break up his marriage. They were trying to get him psychological help, but he had more money than they did and always seemed sane enough to be a step ahead of them.
Caleb picked up the phone, called for an ambulance to come pick him up, and waited. His head in his hands, he thought about all the moments he had shared with her, all false, and all really embarrassing to remember. His happiness had been fake, and even though he had been lonely before he met her, he had never been as alone as he was now. His only hope would be that his family might understand, but he had been quite cruel to them through the years as they tried to help.
It had been a little while, and the ambulance had to have been only a few minutes away by now. Caleb had his eyes buried in his hands, crying and weeping over everything he’d lost. And then he heard the most beautiful voice, a voice he was sure he wouldn’t hear again.
“Hi Caleb.”
“You’re back.” He replied warily.
“Of course. Why would I leave you? I know I must seem far away right now, but I’m not. I can’t stay here much longer, but I’ve come back to get you. Come with me to my land.”
“Land? What are you talking about?”
“I exist on a different plane of existence. It can only be reached through death. I am stuck in this plane, and I want you to come be with me here. We can be even happier than we ever were in that old dirty world of yours.”
“Yeah, but it means I’d have to die.”
“There is nothing to fear. I’ll be here waiting for you on the other side. I love you.” And with that the last words of his wife faded and he could hear sirens coming down the long drive.
Caleb knew what he must do. He walked over to his nightstand and grabbed his gun. As he lifted it out of the drawer, he saw something he’d forgotten about. A picture of him and his family. He decided to pick it up, and he noticed writing on the back.
*We all love you very much. We know this isn’t you, and if you should ever find yourself needing help, don’t hesitate to contact us. Here’s my number: (111) 111-1111. Love, Mom.*
Caleb held onto the gun and picked up the phone. He dialed the number. He could hear the paramedics coming to the door. He raised the gun up to his head and he knew that if he was going to do this, he’d have to do it in the next few seconds. There was a knock on the door as he heard a voice come from the other end of the line.
“Hello,” came his mother’s sweet voice. Caleb stood there frozen in time, his finger on the trigger, not knowing whether he should pull it or not.
-124
| 21 | After long years of a happy marriage, the main character finds out that his wife is only a figment of his imagination. | 78 |
*"Lemme tell y'all about sea squirts."*
Amy clicks through to the next slide. "The sea squirt spends its wee young days floating around, doin' like a squirty do, until it finds a rock in a good neighbourhood and settles down. Then it eats its brain."
She looks to her audience, making sure the rest of the ship's crew is following along. "You see..." Her eyes linger a little too long on the captain, and a little too low. "The squirt only needs its brain to swim around and find a rock to plop its butt down on, but after that, its brain would better serve as a meal."
"Food for thought." She grins. They groan.
"See... only someone lacking intelligence would worship intelligence. A big brain ain't always evolutionarily advantageous, and in fact, evolution can make animals *dumber* if their environment changes. Yes, including us good ol' Homo Sapiens." Amy holds for a reaction. Someone coughs. Whatever. Say, where is half of the team, anyway? She forgets it, and just finishes up the introduction to her talk.
"Domestic animals are stupid. Domestic humans are stupid. And that brings us to our primary mission..."
Amy pulls down on the projector screen. She releases it, letting it zip upwards with a dramatic *thwip-thp-thp-thp*. Behind the screen, a window. Past the window, a purple island in an emerald ocean. On the island, the first alien civilization us good ol' Homo Sapiens have ever found in this cold, lonely universe.
Amy turns directly to Captain Linda.
"...Making contact with the stupid, stupid Cubecats."
---
`PART 2 OF 6`
Biologists are the worst flirts.
"The Cubecats are a *very* playful and friendly bunch..." Amy rests her hands on her hips. "Their environment grows an abundance of lush, juicy fruits..." She not-so-subtly adjusts her shirt. "And they have zero natural predators and zero natural disasters." Amy couldn't think of an innuendo for this bulletpoint, so she just drops her clicker behind her. "Oops, let me bend over and pick that up," she says for the fourth damn time. Captain Linda was counting.
"...But coz they're living in a Garden of Eden, they never needed to evolve the intelligence to hunt, farm, or even avoid danger. All that said... how do we talk to a civilization that's never needed to understand more than *Ooh nice weather we're having today* and *Ooh nice weather we're having everyday*? What do you give someone who has everything?"
Linda doesn't hesitate. "Intelligence."
"No offence, Lindy," Lioness cubs play-fight to build hunting skills and relationships. "But like I said, only idiots think intelligence is everything. What good would it be to them? And besides, how do you intend to just *give* these peeps intelligence? Throw a Tablet at them?"
"Amelia Takovsky." Captain Linda rubbed her temples. "If you had been paying attention during the last presentation instead of *staring at my breasts*..." Everyone's mouth made an *OHHHHH* shape without actually saying it. "...you'd know that Tara's already deep into our research on Cubecat neurology, and soon the bio-engineering team will be able to advance them to levels of human intelligence."
Amy was embarrassed, confused, angry, she couldn't bear to look Captain Linda directly in her eyes.
So instead she looks at her boobs.
"I... Lindy, I... Wait... How did she do this research?..."
"*Doing*." Linda corrects her. "Right now, in the vivisection theatre."
---
`PART 3 OF 6`
> On average, Cubecat behaviour measures at 15 Adorables Per Second.
Amy was the one who coined the name Cubecat, as well as their most unique talent, Reverse Telepathy. It's fascinating. They change the pigment of their skin, showing images of what they're thinking about on their own faces. Instead of them reading your mind, you can read theirs. It's how they express themselves. It's also involuntary.
Just like Amy's blushing is involuntary, or the tension in her muscles, or her fists clenched so tight around the clicker that her slideshow flashes by in an instant.
> I propose the name Cubecat, due to their visual and audible features. Their bodies are rectangular in shape, and when a family of them sleep together, they pile up on top of each other like a wall of bricks and it is so friggin' cute.
Amy doesn't say another word. She storms out of the lecture hall. Cheetahs are the fastest land animal, and can run up to 120 km/h. Well, it's a third of Earth's gravity, so instead of running, Amy just ends up skipping furiously.
> Not only that, recordings from our hidden miniature microphones reveal that they emit a constant purring-like sound, currently hypothesized to be their tiny cute hearts pumping as fast as they can oh my god yes.
Left. Right. Down the stairs. Left. Amy memorized the spaceship's entire layout on her first day. She wanted so hard to impress Captain Linda, to get through her tough shell, to get her to even acknowledge her. Well, Captain Linda definitely acknowledges Amy now.
> Yeah, I don't think I can do the clinical tone for this report. Real talk. They're adorable as hell. But they're also fragile.
Amy's getting close to the vivisection theatre. She can hear muffled sounds of laughter. There's the door. She bursts through, still skipping, forcing the door to swing hard against the wall with a dramatic BANG announcing her grand entrance.
> Yo, even the mini mikes we left about could endanger their whole species. Like, choking hazard. So I'd say it's best if we only watch from a distance, no invasive research. Let's not be cliché alien researchers and stuff probes in their butts. Or even worse things in their butts.
Everyone turns around to look at Amy, except Tara. She looks like she's digging something out of her luggage bag? Wait. Luggage bags don't scream. Luggage bags don't rapidly change texture, flashing between vividly sharp images of fruits, then an ocean, then a family of Cubecats. Tara makes one last, forceful tug. The Cubecat's skin beneath her slowly fades to black.
> Is that how we to greet the first aliens we bump into? With scalpels, surgery, violent *curiosity*?
Curiosity. She killed the cat. Tara pulls out a brain three times the size of a regular Cubecat skull.
> Is that our legacy?
She holds the brain up high. "This is our legacy."
---
`PART 4 OF 6`
The audience would clap, but they're too busy typing about this great human accomplishment on their Tablets.
So, they cheer verbally. "Yeah Tara!" "Wow, the skin's images were as clear as a Tablet!" "Humanity frick yeah!" "Wait... how'd she get the brain-growth hormone in the cat?" "Whooooooooo! Go Tara!" "She injected the hormone into a native fruit, and fed it to the Cubecat." "Woop Woop Woop Woop" "Hehe... *Their environment grows an abundance of lush, juicy fruits...*" "Shhh! Jim, she's *right* there!" "Oh come on, she can't hear us over all this oh she's looking right at us."
Tara glances around her adoring audience. Wait. Who is that, just standing there, turned around. "Amy?" Tara throws the enlarged Cubecat brain over to her assistant, who catches most of it. "Amy, are you okay?"
"How many, Tara."
Tara doesn't need to ask how many of what. They've spent long nights discussing this.
"...Fifty-eight."
"A peaceful alien civilization... and we kill 58 of them."
"Amy..."
"Captain's orders?"
"Amy, please, I tried to minimize the number of experiments we..."
"I'm not mad at you, Tara. She probably also told you not to tell me, right?"
Tara doesn't tell Amy.
Amy stays silent for a long while. Possums play dead to make would-be predators think they're rotten meat. She's just staring off into the distance, while the rest of the crowd gets uncomfortable, and starts shuffling back into the hallway. "Awk-waaaaaard..." "Jim seriously shut up." "Lighten up, man, I-- woops, pardon me, Cap'n." Amy slowly turns her head around. Captain Linda strides with pride towards her, Tara, and an empty Cubecat.
"Tara, excellent work. On behalf of the Programme, we would like to commemorate your contributions tomorrow morning in the Atrium. Check your schedule." Tara pulls out her Tablet, and taps on the new notification for more details.
"Oh! Thank you. What flavour is the cake?"
"Chocolate. Tara, may I speak with Amy in private?"
Tara silently turns towards Amy, as if to telepathically say *I'm sorry* and *Good luck*.
"I love chocolate."
Tara walks to the exit. She grabs the doorknob -- it has a scratch from when Amy slammed it against the wall -- and quietly shuts the door.
---
`PART 5 OF 6`
Deep-sea anglerfish lure in their prey, by dangling a tiny light in the darkness.
Amy doesn't want to talk first. Linda holds up her Tablet, displaying the Edit Member Settings page for Amelia Takovsky. The captain hovers her finger over the plus and minus buttons next to Amy's Rank Level. Currently at Level 2. Amy flinches. And then, Captain Linda presses the plus button. *Level Up*, the device calls out, followed by a happy *ting-a-ling-a-ling*.
Amy talks first. "Wait, what?"
"This increases your security clearance. That way, I won't have to leave you in the dark about things like..." Linda motions to the dead Cubecat. "...this. I promise you, Amy, no more of this. We've found what we were looking for. We can now make first contact with this alien civilization. I'm sorry for lying to you. That was wrong of me."
Amy doesn't know whether to be ecstatic or suspicious. "You're apologizing... to me?"
Linda places her left hand on Amy's shoulder.
"Amy. I want to help you, whether it's your Rank Level or resources or anything else."
Her hand slides down Amy's back.
"We both have needs. I think we can help each other out."
She pulls her closer.
"Don't freeze up on me, Amy. I know you want this."
She's now whispering a mere inch away from her face.
"I've seen the way you look at me during presentations. Answer me one thing. If we're the same biological sex..."
Linda jams her right hand into the front of Amy's pants.
"...what's the evolutionary advantage of *this*?"
Amy instinctively swings her shoulder around, shoving Linda backwards. The captain stumbles, and knocks over the hollowed-out Cubecat beside her onto the floor. Spongy organs. Blue blood. Linda looks down at the mess, then looks up to find Amy sprinting for the exit.
She didn't even look back.
Just as well. Linda didn't want Amy to see her involuntary physical response to being rejected.
---
`PART 6 OF 6`
> Ooh nice weather we're having today
Tara's shoulder is getting wet from Amy's tears.
> The sky is a shiny bright yellow, the grass is glorious shade of purple, and all around you, you can hear the constant purring heartbeat of the Cubecats. It's simply Edenic. But far away, just on the horizon of the green sea, a figure in white is approaching. A strange visitor. With a stranger gift.
"Why the hell did we evolve intelligence?" Amy's incoherent rant is punctuated only by her sobbing. "The intelligence to hunt, farm, and harm? To lie, cheat, and manipulate other people's feelings! Why are we so stupid. Why can't we just *be* stupid? Stupid and happy like every other animal in the world."
> The figure in white steps onto the shore. Green water still drips from her legs as she makes footprints in the pink sand. The Cubecats gather around her. They look at her. The more they think about her, the stronger her image appears on their skin.
Tara pat Amy on her back. "Amy... you're one of the most brilliant people I know. I love every bit of your research report. Even your wacky tone of voice." Amy laughs. Tara is happy to see her happy.
> The figure looks down at the curious, cubic creatures.
> On their skin, she sees an image of herself. She's made them in her image.
Tara continues speaking. "I named every one of them, you know, the Cubecats we experimented on. I remember all 58 of them. Carl. He was the final one. In his last moments, on his skin, I saw that he thought about his family. But did you see how sharply defined the image was? Most Cubecats' thoughts are fuzzy and unclear, but Carl... he had intelligence."
> "Fellow beings of the universe," she begins her speech. "My name is Lindaway Roosevelt, of Planet Earth, from the Milky Way Galaxy." Captain Linda was just saying this for herself, considering how the Cubecats wouldn't know about Planet Earth, the Milky Way, or any of the English language, really.
Amy wasn't really paying attention to what Tara was saying. She was just glad to hear a friend's voice. She let Tara talk. "Intelligence is what refines our raw emotions. You said so yourself, in that article you published before we flew off. Animals can be happy. But we can be excited, content, proud, surprised, grateful, relieved, and yes... in love."
> "I would like to offer your world a gift." The captain holds up a basket of native fruits. All injected with brain-growth hormones, of course. "Eat these, and you may someday join our ranks in exploring this vast, wondrous universe."
Tara holds Amy in her arms. "You'll be okay."
> "Dear Cubecats, I hereby give you the gift..."
> Lindy holds out a fruit.
> "...of Knowledge."
---
`END`
`2000+ words. Wow that was a long (but fun) story to write. Thank you for sticking through it!`
`It's been one week since I started writing one story per day on r/WritingPrompts.`
`Great practice. Greater community. Thank you all for all your prompts & feedback!`
`Now excuse me while I have carpal tunnel syndrome.` | 70 | Humans manage to contact an alien civilization. They are less intelligent than us. | 90 |
Two men were standing on the metal landing above a fire escape style staircase, surveying the scene in front of them. Ten rows of one hundred desks stretched out, each with a typewriter on top of them. At each desk sat what at first looked like a man in a brown suit, from this distance at least, however the unearthly shrieks and howls proved them to be monkeys. The bewildering sight was only made more confusing by the fact that at each scream of a monkey, a robotic arm would stretch down from the heavens and remove the piece of paper that that monkey was working on.
The first man turned his back on them, and spoke over the noise. "Number 729 is a prodigy, he's come out with six new series in the last two years."
He was proud, and sure his boss would be pleased with the efforts of 729.
"Is this the Harry Potter?"
"No, that was 726. 729 is the Divergent, and the Series of Unfortunate Events as well as a good few others."
"Good, good. What about 420? I'd heard there'd been an incident."
"Yeah... We had to let 420 go, she broke her typewriter and started throwing... Well Sir, she was throwing her faeces at the other monkeys. She ruined the latest Song of Ice and Fire."
"Oh dear... She was never the same after Twilight."
Suddenly an alarm blared out, the monkeys all went berserk, screaming cacophonously and jumping up and down on their chairs.
"Oh God, not again." One of the men said. They ran from the typewriter room into a normal looking office space; desks were filled with people looking over manuscripts, some just reading, others were highlighting ferociously, with the concentration of a lioness hunting a particularly badly injured antelope.
As they reached the end of the office, the alarm cut out, and a security guard ran over.
"Mr Weldon, she has been detained. We go her again, she saw nothing."
"Good, take me to her. Davies, come with me."
They moved in to a small room, where a woman was sitting. Davies saw that her wrists were bound together tightly, and he breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn't seen anything, and wasn't going anywhere to look. Today at least.
"Let me go!" The woman shouted.
"Now now, Ms Talipa, you know it's not going to be that easy, what you have done here is trespassing. We can't allow people to just freely wander around our company, even journalists such as yourself, there are highly confidential manuscripts here."
"People deserve to know that their books are being written by monkeys!!" She screamed. "They are being lied to, and I will make sure they find out."
"I don't think even you think that that ridiculous accusation is true." Mr Weldon said "And even if it was, do you think the public would believe you?"
He untied her wrists and swept his arm to the door. "But feel free to write your story, if you think people 'deserve to know', security will let you out."
The journalist was all but dragged out, kicking and screaming "I will find proof, and then I will show people that they are being spoon fed stories written by monkeys!"
Security dragged her to the front entrance, where she was thrown through the doors. She looked up and saw the big silver letters. Random House. | 19 | One thousand monkeys. One thousand typewriters. One thousand little writing prompts. | 20 |
I call it the wireless waltz. The way they’d do it, God, it should have been obvious even then. The meaningless conversations, the empty laughter, the eye-avoidance, all while maintaining their constant, awkward advance, closing in as near as possible for the best connection. For a long time, I thought I was just an approachable guy. Turns out my friends wanted to *hang out* with me in the same sense that I wanted to *hang out* with my microwave when I was hungry; I was being used.
I’d always had my condition. Netflix never buffered when I wanted to binge Breaking Bad, and I could browse reddit all day without 3G. I figured it was a nice advantage for my personal life, but thought little else of it. But it doesn’t take a genius to figure out where to find the best hotspot when a network name like *walter-body-wifi* shows up on your list, so I was eventually accessed by others.
Grade school was fine, but high school was different. I struggled with it for a long time, but it took until now to really understand my overwhelming sense of loneliness. After all, I seemed popular. It was never an effort to find a place to sit at lunch, and a table would fill as soon as I sat down. Put me in the middle of room S4 for study hall, and sure enough, my classmates would pack the desks around me like penguins huddling for warmth. It didn’t matter to me that most of their time was spent on Twitter or Instagram. That’s what kids do, right? Maybe more so around me than others.
Sure enough, by senior year I had become suspicious, and that was only because of how lazy my peers were about their leech-like behavior. Having grown comfortable with their situation, the vampires sat down right next to me without a word, immediately opening up their Snapchat, draining me like a delicious carotid artery; only these vampires didn’t need to ask permission before entering. *But I could change that.*
So now I’m sitting sit here in class, writing to you about my dilemma. Like heat-seeking missiles, login-ins are bombarding my hotspot, and I can *feel* them now. Maybe the tingling is all in my head, but the situation is real, and I’m ready to act. I want to pull the trigger, turn on my password, but I’m still hesitating. Am I ready to sit alone at lunch? Am I ready to face isolation? Would *you*, kind reader, who could be on my network right now for all I know?
To lock, or not to lock.
| 30 | You are you, except your body is also a WiFi hotspot. You slowly realize your friends are just using you for free internet access. | 44 |
His eyes began to flutter open. He picked his head up off his desk and stretched his arms into the air. Brent loved napping on his desk. It was just so comfy. As he yawned and opened his eyes, he was greeted with an empty classroom. He looked up ahead at the clock above the whiteboard. 7 PM.
"Aww man, seriously?"
Brent grabbed his bag off the back of his chair and sprinted out the door. How could no one have woken him up? Classes went until 3 and after school clubs let out at 5. There were a number of opportunities for *someone* to wake him up. He ran down the hall and out the front door. The sun was setting and the street lights had already came on. He started jogging towards his home. His parents were going to be pissed. As he ran, Brent looked around. He knew this was a rather small town but it was odd no one was out. He ran by gas stations still lit up with no one inside, cars still hooked up to gas pumps but no one pumping gas. This was weird but Brent had to get home.
He opened the door and threw his bag to the side.
"Mom, Dad I'm back!"
No response. He was expecting them to be waiting for him but nothing. Not even his little sister coming to greet him. He walked into the living room. The television was on *ESPN* but his dad wasn't in there. Brent was growing worried. He made his way to the kitchen.
"Hey mom is dad out or-"
Brent saw the oven was on but his mom wasn't in the kitchen. He went over to the oven, grabbed a rag and pulled dinner from the oven. The oven was on, the lasagna was still in there, but no one watching it. He set down the hot pan and turned off the oven. He pursed his lips and thought. He left the kitchen and went upstairs. He flung open his parents door. No one. He went to his sisters room.
"Erika!"
Her pink room sat empty, toys strewn about the floor. Brent went took a few steps backwards. He pulled out his phone and called his mom. Did they leave and not let him know? But if they did that why was there still food in the oven? The phone rang but no answer. His dad didn't answer either. He started calling his friends. Sending them texts, waiting for responses. But no one ever answered. He ran in front of his house.
"Hello," he shouted into the sky, "is there anyone here? Hello!"
He heard an owl off in the distance. Brent became frantic. He went from neighbor to neighbor, pounding on there door but getting no response. He ran back to his garage and grabbed his bike. He pedal hard and fast, racing through the streets to get the town square. The square was still lit up. Cars were still parked outside the shops and offices, some cars were still at stop signs and lights. All the shops were still open but like everywhere else, there was no one. Brent was alone. A city that once had a population of three-thousand, had somehow become a population of one. He dropped his bike off in front of a shop and walked over to the gazebo in the park in the middle of the square. He sat down and hung his head. Brent had never felt like this before. This overwhelming sadness. This sense of loneliness. Just a few hours ago, he was in school, surrounded by other students and teachers. His mom had woken him up this morning and he said goodbye to his family when he walked out the door this morning. He had walked by people watering their lawns, people going to work. Suddenly everyone was gone.
"This doesn't have to happen you know."
Brent's head shot up. There was a woman sitting across from him. She was nude. Brent's eyes widened. A smoking hot naked girl and no one around in the whole town? As strange as it was, he was living his sixteen year old fantasy, and he didn't really care. He stared at her. Her pale skin bathed in the moon light. Her dark hair, draping over her chest. He couldn't stop smiling. He pretended to scratch his nose and tried to look cool.
"Um, miss I think you may want to put some clothes on," he pretended to be bashful, "it gets cold out here at night."
"This doesn't have to happen."
"No, no! I want this to happen, I'm sorry you're free to do as you please."
"Are you not concerned for Erika?"
Brent's eyes narrowed. He stood up, fists clenched.
"How do you know my sister? What the hell is this?"
The woman turned her head, staring off into the distance.
"This doesn't have to happen."
"What the hell are you talking about? Where is everyone?"
The nude woman turned her body and pointed into the sky.
"They have been taken. This doesn't have to happen though. You can stop it."
Brent was taken back.
"What do you mean they were taken? Like abducted by aliens? That doesn't make any sense. Look who are you? What's really happening here?"
She turned back to face Brent. Brent resisted the urge to look down, trying to keep his resolve as solid as possible. This was serious, he didn't need to be taken in by feminine wiles. Then the girl started to walk his way. Brent began stepping backwards.
"Woah, hey. Miss let's pump the brakes for a second, this a serious matter."
He felt his back of his legs hit the seat behind him and he stopped where he stood. The woman was in front of him now. She was even prettier up close. Her eyes met with his his. She was so close to him.
"Claire."
"Okay, Claire. What happened to the town? Can you-"
She hushed him placing a finger over his lips. His heart was beating quickly. Her eyes were still locked on his.
"You can stop this," she said again.
She leaned in close. Brent had nowhere to run. She started for his neck. He was okay with this. Brent decided to just go with it. He tried as long as he could, this was just going with the flow. He felt her lips on his neck. And then a sharp bite.
"Jesus Christ!!"
"Mr. Fields," Brent looked up and saw his teacher, "if you're going to sleep in my class, at least have the decency to stay asleep and not interrupt my lecture."
He looked around the room, his class looked at him. Some looked annoyed by his outburst, while most snickered. He adjusted himself in his seat and cleared his throat.
"I'm sorry about that."
His teacher glared for a moment then returned to the board. Brent could feel the sweat on his brow. That dream had been so real. And damn what a dream. But still he felt uneasy.
"Hey, Brent."
Brent looked over at his classmate who sat next to him.
"How'd you get the hickey man," he asked gesturing at Brent's neck, "who you seein'?"
Brent felt at his neck. It hurt. It was still damp. He remembered the dream. At the end, that girl, Claire bit him. Brent swallowed hard. This was strange, and he had a feeling things would only get stranger.
Edit: Just a heads up for those who asked, I'm currently working on a follow up. | 18 | A boy falls asleep in class, and wakes up to find the school and the town uninhabited. | 38 |
Tim was pinned down behind the sofa. The team that had hit the safehouse was smart, professional, they had hit the kitchen hard and driven the defenders away from the all-important refrigerator. Thankfully he had managed to get near one of his food stashes to hole up while returning fire.
"We know you got the shipment. None of you have to die just give it up and we'll be on our way." a voice shouted from the kitchen. Shotgun blasts and handgun fire in response seemed to indicate the defenders were not to willing to part with their goods so easy.
He saw an arm pop out from a doorway and a series of shots were sprayed blindly in his direction. With careful aim he hit the arm square in the elbow. A loud scream pierced the air but Tim knew it was meaningless, two months ago a shot like that would have meant the enemy was disabled for the battle, they might even have bled out if they didn't treat the wound properly, now it was merely an annoyance.
Somehow the human body was able to process food to repair physical damage at incredible speeds, when it first happened people thought the wounded were some sort of mutants, then it became clear anyone could do it. It emboldened a few lunatics to go on shooting sprees but soon enough people figured out that getting shot in the brain or heart was still pretty much fatal and that getting gutshot might not kill you right away, but it did make downing a cheeseburger a real test of your willpower.
"Each of us have 5 protein bars on our person. As I speak there are 5 buckets of 12 piece original KFC chicken on the kitchen table. We are effectively immortal. There is no reason for you to die." The voice shouted.
"Fuck man, five buckets." Greg shouted from down the hallway from where Tim was pinned down. "We're fucked man. I only got two apples in here."
Tim cursed that fast food hadn't been regulated or outlawed yet. Tragically Big Food had followed the NRA's gameplan to a tee to crush any hope of legislation on ready to eat meals and their dangerous new role in America. "The only thing that can stop a bad guy with a gun and a double quarter pounder, is a good guy with a gun and a Big King." or so said the memes he'd seen for the past month days.
He had to do something. He pulled out the two skinned oranges he had and jammed one of them in his mouth. It was a tactic known as 'squirrelling' and with his cheeks puffing out he understood why.
He put a fresh clip in his 9mm and took a deep breath. He popped up from his hiding spot and started shooting towards the kitchen door. A man popped out from the side of the door frame exposing a bit of his body and head. Tim aimed and fired and saw the shot hit home right above the man's eye.
Unfortunately for Tim a bullet from the man's gun hit the man in Tim's chest. Tim was lightheaded and the room began to swim around him. A burning sensation indicated he'd been shot in the leg as well. He forced his jaws down on the orange slices and willed himself forward, blindly shooting at the doorway.
His eyes opened to see two men dead, their bodies practically on top of each other and a third man at the other end of the room with a gaping wound in his midsection. The man was gnawing on a chicken thigh.
"Chicken has been compromised. Repeat, chicken has been compromised. If the package is secure escape through window and get back to HQ." the man barked into a radio as the colonel's eleven herbs and spices tended to his wounds. Tim pointed his gun at him and pulled the trigger but there was nothing but a dull click. He was out of ammo.
The man rose and drew a knife in one hand and a drumstick in the other. "Let's dance" he shouted at his charged at Tim. He blocked a thrust from the knife and got cracked by a punch from the chicken hand. a kick to the ribs and then a left to the body turned the tide for Tim as the man staggered away and took a bite of his chicken.
Outside a horrible thud and a sickening crack could be heard as the two goons who had stolen the package fell from the second floor. One of them shattered his leg in such a way that if Joe Theismann and Kevin Ware's broken legs had had a broken leg baby this would have been it. The other goon stumbled to his feet and started forcing a protein bar down his throat. Moments later the maimed goon was as good as new and they rushed off with the package.
Tim noticed out of the corner of his eye that the leader of the attack team was watching the scene play out with the same wonder he was. A blast of gunfire hit and Tim saw Greg charging into the room. Two more shots to the commander's chest and he hit the ground.
"They got the package. Fuck man, what we going to do?" Greg asked.
"I don't know. Eat some chicken?" Tim replied.
Greg shrugged. They wordlessly agreed to eat chicken.
Edit: Made Greg's final comment a question. | 27 | Life on earth takes an odd turn when food starts healing people like they do in video games. | 64 |
-It’s impressive, uh? Always takes your breath away the first time, he said with a sincere smile.
I know Mondays morning are notoriously difficult, but I must say that I was not prepared for that particular one. A shitty file, a difficult client or a moody boss are something, but literal hell is, well, something else.
When I had stepped into the elevator with the CEO from my company that morning, I did not really care. I was a random, average employee whose name he did not know or care to know; as long as I don’t punch him square in the face, I thought, our relations will not go further than “good morning sir” and he will have forgotten me in a minute, which is good enough for me. I don’t like to stand out.
But it did not happen that way. As soon as the doors closed, he turned to me and smiled a smile full of joy you’d expect to see on the face of a loving grandfather, not on the face of a ruthless CEO. And yet he smiled and called me by my name.
-How are we today, John?
-Er, good, er, Mister, thank you very much.
I was taken aback and could not think of a smart thing to say. But the worst was to come.
-You know, I have closely followed you these last days, and your work, and I must say that I am impressed.
-Oh, er, thank you very much, I mean, I try my hardest, er, for the company.
I had not done anything outstanding since… Well, I don’t think I ever did. At that point I thought it was still small talk from a CEO who happened to be very happy this morning.
-Oh, no, I’m not talking about that. I meant how you shifted the blame on the not renewed guarantee on the Dickerson & Johnson file. Poor Catherine, right? You certainly made it sound like it was her fault!
I felt the most ignominious shiver down my spine.
-And the way you’re slowly destroying your best friend’s couple just so you can have a shot with Jane when she comes crying on your shoulder? My my, aren’t you an inventive man. They don’t suspect a thing and you’re at it for more than six months.
-How the fuck can you possibly know-
I stopped there, realizing I had admitted my guilt. The CEO kept smiling, took a card out of a pocket and put it in a slit just below the elevator panel. We started to go down, slowly at first then faster.
-I know a lot of things, John, a lot of things. His smile had not moved an inch. Those two examples are just the most recent questionable things you’ve done, am I right?
-Where are we going? We’ve passed the parking – where is this thing going?
He did not answer. I was paralyzed, not so much by fear than by the fact that I did absolutely not know what was happening. It was supposed to be a boring Monday, not… Whatever was happening. The elevator finally stopped, and I felt an atrocious heat on my face as the door opened. In front of me, with no end in sight, was fire, molten rocks, gigantic burst of lava and burning gas; and all you could hear was the screams of millions and millions of voices, all joined in a choir of suffering, in this cauldron of agony.
-It’s impressive, uh? Always takes your breath away the first time, he said with a sincere smile.
-What in the fuck… What the fuck… What the hell…?
-Well, hell, you said it, he said with a chuckle. That’s hell. Literally. Where we torture bad people, you know? Look, he said with a gesture.
On some kind of rock formation, above the lava, I saw dark figures leaning on frail shadows, manipulating various tools as each of their movements was making the poor damned souls howl in pain. Sometimes, as if they grew bored of a toy, the figures were throwing them back into the rolling fire, and off they were going to choose another victim.
-I… I’m not a good man, but… I mean, I don’t deserve *this*. There are monsters in this world! Rapists, murderers… Pedophiles… War criminals… I don’t, I mean, I’m not supposed to…
The man – who I could not call my CEO anymore – just laughed.
-Oh, John, John, Johnny. Of course you’re not ending there. This place is for people that commit crimes way more horrible than yours. What you are is not a soul to be fed to this place, what you are is a coward. A little coward, a weak, pathetic shadow of a man who would betray everyone and everything to save his own life, a backstabber, a liar, a traitor who lacks ambition to do anything worth noticing. And I need people like you, he added. Look.
He showed me Hell with another gesture of his hand.
-There are so many wicked men to be tortured here. And I have so few… workers. What I offer you is… a promotion, he said, showing me the shadows that were busy torturing the damned.
I did think about refusing, but not for long. After a few seconds, I turned to him and shook the hand of the man who was, indeed, my CEO. | 31 | The CEO steps into the elevator with you. With the swipe of his ID, the elevator goes to an unlisted floor and opens up to a bottomless chasm of rolling fire. He asks you a personal question. | 25 |
"All right, folks, I'll get that paperwork started!"
He slapped the shiny sedan on the trunk and headed towards the dealership. Other salesmen were working other customers. One was clearly struggling with a family of four, another had got stuck with an irate looking old guy, and a third was trying to charm a snooty, twenty-something red-head. *Poor bastards,* he thought. *I always get the easy ones.*
His whole life he had heard people say that the world was full of assholes, or that everyone was only out for themselves. That wasn't his experience at all. Most of the people he had met would give anyone the shirt right off their back.
The other guys still couldn't believe that someone he met in a coffee shop had offered to pay for his college. But it happened. The same way that man he met at the beach when he was 12 had wanted to give him that jet-ski. The same way all of his teachers in high school would try so hard to see things from his perspective, even if it wasn't exactly what the textbook said. The world was full of nice people. He noticed it more the older he got.
"Another one?" his supervisor asked. It was a nice office, and everything in it looked expensive. He remembered how huge and unexpected it had seemed on his first day. They sold Lexus, but still.
"Yep, easy peezy," he said, sitting down.
"Have you lost a sale yet, chief?"
"Uh, I don't know, probably. I've had some pretty good luck so far."
"You don't want the other guys to resent you. You're pretty smart."
"I don't know about that," he said with a shy grin.
"Right. Well I'll tell you what I know. You've been here for 2 months, and I already get the feeling that if you weren't going off to college in a few weeks, you'd be running this place some day."
"I'll take over right now if you want," he joked, "but I don't know how Mr. Seger would feel about an 18 year old managing his-"
"Yeh, okay, let's see what we can do," his boss said.
"Right, right," he said. "You just take an early retirement and I'll move my stuff into this gigantic-."
His supervisor picked up the phone and punched in a number.
"Oh, you need to make a call? I'll just get out of your-"
His supervisor waved him back into his chair and held up a finger. "Mr. Seger. Yes, it's Bill. I hate to spring this on you right now, but I'm thinking about an early retirement. Nope, not a joke, Richard. Look we can work out all the details later. Yes, I know, Richard. Anyway listen, I've got a replacement all lined up. He's the best, better than I ever was. You're coming in today? Great, see you in a few."
*What just happened?*
"What do you think, chief? You happy?" His boss smiled in a way that was very familiar. Faces flashed through his mind. The man at the beach. His high school teachers. The woman in the coffee shop. The dozens upon dozens of girls who had given him their virginity.
*Oh...* | 15 | You suddenly realize that what you had mistaken for simply being agreeable and charming is the power to make people think whatever you want | 34 |
We are all gathered here, at the last star in the universe. All of us that are left, that is. I look at the scanner report. So many species, the brilliant and the terrible, didn't make it. Those of us that made it are lucky more than anything else.
Our civilisation used to command a fleet of ships just like this one, harnessing the energy from hundreds of thousands of stars in our galaxy. We were an empire so vast that entire generations could live and die before the light from one extreme reached the other. And now we are here with the rest, beggars squabbling over the last scraps of usable energy.
We are the only living representatives from our galactic cluster. Others may have similar stories. I cannot bear to hear them out nor relate our own account, for all the emotional distance communicating through translator modules would give us. There are but a few billion of our brood left, less than a thousandth of a percent of the population we once had. The scale of death is maddening.
The ship is running out of energy. We cannot support all our people using the output of this dying star, not without casting our solar nets wider and damning some other ship in our shadow to a cold death. We need to concentrate our energy where the young can have a chance at a life, short though it will be. The council has asked that the old consider leaving. I am old, and I would like to walk on a planet's surface once before I die.
Enough of us make the sacrifice. The scientists have calculated that those that remain should be able to survive for a few years yet, though without the comforts that they would have had with our full energy reserves. We take our smaller ships down to the closest planet with a few weeks of food and energy to run our personal assistants. Many will want to make a log of their final days, though no one will ever read them.
The world beneath us is cold. The plant and animal life is adapted to the temperatures, but there are clear signs that they evolved in a much warmer climate. I look to the sky. The star is visible. The ships surrounding the star have all left enough room for light to shine upon the inhabited planets in this system. At least, at the end, we all have that kindness in us.
I do not wish to stay with the group. There are some others with a like mind. We say our goodbyes and walk out into the cold, our suits protecting us. I take no food with me. I do not plan to live much longer. The wanderers split up into groups. I go alone.
I see in the distance a small hill. I think that it is a good place to die. I climb it, and sit at its crest. I look at the sky again, but a shade of the sky dome on the ship. I feel afraid. I activate the euthanasia module on my personal assistant. The chemicals start to calm me down. I have only a few minutes of consciousness left.
Keeping this record is futile. Even if this is not the final end of the universe, even if there is some sort of big crunch to start it anew, no information will survive the process. But then, that's been true all along. The purpose of life is not in the remembering but in the living. And I have lived well.
=
**EDIT:** Before I forget, I'm planning to add notes to future me or other interested people about my thoughts while writing prompts.
* Downer ending I decided against: "You may think that I am noble, for first volunteering to leave the safety of the ship, and then for taking no food with me. The truth is I am not noble. I have lived my entire life on a world-ship lit in imitation of a star; I am afraid of the dark."
* Canonically, the protagonist isn't human. He's from a society more closely related to our ants (think the Formics from Ender's Game, only with no queen caste - just a strong sense of social obligation). This society is significantly more advanced than our own, with a total energy consumption somewhere between 2 and 3 on the [Kardashev scale](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kardashev_scale) (i.e. they use more than the total energy output of a star and less than that of a galaxy). The society has no faster than light communication, so the different world-ships and planets were more or less isolated (a single world-ship would use energy comparable to a high-tech Earth). The world-ship the protagonist is born on was lucky enough to be able to determine where the last star would burn out and get there before it did.
* Time dilation from the world-ship's high-speed journey towards the last star means the time the inhabitants of the ship experienced was less than what ships that remained more or less stationary would get. This is another factor behind why they would be the only ones of their species there. The fact that any ship made that choice could be boiled down to wanting their species to "last to the end", even if they experience less subjective time in doing so.
* Brood of 1 billion = less than a thousandth of a percent of original population implies the original was >100,000 billion, which fits with the "hundreds of thousands of stars" thing (keep in mind planets can easily support more than a billion with advanced tech). A galaxy can definitely have enough stars for that to be the case. Also note that this means that their population would still be spread out over many light years (the nearest star to us is over 4 light years away, for example) even if they weren't on the fringes like this world-ship was.
* Alternate version I rejected was quite rambling and didn't have a coherent theme. It featured a conversation with the "primitives" on the planet in the story. I couldn't come up with anything that they would say to each other beyond "Nice to have some company for the end of all life." I thought about revealing the planet to be Earth, or the "primitives" descendants of humans or something. The idea seemed wrong, partly because it's so typical of us humans to make a story about the end of the universe all about us. | 215 | The Heat Death of the Universe. At the end of time the Stars are burning out as they use up the last of their fuel. There is only one Star left in the known Universe and all remaining life has gathered around it. | 341 |
"Sorry, did you say the *Appcalypse*?" said the man, not having touched his morning paper for the past five minutes as he and his eccentric new guest sat on a bench at the train station.
The disheveled man nodded. "That's right, yes, I did. Thank you sir. The thing is though, the Appcalypse is fine. The *problem*," he looked around, as if expecting there to be men in suits and earpieces nearby, then cupped his hand over his mouth and whispered, "Is the *Russians.*".
The weary-looking, one man audience to this day's train station wacko sighed and folded up his newspaper for good. Clearly this wasn't going to end, but it was too crowded around them to move. "The Russians huh? Is that right?"
"Uh huh. Yup."
"Why are the Russians a problem? And what do they have to do with the App...the Appcalypse, anyway?"
"Oh, they helped to make all *those* apps." he said, his voice rising slightly. "All those weird free ones that you see on the store, the ones that don't seem to charge anything, but really you're paying with your freedom! Your smart phone is transmitting the data right to the Russians!"
"Right."
"That's why the government shut down all the Apps! All yer...paleo diet collections, various to-do lists, period trackers, you know."
The man rolled his eyes. "Of course. I used the period tracker often."
"But n'more!" he threw his arms and yelled. "GONE!" he stood up on the bench, now laughing wildly as passerby put down their old, non digital books and MP3 players and looked over towards the dirty prophet. "The Appcalypse has come! You all called me crazy last week, but who's laughing now!?"
The man who shared the bench kept as much distance from him as possible, now trying to not come into contact with his pants which were suspiciously wet as the man danced in front of him.
"And now the Russians are taking all the data the apps collected! The country sold us out so they could have our-"
"Our what, Don't Touch the White Tile high scores?" said a random woman in the crowd.
There were some mumbles at this, mostly the complaints that people hacked their way onto the leaderboards, and the conversation quickly spiraled from there. The train station prophet seemed to pay no attention and continued his mad cackling. Suddenly there was a voice on the speaker, sounding nothing like the computerized announcer who obediently provided train arrival times.
"Train is ten minute late. Is slow today. Sorry for, how you say, delay."
"Was that guy Russian?" said a woman.
"Pay no mind to Stanislaus," said another voice. "He is new today."
"You're Russian too!" cried one person. "What's going on!?" said another.
"Anyone like to play QuizUp? I read question out loud. Stacey is level 67 in Doctor Who. We do that first."
"Sweet!" said a high voice somewhere in the crowd. | 23 | "The Appcalypse is fine. The problem is the Russians." | 27 |
A shaft of sunlight hits the still figure on my desk, penetrating it's structure and bathing it's supple form in warmth. I observe the desirable object as it lays there, waiting for me to take it. But today, I feel like playing with myself - how shall I take it, perhaps not right now, let us linger and let desire mount. I think of the taste, rich and creamy, and I feel the fluids of my body setting into motion.
It has started.
My trembling hand reaches toward the ample darkness, soft and mysterious. I caress it. I imagine it in my mouth.
Ever so slowly, I start undressing it, certain now that I shall not be refused. I can feel wetness under my fingers, a sure sign that it is time and that I cannot linger more.
I get feverish. The wraps fall away as I yearn for what is due to me. It is over fast and I can behold what I have desired for so long, laid bare before me, ready and willing. In a rush of heat to my face, I realize how much I need this release.
Time to get down to business. I lick my lips. I bend forward, over my desk.
"Finally got started on that easter egg, honey ?" Mom smiles from the door. | 25 | Describe the most innocent thing in the dirtiest way possible | 29 |
Duels weren't what they used to be.
In a land where man challenged man with a pistol in his hand and paced away ten steps, the glory of the duel had dissipated with the chivalry that died just the same.
They had laughed at him, when he stepped out of the carriage and walked into the Wild West bar dressed in fine Victorian garb. They had sneered and jeered at him and his clean-shaven face and light, airy step as he walked. They called him names and degraded him as he drank his own fine whiskey, from his own gold-leafed carrying case, and minded his own business.
It was all laughter until he challenged the first man to a duel. He rose to his full height--taller than all the dark-haired, dirty-skinned men of the west--and brandished a polished rapier on his hip.
The two men took their fight out into the dusty streets of the small, near-barren town. One held a pistol while the other held the antiquated rapier in meticulous condition.
Back to back the two paced out ten paces from the other. Each step was a gait for the western man, and a fluid glide for the foreign visitor who still had yet to say a word. Once they reached the end, both turned to face each other, yet neither drew their weapon.
Time was displaced; the dust blew around the two of them, tossing debris about as if it were only paper. Silence was the voice of this engagement. Suddenly, the six shooter was drawn and let loose one of its leaden rounds.
As if performing a dance routine, the swordsman spun, dodging the first round fired, pirouetting toward the gunman still bearing no expression.
With a mute musical sway, the swordsman then dodged the following five rounds as if they were nothing, having loosed from the barrel of a now-empty revolver.
Now the gunman stumbled backward, the swordsman only a step away. As he turned to run, he instead fell flat on his back. The swordsman, untouched, finally spoke. "Deserving." And he ran the tip of his rapier surgically through the jugular.
The swordsman wiped the hot, wet blood from the tip of his blade and returned to his drink.
He'd always believed that guns were a coward's weapon.
| 11 | He'd always believed that guns were a coward's weapon | 16 |
I'm a nobody. A rank and file soldier with no special skills, no special training, and no real value other than to be a body in a larger formation. My value is in adding to a larger number of nobodies to create a whole platoon of nobodies. They gave us each a gun, a grenade, and a pistol. Bastards didn't even give us another clip. They expected us to use the ammo from the people that died around us. Told us to use our dead brothers in arms' corpses as shields. Hell, even our operation was just a stalling tactic to allow the communications guys to move out. The fucking radios were worth more than us.
None of us really know what we're fighting for. We were told that there were bad guys in blue jackets. Shoot them before they shoot us. Stay in your group. Don't give up ground. That's all the orders we got. I'm sure that the guys on the other side got the same bullshit orders we got. It's been 12 hours since we were given those orders, and for 12 hours our group of 67 men has dwindled down to just 12.
55 men lost. 55 families destroyed. 12 poor souls left stuck in a fight they were never meant to win. All so they could keep their precious radio equipment. I couldn't tell how many saps in blue were left on the other side, and I don't really care to poke me head out and check for riflemen with my face. Our ammo is getting low, 6 of us are down to pistols. McCreedy is crying again. I don't blame him. We were lucky to even make it this far.
The silence of the stalemate breaks with a shout in some foreign language. It was the first sign of enemy activity in an hour. With a sigh, I pull out a shard of glass to use as a mirror. Someone's got to do something. I don't have all day to just wait around for death. There was but one man, just standing in No Man's Land. I couldn't really make any details, but he was just standing there. No gun.
"It's just one guy. He's got no gun. Any volunteers to put him out of his misery?"
"Yeah, boss. I got one extra bullet for the sod", Joffrey said. He was a good shot. He rolled over to a spot between the sand bags and fallen comrades and rested his gun between the gap. Watching on my makeshift mirror, I saw the bullet hit the bluejacket square in the neck. With a spurt of blood and the sputter of his last breath, he fell to one knee. He gasped, and held is neck for what seemed like an hour.
No one said anything, we were all just waiting for him to fall down. But he didn't. He just knelt in place, coughing up what should have been an impossible amount of blood for a man to lose. I hesitated to ask Joffrey to take another shot. Every bullet was precious, and if this man was just too stubborn to die fast, I was willing to be patient.
Then he stood back up. He let out another bloodcurdling cry as he just stood there. Facing us. Waiting.
"I don't know boss. I hit him right in the jugular. I know I did. You saw the blood!" Joffrey said, worried.
"Give him another."
Without hesitation, Joffrey planted a bullet right between his eyes. The tough bluejacket stumbled backwards, recoiling from the shot. He didn't fall. The fucker didn't fall. I watched this man take a bullet in the *brain*, and he just stood there.
"Give him hell", I growled as I positioned my rifle with half a clip. Those of us that were left began firing him. We gave him every last one of our bullets.
He still stood. Breathing heavily. He met my gaze from our foxhole. It was a look of sadness. Then it donned on me. He was the last one. There had been no return fire after our last volley. No other voices. I took out my knife, and hopped on the barrier. He just stared, letting out another moan. He looked as confused as we did.
When reached within arms length of him, I could see the horror. He was covered head to toe in blood, bullet holes, gunpowder, and scorched bits of his blue jacket. He was hell personified. There were no visible wounds, at least that I could make out from all of the blood.
The knife fell from my hand. All I could say was "What are you...". I didn't speak much of their language. The only thing I could make between the sobbing was "Help". I didn't know what this man was. I didn't know what would happen when, or even if our superiors came back for us. All I knew was that this man wasn't our enemy anymore. He wasn't even human anymore. He had taken several firing squads, and he still stood. He was practically a god. All I could do was extend my hand, and pray he didn't want to kill. I wouldn't blame him if he did.
As I reached out, I said my name, "Kravitz".
He reached out for my hand, and said in a shaky voice "Tolstov".
This was when I met the man who couldn't die. | 14 | A soldier encounters an enemy combatant in battle that can heal from any wound no matter how severe. | 19 |
How did it come to this?
We were simple folk, one with the cycle of nature. We hunted for our food, ate until full, and just kinda wandered around afterwards. There's nothing wrong with that, right? It's how life works.
It all started with Urgablah. They say he stumbled upon a treasure trove of gazelle corpses, probably from an overzealous hunting pack of cheetahs. Urgablah ate more brains at once than any zombie before him.
Somehow, that changed him.
Urgablah started to build. He was seen smashing rocks together to make a sharper rock. Then, with that pointy stone, he began to kill with an unnatural efficiency. There was no need to bite animals to death, just a well placed strike to the neck. Urgablah soon had a surplus of food.
It didn't end there. Rumors have it that Urgablah was able to summon the sun using dry branches from a fallen tree. It was terrifying. The conjured sun chased away our comfortable shadows, and warmed up the cold that preserved our rotten flesh.
Urgablah cleansed meat by offering it in his sun, and then he took it back to feast upon. Urgablah began to grow firmer, his body soon resembled a young ape.
We weren't worried about it at first. It was just one abnormal zombie, right? There are exceptions in life, he would die eventually.
One day, Yarglah stumbled into Urgablah's territory. She was just following the scent of food, and didn't realize who she was approaching.
Urgablah didn't chase her away. He offered her his wasteful amounts of food.
Yarglah tore into the plentiful brains. She feasted.
Then there were two.
By then, we knew eating too many brains caused this disease. The rest of zombiekind were wise enough to avoid the practice. If no one ate more brains than they should, the extraordinary activity would stop there. That's what we thought, anyway.
Despite their horrific illness, Urgablah and Yarglah conceived. Their offspring had the same defect.
These rogue zombies continued to develop unusual traits. They began to speak in an organized code, build enclosed structures, eat deathly green vegetation, and cover themselves with the skin of their food.
Enough was enough, we had to rid the world of this epidemic. We zombies began to hunt these abominations.
We underestimated their strength, as well as their numbers. These creatures had some sort of instinct that made them enjoy reproducing, and they had spread far throughout the land. They built more complex objects, which pierced through our flesh and ended our lives.
We were pushed back, and our numbers dwindled. They had the power of the sun dancing behind them.
Devils who trampled the nature of the world.
Even if we refused to fight, they carried a powerful grudge we can't comprehend. They slaughtered us without mercy.
I am one of the few zombies who remain. The devils have become dominant.
But I will not let zombiekind fall beneath their tyranny. I have learned how to convert their bodies back with a special bite. All that's required for us to rise again is the perfect opportunity.
Until then, we hide in the shadows their suns have not corrupted.
The cataclysm shall come. | 153 | At the beginning of mankind, there were only zombies. They began to evolve and have a human apocalypse. | 112 |
"A fuckin deal if you ask me"
"Ishh bullshit Mike"
"Oh *reaaaaally*?"
"Yup, ain't no free Hotels"
"Ok then, if there ain't not free hotels then let me-let me ashk yous this"
Mike hiccups and throws him self off balance stepping of the curb and into a puddle of water. He pays no attention and stumbles back up onto the curb along side Craig dragging along his already soaked attire. The rain continues to fall.
"How comes, how comes we gots are self all them free beers?"
"Them beers weren't free ya idiot, we hopped our tab"
"A beers free when my wallet ain't lighter"
Mike breaks out into a deep hearty laughter swinging his arm limply around Craig as they turn into parking lot the vacancy sign glowing with a homely inviting yellow, flickering gently off the shadows of the two men stumbling through the puddles. The rain continues to fall.
The door too the lobby swings open slamming into the parallel wall in a synchronized crack with the lightning out side. Two figures are silhouetted in the door frame, one, a foot extended. Mike and Craig barrel through the door giggling to them selves as a pair of eyes draw their attention away from the bullets of rain shooting down the windows and glare at the two happy drunks. The rain continues to fall.
The owner of the hazel spheres waits patiently at her desk, fingers interlaced resting in front, separating her from the loud men. Mike and Craig see her and stumble over to the reception desk eagerly. An old couch facing an empty fireplace behind them.
"So ish it true honey?"
The receptionist stare calmly ahead with a look of contentment on her face her pale skin shows no sign of the smirk ever wrinkling her sharp features, it's integrity preserved in the smoothness of rebirth.
"Ish it true dat me and my friend her can spend the night fer *free*?"
Mike waits earnestly for an answer.
"Ya see my friend here, he don't believe that–"
"Yes, ring the bell"
Her eyes are still.
"Ah, HA!"
Mike playfully punches Craig in the shoulder his eyes grow wide with excitement and he jumps around like a small child on Christmas. Craig breaks away from Mike and slams his hands down on the desk he leans in close to the receptionist who fails to wince from the eye watering odor of alcohol on Craig's breath.
"Ish their some kinda catch to yer whole eshtablishment?"
The receptionist turns slowly to face Craig, but stares into the buttons on his shirt with the meaningless grin and empty stare.
"I'm thinking yous gonna rob us er somtin"
"Ring the bell"
Craig squints at the girl.
"Ish that all you know how to say?"
Craig moves closer inspecting the receptionist, crouching down to make eye contact. Mike tired from his celebration flops down onto the couch and kicks his feet up on the arm rest.
"C'mon Craig give ish a break, your just mad that I was right about thish place"
Craig arrives at eye level with the receptionist he shudders as her gaze goes past him and at the flashes of lighting out side. The rain continues to fall.
"I ashked you a question girly"
Craig clenches his fingers around the edge of the receptionists desk.
"Is. There. A. Catch"
The receptionist breaks here grin into a wide eyed smile. The absent gaze is cemented and then some as she locks her eyes with Craig's.
"Ring. The. Bell"
Craig stands up abruptly he takes a half step back twitching in an attempt to break the connection between himself and the receptionist. Her eyes follow him this time her smile growing wider. The rain continues to fall.
"Craig!"
Mike pulls himself off the couch he makes his way back to the desk.
"I'm tired and I ain't gonna pass up the deal of a lifetime"
Mike walks towards the dark metal press bell on the desk paying no attention to the stillness of his friend.
"If you ain't gonna ring the damn bell then I'll just do it"
Mike slams his hand down on the bell a soft ding resonates in the patter of water on the windows. The rain continues to fall.
Another soft ding is heard from the right side of Mike and Craig two metal doors open into an elevator. The receptionist blinks.
"To your rooms"
She turns towards the elevator. Mike instantly trots over to the doors leaving Craig staring blankly at the side of the receptionists head his teeth clenched.
"Hey Craig!"
Mike calls from the elevator. Craig doesn't move his eyes are staring farther now. The rain continues to fall.
"Craig"
The receptionist quietly continues to smile her gaze still towards the elevator. Craig turns and walks towards the elevator taking his position next to Mike who is leaning up against the wall eyeing the buttons. Craig stares blankly at the doors they came through.
"Hey, wat button should I presh?"
"It doesn't matter"
Mike picks one and the doors begin to close.
"Well I guess since the whole hotel is free It don't matter"
Mike looks over to Craig as the elevator descends. The rain continues to fall.
The elevator continues to descend. Mike begins to look around.
"This ish taking kinda a long time"
Mike starts pressing the buttons on the wall they begin to fall out.
"What the hell!"
Mike stops the remaining buttons rattle in their places as the elevator descends.
"Craig! I think thish thing ish broke"
"No. It's working fine"
The elevator descends. The rain continues to fall.
The rays of the sunrise catch the steam coming out of the bent and broken hood of the 1996 ford bronco.
"Probably drunks"
The officer rights down notes on a small legal pad as two firefighters pick through the shards of glass and twisted metal.
"For sure, this isn't a curvy road"
The officer steps back over the two long white bags he sighs.
"A damn shame"
"It always is"
The vacancy sign of the hotel across the street flickers with an warm welcoming yellow. The blood on the asphalt washes away into the tall grass of the empty plain. A firefighter steps back from the wreckage and turns to the officer who is staring across at the hotel.
"Ya, ever stay at Black's"
"No I can't say I have"
The firefighter goes back to the twisted metal his partner places one bag on a gurney.
"Great deals, it's basically free"
The rain stops.
| 12 | Welcome to the Black Hotel. Where the night's stay won't cost you a penny... | 28 |
"It's gone."
"What do you mean, gone?"
"'Gone', like I said. Just... gone. No beacon, no signal, no messages. Radio silence."
"Impossible, raise them again."
"Listen, cap, I can spend all day trying to raise them, but-"
"Then you'll spend all day. Raise them."
Incompetence. That was the only thought he could have towards this crew he was saddled with. Sheer, embarrassing incompetence.
*You're no better.* That insidious voice whispered at the back of his mind. Shut up, shut up, I'm not listening to you. *Yes you are... if you were actually good at your job you wouldn't be here, a hundred million miles from home on a rundown ship. You would be commanding the Homeguard. If it wasn't for that boy...*
He shook his head hard to dispel the voice. He wasn't insane: the voice was his, and that was the problem. It was the voice that dredged up all the things he had done wrong in his life: the bribes, the shady promotions, the boy... but it didn't matter now. He had been given command of the Apollo and told it was a mission 'vital to the importance of humanity.' As though parking next to the nodes of the Dyson sphere surrounding the sun was 'vital.' They were glorified mechanics: sent out to make sure nothing had gone wrong with the Net, making sure Earth still got its flood of power.
So for the past six months they drifted from node to node, docking, running diagnostics, and kicking off to float to the next one. A hundred thousand tiny satellites, and in six months they had covered a tenth of that number. Sure, they got daily updates from Earth: the government approved news feed, messages from home, television shows and even a handful of old movies.
Except for today. Today there was, apparently, nothing. Or as his idiot radioman claimed, it was ‘gone.’ As though an entire planet, with billions of transmissions bleeding out into space, could just fall silent. Humanity couldn’t be silent if it tried: there was *always* some kind of transmission.
The radio must have broken. That was it: there it was. A hundred million miles from home, and they broke the damn radio. He would see to it that they were all court marshaled when they got back to Earth, if only for sheer incompetence. His route around the ship took him past the bridge: nothing to do there but watch their next assignment drift slowly, painfully closer. Past the mess hall: why would he want to spend time with loud, uneducated crewmen who barely knew which end of the ship was up? Past even the infirmary: after their little fight last night, he couldn’t face Eric. Back to the radio room, to the idiot trying to raise Earth again.
“Well?”
“Nothing, sir. I’m sorry, but I’m not getting any response.”
“You broke the radio!” He didn’t mean for it to come out as a snap: he *did* try to be nice to the crew, if only to avoid any messy situations. But this level of incompetence was beyond acceptance.
“No sir.”
“No?”
“No. The radio is fine: we’re ten by ten. See, here are the position updates from the satellites, and some stray transmissions from Io, but… nothing in between. No Earth.”
No Earth. For the first time he felt a deep shiver of fear roll through him. How could an entire planet fall silent? And what did it mean for them, alone out here, nestled against an uncaring star?
“What should I do, sir?
“Keep transmitting.” | 15 | 5670 A.D. Apollo didn't stop transmitting, but Earth did. | 36 |
Let me tell you the story of how we never met, you and I.
The first way we did not meet was by accident of birth; whether you were born 50 years too early or I was born 50 years too late, I do not know. Perhaps we are both travelers out of our natural times; perhaps we would both have fit better a hundred years ago, or three hundred years from now. I don't know, and I'll never know, because, as I have said, we never met, you and I.
We did not meet as children. Your father was a baker, I've been told. I did not smell freshly baked bread until my 20s. You lived in the city, and I lived in the suburbs. As a child, I wanted to bury my nose in a book, and you wanted to be outdoors all of the time. No, we did not meet as children.
We did not meet as young men. I went to college, and you joined the Navy. I've heard a few stories; little more than whispers I could not comprehend of a life in a culture alien to me. I could never have survived in any military setting; even as a young man I was too physically weak and strong willed for such a life. I do not know if you even finished high school. It would not surprise me if you didn't; I've heard you often spoke poorly of your own intellect.
We did not meet as adults. You wanted to be a farmer, and the closest I have ever been to farming is to have a nasty farmer's tan. I am not built for physical labor; my hands are soft and skin is pale. I work with computers. I am not certain you ever used one, or whether typing would have been too difficult thanks to that accident with the table saw.
I have heard that when you lost those fingers you asked to stop and get a burger from Burger King on the way to the hospital. The way you figured, the fingers wouldn't reattach themselves, they were on ice, and you were hungry. I am certain I would not have been coherent, having lost parts of two fingers. Pain and I do not get along.
There are many places I wish we could have met. I wish we could have met in the workshop. I have seen what you have built, and I am learning (slowly) to build things on my own, but I do not have a teacher and I would have very much liked a teacher in addition to YouTube. I would have very much liked your help in building a dollhouse for my daughter.
I wish we could have met in a boat, where you could have taught me to fish. I still have never been fishing. I wish we could have met under a car or truck. I still cannot change my own oil.
When we were introduced, you were an old man, and I was just starting to figure my life out. I was focused on your granddaughter, and you were focused on taking a nap. We both got what we were focusing on, and so though we were introduced, we never really met.
By the time I realized how much I wanted to learn from you and how much I wanted to know you better, there was little to be done. Your mind was going, and we knew it was not coming back. On your better days, you joked about it. You turned out to be pretty funny, once you were no longer aware of the need to stop yourself from making a joke.
I am glad for the glimpses of your life that I had, even though they were through tinted glass. I am proud that I am part of the family you created. If by the time my turn comes, I have been half as blessed with love and family as you turned out to be, I will consider it all a great success.
We have never met, you and I. Not really. But my life is better because of you, and that is enough. | 52 | Write a short story which is simultaneously true and false. | 36 |
Baldness.
Hemophilia.
Colour-blindness.
Men always did get the short end of the biological stick. Maybe that's why they overcompensated by taking up 91% of Congress and 97% of Wall Street. And fucked over women. In the cases of India and Steubenville, literally. You see... with enough money and power, you can get away with anything. Except an airborne virus that slowly kills anyone with a Y chromosome, suffering over the course of a year, finally culminating in a day-long seizure, all your blood gushing out of your pores, and going bald.
. . .
Denise sat at her big boss chair staring at her big boss computer.
She was an astute businesswoman.
Officially, she was dealing with lawsuits about the corruption in her Surrogate Sweatshops, as the protestors would call them, where her company grows new female babies for wannabe parents back home.
Unofficially, she was looking at porn. Porn of dead men.
I mean, they're not dead in the pictures. Denise isn't *that* fucked up. Yet. I mean that all the porn actors she's viewing have been long dead ever since The Great Penis Purge. In a matter of two years, all biological men and transwomen -- not all women have a vagina -- were dead. Either from the virus, or committing suicide before the disease could get them.
Denise wasn't thinking about any of that.
She was concentrating on James Deen having a wank.
She's been to several therapists for this. "Androphilia", as it's officially classified in the DSM-IX. Or as her porn site's motto puts it, "It's Dandy To Be Andy". It's a serious condition. It haunts her. Her shareholders don't know, but it's driven her to bribe the managers in her Surrogate Sweatshops to keep the accidental male babies alive. Where can they keep them? Well, they've sterilized and remodelled the prisons -- now that 98% of the prison population is gone -- as a nursery to raise the male babies until adulthood.
. . .
Denise was saving the males.
Denise was saving the males... for herself.
And if there was a surplus, well, she could always sell them to her community of fellow Andies.
With enough money and power, you can get away with anything.
Men always did get the short end of the biological stick.
Denise was a very, *very* astute businesswoman. | 35 | A gender of the human race has long gone extinct due to an unforeseen virus. Now, heterosexuality is a thing of the past and humans reproduce artificially, but today someone realizes they are straight. | 54 |
They all marched towards the chambers in a solemn thud, thud, thud. Every now and again one would separate from the line crying and shouting, before either being dragged along by the hair or kicked to the ground and shot in the head. They all just continued walking forwards, trampling over the bodies.
He watched as he floated alongside them all, this was his biggest contract ever. All over Europe he was being sent to death camps that held prisoners of war and refugees. The soldiers that brutally beat the poor souls were all emblazoned with the same symbols. A nazi swastika, finely stitched into their uniforms. The Grimm Reaper paid them no attention, instead he touched his scythe to each fallen person from the line. His scythe glowed brighter with each death he gathered up. In truth, he could have touched his scythe to any of the people in the line at any time he wished. Each prisoner's skin was drawn, tired and pale. Some shambled along, barely able to walk and their arms limp by the side. No one made a noise, the gun shots saw to that. Grimm Reaper had never been happy, his whole existence had been full of despair and negativity. He oversaw the worst events the universe could concoct. He was dutiful in his work, and for a time he considered himself well paid. Until now.
They reached the end of the corridor that filtered off into different rooms with hoses lined up against the walls. Grimm's stomach doubled over in denial, ahead he could see the victims declothing and lining up inside the rooms. Officers barked orders and threw people inside, the ones that refused were collected by The Grimm Reaper moments later. He breathed in deeply, and set his shoulders against the weight he felt on top of them. The door slammed shut behind him and the latch went up, that's when he revealed himself to the people within the chamber.
Some gasped, some screamed and they all shrank back against the wall. His image wavered before them, dark and foul. He raised his eyes to each of them individually, peering passed their grey pupils and into their souls. They all listened to his words, before the slow hiss of the hoses began.
"I am sorry." | 59 | The straw that broke the Grimm Reaper's back | 63 |
"Honey, take a look at this!"
Stan gawked at the richly appointed vellum-like paper grasped between his hands. He was trembling.
"Sweetie, what is it? You look sick."
He shook the paper under her nose, then held it up close for her to read.
As Stan's wife scrunched her face up to read, it continued to become more and more pinched in expression. Stan was, however ... excited.
"Don't you see? I've got the power to make our lives as enjoyable as we want."
"It's a joke, sweetie. Relax. I think this is a joke."
Her voice warbled slightly at the end, giving away her trepidation.
"Besides, how would you even know how to perform the beastly duties?"
Stan shrugged his shoulders. He took the official envelope and the thick document paper into the living room of their house. Their house; maybe they could get a new house.
It wasn't a bad home, he thought. Plus they'd managed to get it under market value too. Marsha had always wanted to move into a house like this to have kids, but Stan had never been terribly keen on the idea. In fact, he had even considered secretly getting a vasectomy to eliminate the chance and just play it off as his inability to have children. In the end, he'd never followed through for a variety of reasons, but mostly because Stan loved Marsha and didn't want to ruin their relationship. Still, he envied the bachelors with fancy high-rise apartments and decked-out pads.
He paused, wondering why he'd taken that trip down memory lane. He wasn't prone to critical thinking when it came to internalized thoughts.
He was tapping the official document to his cheek, tongue pressed against his teeth as he just stood there. Marsha was watching from the kitchen doorway, and she had to clear her throat several times to get his attention.
"Hey, I asked what you wanted for dinner. Any ideas?"
He turned to face her, looking at her. He could tell she disliked his indecisiveness. He could never make up his mind and was always chasing some idea or dream that never worked out and only wasted their resources.
Marsha smiled at him patiently.
"Hey, earth to Sta-"
"You know, Marsha, if you don't like waiting on me to make up my mind you can just make a damn decision and fill me in on the details later."
He seethed. And a moment after, he caught up with himself and stood in the shocked silence as husband and wife stared at one another. One confused by the other's sharp remark, the other confused by how he knew.
Marsha tried to make her mouth work, to claim her voice again and speak. Instead she just pursed her lips and turned back into the kitchen. To cook...
"Spaghetti. Gross. Come on, Marsha. You know I hate that ... and that's why you're making it."
Stan couldn't stop himself. He was smirking now, but he didn't understand why. Something had sidled right up into his soul and taken the reins. He could peer right into Marsha, see her intent and her thoughts and all her vices. Strangely, he couldn't see the love, the compassion that she felt. For him, it may as well not have existed.
---------------------------
Marsha cried over the kitchen sink quietly. Her husband had gone crazy. Some prank had flipped his switch and he was spouting nonsense.
Except a little voice whispered to her that he wasn't ever as perceptive as he was today. How had he known? And if he had known those things, he should of course know how much Marsha had done for him out of her love for her man, her partner for eight years. Sure, she had decided to make spaghetti out of spite, but only to get him to see that his opinions did matter to her, even if they took a really fucking long time to come to.
She dropped the wet noodles into the pot with a dash of olive oil and set to adding the sauce, stirring with vigor.
---------------------------
Stan laid in bed that night, sitting next to the woman he had once loved. The more it built up in him, the more he couldn't stand to be near her. All the vile thoughts, the slights, the betrayals. The little things and the big. It added up to something that was greater than the sum; his passenger, the beast that now clung to his soul, was feeding on it. Dinner had been silent, intolerable. He couldn't stay here anymore.
He needed to travel, to get away. Stan needed to see if everyone was as bad as Marsha.
---------------------------
Several weeks later, Stan was walking down a crowded street in New York, where lots of people crossed his path and also kept pace with him. His face was a mask. His soul was cleansed by all the vile things he could tell they were thinking, feeling. A rapist walked out in broad daylight, uncaught. A small-time thief had another man's wallet in his jacket. A thug. A liar. A cheater. An egotist. Lots of those.
He bathed in their thoughts, and came out clean on the other side. A small complex began to build into a larger one in Stan; everyone was terrible, but he wasn't so great either. Why should he hate them for it? Everyone, every single one. Terrible.
Stan began to use his powers.
He had many of them, but his favorite was to coax people into a deeper, darker line of their faults and flaws. Not only did it amuse him, he found that their stronger, darker, deeper thoughts and feelings were like a drug to him. Stan needed them, and they apparently needed him to push them. Just a little nudge here or there. Make a coffee cup spill at the register. A customer curses and refuses to pay, making the young woman at the register cry. Wrath.
Convince an old friend to spend a little *too much* time with an old fling, her boyfriend at work that day. Lust.
The more he did these things, the less people seemed to notice him. It was like a reflexive response; people pushed by him either through thought or action, could definitely see him. But those who were less inclined toward his attempts seemed to walk right past him with barely a nod or a wave. Sure, everyone was susceptible but damn...
He convinced an overweight, ailing man to buy just one more bottle of booze to chase down more of that greasy, nasty food he liked to snarf down. Gluttony and Sloth, double-whammy.
A business man in a shop, Stan sees through the window. A little nudge in the brain, might as well buy that fine looking suit, and it looks so nice on him too. Yes, what a fine looking man. Stan laughed as he watched the man's ego inflate. Pride.
A young boy was walking down the street with his sister and mother. She hands the boy a couple of candy sticks. Stan smirks and steps up behind them, whispering in little Tommy's ear. *Keep that candy for yourself. Your sister doesn't deserve it. You do!* Ah, Greed.
Stan mastered them all, even Envy. That one was easy, just get two twenty-something girls to think the other is better than the other. Over and over.
---------------------------
Marsha spent her days knitting. Stan had been gone for five or six years now, just walked out one day. She had never heard from him again, after the strange letter and the blow up. Sometimes she had caught herself wondering if that letter had all been a joke and an excuse for him to run off with another woman. But she kept on remembering the things he had said. He *had* known about her own sometimes-not-great thoughts.
Marsha loved Stan. She would wait for him to come back, or die waiting.
---------------------------
Stan spent a long while travelling the world. Anywhere, everywhere. He could be there in a moment, or he could stroll across countries for a year or three. It seemed anything was in his power, thanks to that strange letter. Whatever it was that had crawled up into him and set to roost, he didn't mind. Stan was Satan, and Satan was Stan. | 20 | Thanks to a bureaucratic error, you are now Satan. | 28 |
He squints his eyes and holds a hand above his head, shielding the ridiculously bright sun until it comes into focus: paradise. It can only be described as such, thick vegetation in a circular rim surrounding a gleaming city stretching up to the heavens. Spires twisted up out of the concrete miles below - rectangles, spirals, hell, even one that looked like a square mushroom, lit up with life.
Blinking once, twice, then shaking his head violently he looked back at his 'captors' who were smiling. Apparently they loved the reaction of someone viewing their fair city. His vision was caught down at their hands, where the held nothing more than batons, winking at the top with a blue LED glow. Where were their rifles? They had them trained on him while they escorted him inside this.. this.. whatever it was.
"Wh.. what?" he uttered, to which the escorts laughed and stepped forward, clapping him on the back and guiding him down to a cable car at the cliff's edge, nudging him in, following.
The car TOOK OFF, at speeds that would tear any other cable apart, but the inspector felt no inertia. Instinctively, he planted his feet and bent his knees in front of him, leaning forward as the escorts laughed yet again, shaking their heads. He tilted his head at them, then took a tentative step forward once he realized there was no need for such a position.
The vegetation, a jungle, really, glided by with a blur of green, yellow, splotches of red flowers, as they descended into the center of the city. Snapping out of it, he finally turned to his escorts and sputtered out. "H.. how? How? How is this possible? Where am I?"
Still grinning, the man in front of the inspector held out his baton in one hand, thumbing a button as it shimmered and took the form of a Kalashnikov rifle, an AK-47, common in poorer countries. He moved his thumb and it resolved back into the baton. If they could do that on a small scale.. he looked to the center of the city at what seemed to be a replica of the same baton, but ten stories tall.
His partner laughed, as did he, stepping forward to address the inspector, while they descended into the beautiful city. A thick accent reached his ears, though it was perfect English. "My friend, you have a lot to learn about Ethiopia, no?" | 12 | A UN Weapons Inspector visits a secluded third world dictatorship in search of Atomic Weapons. He finds that the country is really a Utopia | 64 |
"I'll never forget the day the stars fell."
"How was it, Grammy? Was it beautiful?" Marie's little hands clasped mine.
"It was." I noticed the stutter in my lie. She didn't seem to notice.
"What was it like?"
"Have you seen fireworks?"
"Yes! They are beautiful."
"Imagine them falling down." I paused to revisit my memory, and my arms unconsciously wrapped around Marie's shoulder.
Marie stared at the ceiling. Her head slowly nodded, as if witnessing something fall. She giggled afterwards.
------------------------
"Mommy, why are the stars falling?" My voiced lowered to whisper, as I realize the coming doom.
"They are sad, my darling. They also feel angry at us."
"What are they angry about? Are they angry at me?'
Mother's eyes peeked through the small hole to see the falling bombs. She unconsciously wrapped her arms around me. It gave me a sense of comfort.
"No, sweetie. I don't know who they are angry at. Just be ready for the worst. The shelter should protect us."
I stared at the ceiling, hoping to not see something fall. I wept afterwards.
| 16 | I'll never forget the day the stars fell... | 33 |
The first test was the possession of my wife. Naked, sweaty, writhing in the arms of another man, she looked at me and said, “Oh God, oh God,” and I said, “Do not use his name in vain,” and she said, “I'm sorry,” and I forgave her both crimes.
When she gave birth to that man's child, I said to her, “This is my second test,” and she said, “I'm sorry,” and I said, “It's all right.” Because I was stronger than the sin within her blood and I believed that the righteousness of faith would cure her.
The third test was not brought on by my wife, or the sweaty man, or the bastard child, but by man. Man's arrogance. Man's false sense of superiority. Man's deification of itself. Man.
In the morning, I look in the mirror and tell myself that I will pass this test as I have the others. I am not oppressed, I say to my reflection. Not hunted, or discriminated against, or being persecuted, because these are God's actions, this is God's will, and He does not intend to cause me harm.
I carry my bible in the nook of my heart and I whistle verse throughout the day. People do not see me as a preacher, but as an old, lonely man creating a barrier of sound against his silence. I do not tell them otherwise, not even the ones I know remain devout. As long as it's just me whistling, no representatives of the Supreme Government will try to decipher my songs.
In the evening they televise the deaths of the believers they'd gathered throughout the day. Atop a pyre of burning Bibles and Qur’ans and Torahs and the texts of Buddhism and Hinduism and other religions, people are strung up like marionettes so they can better be consumed by the flames.
I pray to God. I tell Him I am strong. I show him I am wise. I prove my loyalty by continuing to embody Him through it all.
At night I say to myself, “One day you will rise above this, carried by the word of God Almighty, and you will restore faith to the faithless.”
I am being tested. I will not fail. | 18 | You, a religious believer, describe life under The Supreme Government, which has just banned all religion. | 28 |
“This…is not my child. This…this is a monster. This…is some creature. This is not my child. This is not my child.”
The child squirmed against its mother’s breast, as the sharpened rock sheared through the blood red cord. Shriveled up against itself, its arms tucked into its own chest, its legs bent in so that you could just tell that it was a girl. No, wait, boy.
The child cried and cried. The child had not stopped crying since the moment the sun blazed onto its waxen, shriveled face, and lit its countenance with the bright red glow of new life. The child had just cried.
“This cannot be my child. It is too small. It cannot fend for itself. It will not be able to gather. It will not be able to fight.”
The child cried harder. After waiting through seven new moons, it was born beneath the waning crescent. The child was small. The child was soon. The child was crying.
“If this is truly my child, I have disgraced this clan. This child is not a child of my own. This child is not a child of this tribe. This child is a poor, wretched excuse for a baby boy. This child-”
“Hush, my love. This is your child. This boy is our own, and he will be as strong and as able as the rest of us. Stop lamenting. He will grow. He will thrive. Do not be weary, my love, you will disturb him further.”
The child was silent. His eyelids cracked open for the first time, their water ceased to flow.
“My love, our child will grow stronger because he has suffered already. Look, now, he has cried his eyes the color of tears.” | 13 | The first blue-eyed Child is born in the 8th millenium BCE. | 50 |
For the first time in my life, I woke up to silence.
At first, it was incredible. Those two scumbags next door weren't screaming at each other as their baby wailed dejectedly. I drank my coffee without the peace being shattered by sirens, screeching their warning as they sped through red lights. I couldn't even hear that dog from 21B yelping from the daily barrage of kicks it endured.
You have to understand something about me: I've never really liked people. Even when I was a kid, I just didn't get along with the others my age. I was different, somehow. Quieter. The whole world just seemed to be a cacophony of noises, impossible to distinguish from each other. I wish it had stayed that way. The older I got, the easier to was to hear the insults flung at me: "Creep." "Loser." "Faggot." I guess I never really learned how to interact with people, and they never stopped punishing me for it. I spent high school with headphones firmly affixed to my head, but I wasn't listening to music. Music was just more noise. I was trying to create a quiet place.
After high school, it didn't get better. I went to college, somehow managing to drift through four years without making a single friend. I mean, I had a roommate, but we never really understood each other. Girls didn't like me - their voices were bright and sharp, and they were offended when I flinched. The guys never seemed to notice me: I couldn't compete when they bellowed friendly taunts at each other. I graduated, alone. Exiled, but I didn't care. I was happier alone anyway.
I entered the working world a fairly competent drone. I sat obligingly at my desk, but my boss always seemed to have contempt for me. My co-workers alternately harangued each other or gossiped: whispery, insinuating noises that clogged up my ears and tightened my throat. Home was no better. I made enough to live on, but not enough to thrive on. My apartment was shitty and the people around me even shittier. And so, so loud.
So, you see, that first morning was glorious. When I went outside and discovered that the silence extended all over the city, I smiled to myself. Not laughed, of course, because that would have been disruptive. But I smiled.
I thought I had finally found my reward. All that goddamn noise before - this was my relief. But after a few days, I started noticing noises again. Noises that shouldn't have been there. A shiny-bright-sharp woman's voice, saying, "He's unresponsive." I didn't like that. I didn't like that at all. Why should she be destroying my quiet? She didn't even exist. She was... encroaching. On my world. This was *my* world, finally. I heard it again, the next night. "Yes, I've looked at the chart."
Why couldn't this bitch just leave me alone? Wasn't it enough, the narrowed eyes at parties, the way their voices slid like a knife over my skin? I knew she didn't like me. I knew none of them liked me. I didn't like them either, so why would she bother me like that? I went home, went back to my quiet, dark apartment, and found my headphones again. It's funny, I thought I had lost them, but there they were. Good as new.
The headphones helped a lot. Things were quiet for a long time after that, and I was happy. But they couldn't just leave me alone. I heard her voice again: "Catatonic schizophrenia." "Newest treatments." I just wanted the quiet. All I wanted was the quiet. Why is she doing this? I hate her. I hate her so much. I want her to die. I can't stand to lose this. I *earned* the quiet.
"Great success in the first trials."
Shut up, bitch. Shut up.
"I think he's coming around. Alex? Alex, can you hear me?"
I can hear you. | 39 | Psychotic man who believes he is the last man on earth when he really is not. | 45 |
John Watson dropped the suitcase and glared at the back of his friend's head.
"You sent me off looking for passports and towels and nicotine patches, all on the basis that we were going to Florida..!"
Sherlock put the violin down and tried not to sigh or slump.
"Yes," he said "and what should have taken no more than thirty minutes lasted a full hour and a half during which time I took a second look over the information Miami PD sent us and..."
"...and you solved the case?"
Watson flapped his arms against his side.
"Sorry, was I not meant to?"
"Are you going to tell me how?"
Sherlock turned slightly, unable to repress a smile.
"I've said before that, with clever serial killers, you have to wait for them to make a mistake. With this one, he made the mistake quite early on in his career. The real mystery here is how no one spotted it.
"Look at the Bay Harbour Butcher's victims and you see that they were all criminals, or at least accused of being criminals. In many cases there was no conviction because an arrest was botched or a technicality derailed a trial. The Butcher has a vigilante streak. Point two, no one has ever found the scene of one of his crimes. The Butcher is meticulous in covering his tracks, so he's aware of forensic procedures and processes.
"This suggests an intelligent psychopath, and a characteristic of intelligent psychopaths is that they like to insert themselves into investigations. "
"The way you do?" Watson began leafing through the casefile.
"No, John, as I've said before I'm a high-functioning sociopath. I expect better from a Doctor. Now then...we're looking for a white male, probably no older than 40, with access to police procedures or a background in Law Enforcement. He'll be peripherally involved in investigations, so not a detective. He'll be careful, to the point of clinicality, and he'll have something in his background which will drive him towards vigilantism instead of selecting his victims from the population as a whole. And he'll be in a position to manipulate evidence to steer suspicion away from himself. Any good candidates?"
Watson flipped pages.
"One or two..." he said.
"Oh come on, John!" Sherlock turned abruptly, pulling up a file and tapping it.
"Dexter Morgan is the only person on the Miami PD payroll that fits the facts. He's too clever to make mistakes now, so I've recommended they watch him closely and try to catch him in the act."
Watson put the files down.
"So that's it, then? The Case of The Bay harbour Butcher solved while you're still in your jim-jams? No flight to Florida? No exciting confrontation?"
Sherlock looked appalled.
"No," he said " transatlantic flights are long and tedious, and they were only willing to pay for economy seats." | 25 | Serial killer vigilante Dexter Morgan versus eccentric detective Sherlock Holmes. | 56 |
README.txt
06062006
S27/077999;W109/273453
this message has been translated by biomatter sub-organic processing routine alpha (c)2020.
in case of translation binary failure use tanslation key ATALAN-1S
to future survivors and scientists
this message has been encoded into the biomatter signature of our offspring and your
progenitors. by reading this you are validating the work of dozens of scientists who dedicated
their lives to preserving the knowledge of our civilization. we have stored the sum of our
understanding of this universe within your biomatter signature.
it is vitally important that you first read file priority 1. this file documents what we know about
the innovation limit. we assume that by this point your civilization has reached or will soon
reach this limit. by doing so you have activated some sort of galactic firewall which will destroy
your civilization and reset your innovation level to 0. we were not able to prevent this
catastrophe from destroying our world but we hope you may have enough time to save your
own. by combining our knowledge you have a chance to defeat the firewall.
in return we only ask that you let the lives and culture of our people be known. encoded in
your biomatter signature is every song and myth and history of our people. it has been sung
silently in the blood of our children through the darkness of millennia. let the words of our
people be spoken aloud again so that we through our children may visit the stars. our species
is meant for greatness but it is up to you to forge that path.
ATA*K VE NE TLUTLUEE
Project ATALAN
That was fun to write. Feedback is appreciated!
EDIT - If anyone can find any of the Easter Eggs in the text, they get a special gold star! | 242 | A neuroscientist finds data stored in human DNA. When deciphered, it appears to be a file named README.txt. | 368 |
We hadn’t so much as seen one of them for over a month. Dad kept telling me it was because of the rain. They couldn’t move so well in the mud.
Sure enough, just as I was starting to get my hopes up that we’d never see another one, Dad and I see the most disfigured mess of a person I’d ever laid eyes on. From the safehouse, I could just see it through the binoculars. It had lost the lower half of its body and could only drag itself across the ground. It made its way across the clearing in the forest at a fraction of a mile per hour. Like Dad and me, that thing didn’t have a direction in mind. It was just wandering to the next place. Just existing.
I don’t know why Dad decided to leave the safehouse to finish it off. It wasn’t doing us any harm. It wasn’t even heading towards us. Maybe he was worried that it would attract others. Maybe he wanted to put it out of his misery. Maybe he was just bored.
Either way, Dad walked out to the clearing with his knife. Hell, the only reason I watched was because it was the most interesting thing I’d seen all month. Just as Dad gets close to the thing, something springs out of the woods at him. I call out to him but he doesn’t even see it. Thing jumps on him from behind and gets Dad on the ground. While he’s wrestling with it, I grab the binoculars and get a look. It was some damn dog. This mangy looking golden retriever probably hadn’t had a good meal in months, but it fought like a bastard.
Finally, Dad manages to kick the thing off him and starts to run back to the safehouse. I thought for sure the dog would chase him, but I was wrong. The dog stood its ground by that half-person, growling. Hunger wasn't the reason that dog attacked Dad. It was just guarding what was left of its old owner. Never saw anything like that before.
When we were in Denver, we heard that dogs could carry the virus, even if they didn’t look sick. That night, we learned that that particular rumor was true.
When Dad got back to the safehouse, he didn’t say a word. He just got out his handcuffs and locked himself to a post. I didn’t say a word either. People look at me funny when I tell them we didn’t talk that night, but what the hell were we supposed to say?
In a couple hours, Dad was moaning and thrashing around like the rest of them. I spent the rest of that night watching the half-destroyed man crawl across the clearing in the forest. His dog would occasionally wander off into the woods, but, every few minutes or so, it would reappear.
That dog could smell and see its master, but it couldn’t understand that he was gone. That animal would probably follow and guard its master’s corpse until the end of its days.
People look at me even funnier when they learn that I killed my dad. But I’m not a boy anymore. And I sure as shit ain’t no dog. | 35 | A living dog stays true to his zombie master after the apocalypse. | 26 |
Incompetency is sometimes worse than malevolence; some people should not be handled devices with a destructive potential, no matter how hard it would be to actually do anything bad with it. It’s an empiric law for mankind; if there was a way to wipe out humanity with a badly used cotton tip, we would already have disappeared.
That is something I know now, and I wish I had known it before. It is true that I did not have any bad intention, nor did he, but the result is all the same; what excuse do we have when we have to witness such a horrifying result? The consequences of my poor, poor decision and of his astonishing ignorance were everywhere around us. There was not a spot, not a place that had not been cursed by it. We were both standing in the middle of the disaster, unsure of what to do next; I did not want to even imagine how long it would take to clean such a mess.
We watched the dust settle in silence, the he opened his mouth to speak.
-My bad.
-That’s the last fucking time I let you replace the bag of the vacuum. | 23 | "They watched the dust settle in silence, then he opened his mouth to speak. 'My bad.'" | 27 |
TWENTY EIGHT
-----------------------
It all started with the release of Toxin B-1GD347H.
Complex identifier. Simple execution. Nearly impossible to stop.
A rogue agent of the Russian intelligence service escaped a high-level lab with a single vial of the stuff.
One. Single. Vial.
The agent was stupid, didn't realize how dangerous it was. Even worse, best that we can tell, he might have simply stumbled and dropped it. But it broke somehow, and it spread.
The incubation period of the toxin varies from person to person by a deviation of approximately an hour, but the average appears to be about twenty eight minutes. So, we've taken to calling it that. Toxin Twenty-Eight. Beyond that, a person could live for days or weeks maybe, or as little as minutes. There are too many variables to give you reasons why, just understand the parameters of the toxin.
Here's the thing, gentlemen. This thing was developed in our labs, right here in the U-S-of-A.
Wipe that look off your faces, it shouldn't be any surprise. We outsource so much shit these days, it's no wonder that Russian agents were able to buy it off one of our corporation's hands.
Here, let me flip the *fucking* slide so you can get a better idea...
*Click. Whirr.*
See here, an example of a victim. Hemorrhaging of the eyes and nails. Infected individuals appear disheveled and in various states of catatonia, though there are isolated cases of violent fever victims who behave as you might expect from one of those zombie flicks.
They are not our concern. Twenty Eight is.
Several months ago Putin mobilized his active insurgency forces, slipping special units into the deadzone. Press releases have been coordinated amongst the EU and US, and believe it or not we're actually working collectively on this one to contain the outbreak.
Your mission is to aid forces on the ground, and we'll have birds in the air using thermals to help prevent fleeing individuals from escaping the deadzone quarantine. These people could be possible carriers and we're not taking chances. All it would take is one or two fuckers slipping under our radar and into the general population of the country. They do that, we lose our finger-nail grip on this shit.
*Click. Whirr.*
This is the cordon. Beyond that, checkpoints at all major roads with unmarked soldiers with a specialist trained to identify physical markers on possible victims. Beyond *those* checkpoints, we've got the border of the country on high alert, especially with Russia's border where there is less infrastructure to maintain control of possible escaped infected.
I'll say it again. We're working together on this one with Russian forces.
*Click. Whirr.*
Finally, these are where your units are going to be deployed. We're mobilizing the vehicles outside of Kiev right now. You've got two hours before you need to brief your units and get moving.
I don't need to explain to you that the locals are scared shitless, so try and be nice. We've had reports of civil unrest in various areas. The spin on this right now is that Putin is annexing part of the country, but we'll see how far that goes.
Dismissed.
---------------------------
Edit1: Not done, but I have to go give my research presentation now. I'll finish this up when I return.
Edit2: Done. | 46 | The annexation of Crimea was actually Putin's desperate, last-ditch attempt to save the world from something much worse. | 68 |
Doctor Pelant had been on the job for two weeks when his first patient lost. An eight year old boy, he was fighting cancer since he could walk. The thing about cancer, Pelant told the child once, was that it fought whoever it could and it didn't pull punches. The doctor used to think of himself as a champion for his patients, fighting the cancer in their name. In reality he just diagnosed and treated them, but he liked the fantasy.
The boy had no visitors except for his parents. He spent nearly all his time on his new Nintendo 3DS. He played games where he saved a princess stuck in some castle somewhere. Pelant didn't remember the name, but the kid showed his progress to him every time they spoke. In his mind, he probably thought he was a hero too.
When the boy died, Pelant felt dread. It wasn't because the kid died, Pelant saw that coming. It was because he had to tell the kid's parents.
The wife cried. The husband stared stoically at the doctor. Some things couldn't be taught at medical school.
So when the boy's last will, sprawled in crayon on a Denny's napkin, designated that Pelant gets his 3DS, there wasn't much of a shock.
On a particularly uneventful day, weeks after the death, Pelant fired up the 3DS.
*Super Mario 3D Land*
So that's what the kid played all the time. The colors flying from the screen put a smile on the doctor's face. They looked so out of place in the gloomy oncology center. The screen showed two options:
> - Continue
> - New Game
Pelant thought about it for a second before choosing continue. Maybe the kid managed to get further before he could show the doctor. The game opened up with Mario, the only character Pelant could recognize, facing down some giant turtle. Pelant smiled and ran at the turtle, but it jumped in the air. It landed down next to him, causing the screen to shake. The doctor laughed as the screen faded to black.
*GAME OVER*, it read.
Doctor Pelant blinked and held the 3DS in his still hands. The timer on the bottom right counted down from 10.
*Continue?* It asked.
He took a deep breath and put it down on the table, leaning back in his chair to stare at the roof. Game over. There are no continues in real life.
The timer hit 0 and stayed at the game over screen. Press any button to restart, it said. The kid had been playing this game his whole life and Pelant managed to lose it in seconds. For eight years, the kid was battling cancer. Pelant championed him for two weeks and he died.
For the first time since he could remember, Doctor Pelant cried. | 36 | I never understand the significance of symbolism/symbolic objects in literatures. Make a story that can make me understand why they are important. | 32 |
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