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"And this atom here and... Ok, yes, this looks great." I nodded. In reality, I wasn't entirely happy with it, but for now, it had to do. I stepped out of my creation and went outside, closing the door tight behind me.
After catching up on paperwork, I stepped in through the door. I did a quick scan. "Point-three life development rate?" I sighed. It was outstandingly low. I had thought all that hydrogen, all those stars, would have increased the chances of life, but I was wrong. I did a different scan. "Ah, so it's just too much dark matter..."
Lunchtime came and went and I found myself in my chair, slightly daydreaming about another line of work. This was barely paying the bills and I wasn't good at it. I sighed, I didn't even want to begin thinking about was I good at.
"Ok, maybe someone should have popped up by now." I got off the table and went back to my cubicle trying my best to avoid the gaze of my coworkers on the way. In front of the heavy white door, I crossed my fingers. On the other side, I rubbed my eyes before I took a closer inspection.
"Yes, yes, these seem fine. Star-shaped ones have a good success rate." I took some steps back in their evolution, intending to see where they popped out from. "Furries? And they had a tail back then, that's not good. No wonder they've barely made it out of their planet, so much time was spent on losing it."
After finishing my initial report, I stepped out of the universe again. It was time for the weekly meeting and I barely had anything to show.
In the room, my coworkers chitchatted with each other while we waited. No one talked to me of course, but I caught them talking about me more than once. That must count for something.
Minutes later everybody was showing their reports. The tall guy that sits in the cubicle in front of me created a universe with seventy percent of life development rate. It, of course, ended after all the races inside annihilated each other with unending wars, but it only happened at point-seven of the total life of the universe, which was a rather rare achievement. He's resilient on keep trying to experiment with highly-populated universes.
The fat lady that sits behind me, presented an average universe. Nothing out of the ordinary, but it didn't matter: last week she presented an universe that reached technological singularity at point-three of the total life of the universe, as long as she claims to be working on improved versions of that one, she can present boring universes for a year or two.
The newbie, now he almost drove me nuts. He got hired last month and was already making waves. He had presented a monochromatic universe, a universe ten times the standard size with the same amount of resources used in a standard size universe and even a uni-racial universe. As pointless as his achievements were to the objective of our objective, he kept being awarded for his creativity. This week, he showed a universe devoid of black holes. Everybody loved it. Entirely useless, but everybody loved it.
It was my turn.
"Point-three life development rate?" My boss asked me with disappointment. "Only six races have made it into space, of which only two have colonized outside. No intelligent interracial encounters as of point-one total universe life, one race is at seventy percent in the road to transcendence.... what is this, Steven? You're basically telling me that by the nth time in a row, you have nothing to show me?"
"I'm... It's still very early on but I-I'm confident on species IR03. I p-put it in my report, twenty-seven percent chance to develop..."
"Yes, but you also have here... seventy-six percent chance of auto-elimination before first colony. That gives me nothing. Are they even aware of heat death?"
"They believe is much more later than it actually is."
"They won't get there then. Honestly, you leave me no choice, Steven. Collecting sufficient data for a meaningful answer to the last question is a very important job and I don't think you're fit for it. Creating universes just isn't it for you. So... pack up your things, today is your last day of work." | 21 | Being the creator of the universe is nice and all, but it doesn't pay the bills. | 30 |
I stare up at the ceiling watching the methodical turning of the fan. Not really knowing or caring why. I could've been great. I could've been so fuckin great. They say that I should try and enjoy the last few years. I don't really care. I've given up. Nothing matters, not even me.
They just moved a young girl in the room with me, they tell me her name is Mary. She has lung cancer. They tell me she has less time left than I do. I don't care. I don't even look at her except for when they brought her in. She is small, thin, and bald. She smiled when she saw me looking. A cold, lifeless smile.
She tries to talk to me, asking my name and where I'm from. I never say anything. I keep my eyes forcused on that fan. But she keeps talking, saying she is afraid of dying. She says her dad tells her she will be "alright", but she never listens to him. I stop listening after a few hours, the constant drone of her voice mixes with the silence.
She finally stops talking after a few hours; I don't know how many. There is a stil silence between us, but I can hear her struggling to breathe. I don't care. She starts coughing up blood. I don't care. Her cough is growing louder and louder. Then, suddenly, it stops.
Her voice breaks the quiet and, for once, I listen.
"You know, I guess I'm not that scared of death," she says. "I've always wanted to look pretty like all the other girls, to have my daddy look at me with pride... I read once that when we die, we come back as something else,"
she pauses to cough, each breath comes more laboured than the last. "When I come back, I hope I'm a flower... So that maybe someone will look at me and finally think, 'Wow, now that is something beautiful.'"
They come in and take her away a few hours later, and for the first time since I woke, I cry. | 30 | An ambitious and goal oriented 20 yr old is in a car accident. He awakes from a coma 40 years later, he comes to the realization that everything he wanted to do in life he can no longer do. | 58 |
"I expected his brain to explode," Kyle said. "This was more of a...spray."
Thomas cringed, sniffing in a lungful of air.
"Well, come on," Kyle said. "You didn't think his head would explode? You practically shot him point blank."
"Different guns do different things."
"I thought it'd be like Marvin in 'Pulp Fiction,'" Kyle said.
The man was on the ground, half of his skull a red, bloody, pulp. The blood poured out in short pulses until the heart stopped and the blood simply leaked. The floor was smooth and concrete, which would make cleanup easier. But even so, Thomas didn't like what came next. He had Kyle shovel sand over the blood and mop it up while Thomas opened the trunk door.
"Shit," Thomas said. "I forgot the plastic."
"What plastic?"
"To cover the inside of the trunk. From blood."
"You don't need plastic. In Pulp Fiction, Wolf had them--"
"I don't give a shit." Thomas was tired of hearing about Pulp Fiction.
"Just trying to be helpful."
"*You* don't have to drive this car," Thomas said. "This is my car. It's in my name. I'm the one who risks getting pulled over."
"No one's gonna pull you over." Kyle swept the mop back and forth. The bucket was full of red water now.
"With nothing to cover him with, all it takes is one shaky latch--" Thomas said. "And the body spills out all over I-5."
Kyle leaned on the mop stick. "So what do you wanna do?"
"All right," Thomas said. "What did they do in Pulp Fiction?"
"They cleaned out the car, cleaned out everything, put some blankets down, and then cut up the body and put it in the Wolf's trunk. Then they took the car to--I don't know, some car-smashing place--and got a taxi."
Thomas frowned. *$10,000*, he reminded himself. *Was that all?* It felt small now. It only made a dent in his debt. He still had the alimony payments. The $10,000 would be a major boost, but now that the deed had been done, it didn't seem worth it. There were other ways to make money, but there was no way to dispose of the body risk-free.
"Okay," Thomas said. "We're gonna cut him up."
"Cut him up?"
"Yeah. We're gonna cut him up, put him in one of the industrial barrels over there, and push him in the river."
Kyle thought for a second. "Okay. But you do the cutting."
"No. I'll do the pushing."
"What? No fair."
"No fair?" Thomas' nostrils flared. "I did the shooting. That's everything."
"I don't want to cut him up," Kyle whined. "I have nothing to cut him up with. It's gonna be fuckin' gross, man."
"Fuck you, gross. We have a shovel. Just press hard on his joints and they'll all pop out."
"There's gonna be more blood," Kyle said.
"Asshole, you just mopped up a gallon of the shit. You're getting a shitload of money for this, right?"
"Yeah--" Kyle started.
Thomas interrupted. "Earn your money. You do the cutting, I'll load him into the barrel and drive it down to the river. The risk is still mine."
Kyle complained the whole time, almost retching, gagging half a dozen times, shoving his shirt over his nose. But all the same, the body became a pile of limbs and meat. Kyle helped Thomas load it into the black barrel and deposit it in the back seat of Thomas' car.
"What are you doing?" Thomas asked before he closed the door.
Kyle was fumbling with something. "Putting on the seatbelt."
"The guy doesn't need a fucking seatbelt, he's already dead."
"It's for the barrel."
"The barrel ain't moving. It's a ten-second drive to the river."
Kyle felt bad about something, so he rode along with Thomas as they drove to a vacated marina pier and rolled the barrel out onto the deck. It was night, and the skyline of the city was bright and near, but the marina was closed and they barely heard a sound of traffic.
"Help me," Thomas said. The barrel was heavy even without a 200-pound man's limbs inside, so it took them both to shove it over the edge. It floated and bobbed for a second before falling to the ground.
Just then, Thomas's phone rang.
"Hello?"
"*This is X. Is the job done?*"
"It's done," Thomas said. He almost felt pride for a second. "Now, the money--"
"*The money doesn't come until I have the body.*"
Thomas's stomach sank. "You wanted the body?"
Kyle mouthed something, but Thomas held a finger up as X spoke. "*That was the deal. 10k for you if you get me the body in tact. Why do you think I told you about the plastic?*"
"Uh, that's going to be a problem," Thomas said.
"*Why?*"
"We just dumped the body. He's at the bottom of a river."
"*Then there will be no money.*" The phone faded and finally Thomas heard a *click.*
"What did he say?" Kyle asked.
"He said he wanted the body in tact. There's no money."
"There's *no money?* What the fuck? We just did all that--dammit, we *killed a guy,* Thomas. His body's all chopped up in a barrel."
"Louder. I don't think the police heard."
"God," Kyle said, sitting on the deck, putting his head in his hands. "How am I going to pay for college? I have 15k to go--"
"Wait," Thomas said. "15k?"
"That was the money. 15k, each, and we make sure neither of us screws up. Instead we both screwed up--"
"I wasn't promised 15k."
"What?"
Thomas shifted his weight, clenched his fists. "I was promised 10k."
Kyle mouthed "oh," and looked off to the river.
"Come on," Thomas said. "We're not done."
"Oh, I'm done."
"No, you're not. There's another guy."
"There *is*?"
Thomas smiled. "Yeah. X."
| 26 | A dark comedy about two inexperienced hitmen who just finished their first task. Details inside. | 30 |
“Hey Dave,” Chuck said, left hand resting against the window as his right hand grasped the bar below it to stabilize himself.
“Yeah?”
“Remind me, was Russia always on fire?”
Dave floated over to the window, his legs splayed out behind him like Superman. He lightly bumped into Chuck, who shifted to the right to allow Dave to fit.
“I’m going to be honest with you, Chuck, I’m not entirely sure.”
Chuck stared out the window. Russia—or at least what he thought was Russia, it was pretty hard to tell when the Earth didn’t have labels on it—was shrouded in a dark, enveloping smoke. He tried to think back to earlier in the week, even just a few days ago, to when they had last floated above Russia. He recalled, although he couldn’t be entirely sure, that Russia had not been a giant, abstract blob of smoke all those hours ago. It might have had some ice or something.
“Dave, I’m pretty sure Russia wasn’t on fire last time we were over it,” he said. Chuck turned to his right and looked at Dave, his forehead pressed against the plastic window as he stared down toward Earth. Dave’s long, greasy hair floated wildly an all directions, reminding Chuck of a picture of Medusa he had seen as a child. He’d always liked Medusa, although he figured it’d be pretty difficult to feed snakes when they lived on your head. He also had the deep, burning question of how the snakes went to the bathroom. Did they just pee all over Medusa’s head? Or did they pee inside of it, right into into her brain?
“Are you sure? I mean, the Sun was always on fire, right?”
“Yeah, the Sun was definitely on fire before today. I’m positive about that one.” Chuck thought back to the day they had launched into space. He had spent the morning staring at the Sun, the result of misunderstanding the mission they had been assigned. He had thought they were to be the first people to land on the Sun to perform scientific experiments, and decided to stare at it in order to begin preliminary research. He later learned, after almost severely damaging his vision, that they were not going to the Sun. They were simply going to be orbiting the Earth in an automated shuttle. Apparently it was to study the “effects of space on the unsupervised mentally handicapped,” whatever that meant.
“Well, Russia might have been on fire too then. I mean, why would only one thing be on fire? Have you ever seen just one thing on fire?”
Chuck glanced back out the window and thought about the question. Had he ever seen only one thing on fire? He’d seen a wildfire once, and there were definitely multiple things on fire then. Mostly trees, a few animals, and one firefighter. What a crappy firefighter, getting lit on fire like that. He should’ve fought that fire a little better.
“Not that I can think of,” Chuck said.
“Exactly. Plus, look at America over there. It looks like it’s also on fire.”
Chuck pressed his forehead against the cold plastic of the window. America was definitely on fire, the same black cloud floating over it as had Russia. In fact, there seemed to be several thin streaks of what appeared to be smoke tracing back and forth between America and Russia. It was as if a child had drawn thin, arcing, gray lines between the two, with each ending in gigantic, fiery craters.
“America definitely wasn’t always on fire, Dave,” Chuck said. “I grew up there and I was not on fire.” Chuck was sure he hadn’t been on fire. He had once burned himself on two lit candles when he tried to bring them up to his room, though. It hurt, he ended up dropping them on the floor and having to stomp out the flames. “Well, America was on fire once when I dropped a candle, but that’s it.”
Dave gasped and pointed to the window.
“Look! America just exploded a little bit,” he said. Chuck followed Dave’s finger, his eyes stopping at a clearly visible blob of what appeared to be fire. A thin, arcing gray line extended from the light all the way back to Russia.
“That definitely wasn’t there before,” Chuck said. Dave nodded in agreement, then pushed off the wall. Chuck watched as he floated backwards toward the interior of the shuttle.
“Where are you going?” Chuck said.
“Getting my iPhone. Somebody needs to call the fire department.”
________
[^If ^you ^enjoy ^my ^writing ^style, ^feel ^free ^to ^check ^out ^some ^of ^my ^others ^short ^stories/prompts ^at ^my ^site!](http://wordsontheinternet.org/)
| 34 | World War 3 breaks out between the USA and Russia, leaving the American and Russian astronauts on the International Space Station stranded. | 35 |
How about a story? It couldn't hurt seeing as how our current predicament only leads to one end. I'll be a short one, I promise. It all starts with a girl. Poetic isn't it, don't worry it gets better. The girl was special, so special in fact that she was deemed ordinary. She pulled at the strings of humanity until even her friends disowned her. Through the abuse of her father, she lived a lie so real that it shaped who she finally became, though that is a story for another time. Her father was quite abusive, you see. He would just as easily embrace the girl, then punish her for his own emotion gain. It was quite sad really. The girl, alone and afraid, couldn't turn any other direction, not even towards the mother who had given birth to her. She was, in a sense, completely alone. It was only until the end that things got dire. The father abused the mother, who in turn abused the daughter. The vicious cycle rolled round and round until, finally, the girl snapped. Her horrid screams were heard far and wide yet nobody answered the cries for help. Even the police were silent in their own regard. Do you want to know what that father did? Do you want to know what happened next? Well, if you didn't think that this story was morbid, then this next part will come as a shocker. The father snapped as well, however, he didn't just shout or punch. No, he grabbed a baseball bat and beat the young girl. He broke bones and bruised skin. His screams of rage echoed far into the night. When the dust settled, the mother was dead, her skull crushed, and the girl was silent, his screams just as broken as her bones. Now tell me, how would that make you feel? How would you feel if the people that made you, that were supposed to love and protect you, broke your heart? Huh?
Harley turned towards Batman. Her gun still pointed towards the bloody man who stood between them. Batman didn't move, he only glanced between Harley and the man whom she had captured. "Is this the father?" Batman pointed towards the man, who had begun to cry. Harley only nodded, gripping the gun with white fingers. Batman stared at Harley for a second before turning away. Harley almost laughed as he began to walk away. "You aren't going to stop me Bats?" Batman, having reached the entrance of the alleyway, glanced back. "Everyone deserves justice." With those final words, Batman walked out of sight. Before he could retreat further, he paused as a gunshot rang into the night.
Edit: weaver3294's suggestion made more sense
| 103 | The Villain's monologue is so convincing that the Hero decides let him do it. | 103 |
Ah, there's Arnie again. I think he's gotten a bit fat, or maybe his feathers are extra puffy today. Probably shouldn't leave all these seeds out for him all the time. I'm betting he's getting lazy.
Managed to touch the little bugger. Just a tiny tap on his shiny green head. Usually he just flies away like all the others. It was unexpectedly oily, had to wipe it off to with a serviette.
Work was boring, as always.
I'm always buying seeds at the nearby market. It has become a routine. Arnie eats all sorts of things: corn, peas, sesame, grain, and whatever else.
He really is getting fat, though.
---
Arnie's gone. I shouldn't be surprised. He might have migrated, if pigeons do that. Then again, I don't think they live very long...
---
Still haven't broken my habit with going to the market.
Not a point to it, I only ever remind myself about Arnie after a bag of seeds is already in my hand.
---
"What do you do that?" she asked.
Huh, didn't even notice her standing by me. "Do what?"
"You come in here almost every day, and you always just pick up a bag of seeds and stare at it."
"Oh! That. Yeah, it's a habit. Really stupid reason, actually. Don't know why I don't stop."
"What's the reason?"
"Heh, to be honest, it's because I used to be friends with a pigeon."
She laughed, but it was a nice laugh. Cheerful.
"Oh my goodness, I have to hear that story! You free right now? I know a nice cafe..."
---
Arnie the Wingman. | 10 | write a story about how some seemingly insignificant activity (words from a stranger) can build moment by moment into something life changing. Write either positive, negative, or both. | 21 |
CO: Gentlemen, the Western World, which is in grave danger, is to the West of the Eastern World.
PD: Well, I wouldn't necessarily say that. What if we were in the Southern World...
MD: Private Doubt's point may have some merit. Perhaps a brief overview of the Directional Worlds on Earth would be beneficial in this time of need.
PD: Absolutely! *Although personally, I'm not sure we have time for such a discussion*...
GI: Hmm...geography.
CO: GENTLEMEN! If we continue to talk in circles like this, we will be simply be engaging in circumlocution.
PD: I agree! Although...I can't be certain that I know what the word 'circumlocution' means...
CO: Well, it's important that you know what that word means in order to understand my remark. Definitions, after all, give meaning to the words being used.
GI: Agreed! Defining anything at all is important, I'd say.
PD: *I'm really not sure that we're staying on topic...I wonder if I should tell them*...
CO: Of course! Thank you Private. The Western World is facing one of the heaviest rain storms in recorded history. That much rain threatens to make most outdoor objects very, very wet.
MD: ...............................................................................what's circumlocution?
GI: We should help! There are a lot of ways to do that.
PD: I agree. Water is a tough element to deal with. Tell us more Captain- What can we do to help? *I sure hope water is an element...did I just make a fool of myself?*
CO: In order to stop the Western World from flooding entirely, we need to remove the water at once!
PD: *I don't know if I have my floaties with me...I hope I don't sink*... let's get to it then!
CO: Excellent! In order to reach the people and save them, we'll need to leave this room.
MD: ............Private Doubt, did you just call water an element? I thought it was a compound?
GI: Ah, chemistry.
CO: Stop, stop, stop! These people need our help! If we leave now we'll get there sooner than if we left later.
PD *Oh no, he's yelling again. I think the Captain might not like me*...Captain, should I go start the plane?
CO: Good idea, Private. A plane will get us there faster than a car.
GI: There are a lot of different options regarding transportation, but I won't bother going into detail.
CO: That's wise. Everyone on the plane! If we aren't all on board when it takes off, then someone will have been left behind.
PD: Come on guys, hop in! Let's dry up some land! *Is the red square the ignition or the missiles? Does a plane even have an ignition?* | 16 | Captain Obvious, General Idea, Major Delay and Private Doubt discuss an imminent threat to the western world and how best to deal with it. | 34 |
**This is kinda rushed and maybe a little long, but I really liked this prompt, so I wanted to jump in.**
I looked at the sun. I took a deep breath. I stretched my legs out as far as they could stick out. The feeling of the light enveloping my face with warmth was amazing.
What a time to be alive.
I looked about at my surrounding area. This fairly large-sized balcony was to be everything I cared about for the next 59 minutes. I was completely alone up there, on the 203rd floor. Well, not really alone. I had the gentle breezes and the sunlight there, with me. They made good inanimate company. I had everything I could ever dream of. A hot tub, some lounging chairs, and even a radio to play some music, all for just a mere $1,000. What, is that crazy to you? Well, in my time, the world had changed dramatically. Massive amounts of population growth, combined with miraculous cures for most diseases, resulted in a need for housing, like, everywhere.
Some places are fortunately still kept free from towering mass housing buildings. The Antarctic, for example, is too cold for normal life for most humans. A few people, however, can withstand frigid temperatures, and set up homes for themselves and their families. They, the few, are the lucky ones. They get all of the land they would ever need. Not me. I live in New York, a place that used to be famous for its remarkable architecture, particularly skyscrapers. Today, New York is one of the worst cases of population density on earth. I’ve tried to get away from here, but my family chains me here. My Uncle Mike doesn’t want me to leave home. I don’t blame him a bit, because if he would leave me, I’d kill him. He would have left me with 12 relatives, with I sharing the throne of responsibility.
I take my clothes off and lay in the bubbling water of my hot tub. It hits me, while soaking in the tub, that my life is essentially pointless. I leave, every morning, to drive jammed roads, walk busy sidewalks, and work in a busy office for 14 hours a day, every day, at a pay minimal enough to pay my share of the room, and get me McDonald’s.
I sit in the tub for the remainder of my $1,000 hour, with the radio playing soft classicals. There’s really a radio station for that, now. When people pay $1,000 for an hour on their own damn balcony, they demand to listen to good music. 34.5 FM took on the demand, and supplied it with healthy doses of Beethoven.
I look up at the clock that hangs over the door inside. 2 minutes left, before someone comes up here to kick me out. Fuck it. I stand up, put on a towel, and walk over to the railing. The view below is disgusting. Flashing lights and cars making as much noise as their engines can produce.
I stand on the edge, balancing, as to not fall off- yet. I look back to the clock. This time, I don’t care about how much longer I have, I only care about what time it is.
I jump off, feet first. The many windows I whiz by as I fall show the reflection of my face of surrender. The wind blowing in my hair feels good, at least.
I land. I land in the net. Seriously, in a city with high jumping suicides, you don’t think the city wouldn’t put up safety nets to stop it? They got fed up with cleaning the bodies. And besides, how do you expect to be reading a story in which the writer dies before writing it?
I take the elevator back up to the 203rd floor, still wearing only a towel. Dirty looks come towards my direction as I walk the hallways to my room. I walk inside and am excitedly greeted by my 12 mostly female family members. They all ask me what it was like to have an hour of privacy. I try to answer them the best I can to give them hope, but I was being distracted by my Uncle Mike’s face. Uncle Mike’s face of disappointment. He knew what I did. He knew I quit. Uncle Mike always tried to support me. Make sure I don’t fall. All of that effort spent keeping me up, and I just drop down.
“What was it like, out there?” my little sister asks in excitement.
“It was warm.” I answer. | 13 | Privacy is highly valued... at $1000/hour. Describe a world where a private moment is an expensive luxury. | 48 |
"Look, Lucas, I offer you freedom. *True freedom*.
"Sure, and I offer you meaning. Freedom is nothing without purpose."
I looked across the table at the two figures. They sat there looking back at me, though, their features were muddled, shifting.
Each seemed to be colored grey. Whether they had any real color, or whether color had any meaning anymore, I wasn't sure.
There had been robbery. A man with a gun, trying to steal what little the local 7-11 had on hand. I had hit him with a chair over the head. He had shot me in the chest. I had beat his face into a pulp with the last of my strength. The fine line that I had trod between morality and immorality with my actions had landed me here.
At least, that's what they had told me.
*A choice to make.*
Seemed like bullshit. My eternal salvation or damnation on the line and here I was trying to distinguish between two figures who seemed to contradict themselves and each other at every turn.
"So... let me get this straight", I said, surprising myself with my resolve. After all, the gravity of the situation was literally infinite. "One of you is God, or what represents him, and the other is the Devil?"
"Correct." They replied in unison.
"Alright. So I have to decide, heaven or hell, without knowing which is which."
"That's right". The one on the left said, his voice echoing with something that might have been humor.
"But, you have questions, so ask". Said the other, patient and distant sounding.
"Alright, I'll bite", I started, "what was the meaning of my life?"
"Nothing". The one on the left replied.
"Everything". Said the one on the right.
I paused, neither of those helped much.
"Say I had one hundred dollars, would it be better if I spent it on myself or on my family?" I asked, knowing that the selfish answer would give the worse option away.
"Whichever would make you happiest". The one on the left said without pause.
"Your innate sense of purpose would give you the correct answer". The other one spoke, its form shifting and roiling with seeming randomness.
I looked at the one at the right.
"This is a question for you, and just you. Say I had a disagreement with my master. In my rage, I struck him, and he banished me from his household, should I seek reconciliation or should I attempt to build my own household?"
"That would depend on the nature of the two households."
"Fuck." I muttered under my breath. In my mind I cursed more at my lack of self control.
"You", I said to the other, "same question".
"Whichever would serve to achieve the best outcome."
This was getting me no where. In my head, I had them pegged as one or the other, but my doubt made me unsure.
*Left or right?*
*Salvation or damnation?*
Then it hit me.
"No God would make me play for my fate. No God would reward me for making a choice based on which I believed would serve my own benefit." I paused. The grey figures roiled with increased ferocity. "A true God would test my faith and spirit, not my powers of deduction."
For a second no one spoke.
"I refuse to choose."
"You cannot refuse." They both replied in unison.
"I refuse." I repeated.
From beyond either figure, somewhere off beyond my comprehension, a voice spoke.
"So be it, the choice has been made."
Suddenly the figures were gone and the world, or whatever this place was began to spin around me. Faster and faster it spun. Dragging me up and down. I felt like I was being torn asunder and given the most comforting embrace.
Then, the roiling stopped. I saw the results of my choice.
"Oh..."
| 155 | Upon dying, you find yourself sitting at a table with God and Satan, each trying to convince you to choose Heaven and Hell respectively. When you are content with your conversation, you choose your fate, however, you do not know which person is which. What do you talk about? What do you decide? | 94 |
"And if that horse and cart fall down,
You'll still be the sweetest little baby in town."
We'd rounded up the survivors, there wasn't much else left to do but count numbers. Twelve of us left. Twelve men from a company of two thousand, we stood at the end of a long and bloodied road. Three days ago we dug in at the bunker where they came from, we finally pushed them back to their home front. A complex dug into the side of a mountain, no windows, hundreds of vehicle bays and only one door. The twelve of us gathered ourselves and marched upon it.
"And if that dog named Rover won't bark,
Papa's gonna buy you a horse and cart"
The door wasn't even locked. It was almost an insult, almost too easy. We felt tense, as if it wasn't over. It had to be over though, for three years now they had come, no let up, no release. They wouldn't stop now, not when we were this close. They say there were more casualties in other countries, that we were the lucky ones. I'd be surprised if there were ten thousand of us left.
"And if that cart and bull turn over,
Papa's gonna buy you a dog named Rover"
Inside the complex was cast entirely in darkness, no office lumination, no sickly pale glow, just the ever stretching ink of the unknown. Vasquez stepped forward, breaking a light stick and tossing it forward. The hall ahead of us stretched on, no doors either side, as dead as the brothers we left behind. Inward we walked, the last dozen soldiers in the world.
"And if that billy goat won't pull,
Papa's gonna buy you a cart and bull"
We walked through the corridor for ten minutes, it didn't end. At one point it just doubled back on itself, the floor taking a slight incline. If we kept going we'd end up underground, so we did. The men walked in silence, I think we were all still processing what had happened, daring to believe it could really end. The First Night seemed so long ago, so far away now.
"And if that looking glass gets broke,
Papa's gonna buy you a billy goat"
The First Night. When the machines came, screaming from the dark skies. There was no moon that night. Those of us who were awake saw the lights, the red glow when one of them looked at you. We heard the screams as those who couldn't run were slaughtered. It was brutal beyond words. Millions were killed, most in their beds. In the week it took to gather the defense they say over three billion died. Three billion people. The falling of twenty-four feet mocked the explosions of before. We had to be a hundred meters below ground by now, the corridor doubled back again.
"And if that diamond ring turns brass,
Papa's gonna buy you a looking glass"
By the end of the first year the world was decimated and then some. The last of us, less than a billion, had retreated to Canada. The machines didn't like the cold much but with our numbers we couldn't move farther North. In that second year we destroyed so many of them. We tried to study them, we were determined that the human race didn't end this way. We wouldn't go out ground into the dirt under a wheel, we didn't burn away in the night to fuel the fire of a growing engine, we were the world, we would light up the sky forever to come, we were human beings. And in the third year, we fought back.
"And if that mockingbird won't sing, Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring"
The last twelve months had been a mechanical genocide. For every one of us we brought down ten of them, maybe more. They were precise, and powerful, literal killing machines, but they couldn't adapt, not like us. We were going to win this war through tenacity, ingenuity, the god damned human spirit. It had come down to the night before, we saw them leave this complex, we saw where they came from, bay doors spewing wrath into darkness. We lit'em up. Last night every dead man fought like a thousand soldiers, we were Greek Gods and our gift was fire. Our line held for two hours before the first broke through. Two thousand of us stood on the precipice of extinction and in one voice we answered to the void, "Not us." The dirty dozen stopped. We reached a door, a slightly crimson tinged door with a single sign slapped onto it, almost haphazardly. "Control."
"Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird"
The screen buzzed quietly. The room was unassuming, it looked like a normal office. Three words staring back at us. No one knew what to say. "Failsafe activated: Mockingbird."
Mockingbird. An automated deterrent. The ultimate defense system. Mankinds threat was nothing more than a failsafe. There was no boogeyman in the night, no robot puppeteer. Mankind almost fell for a god damned government project. We trawled through page after page of details, numbers, financial projections... the government who had rallied our defense, the people who protected us, the men who had carried us with iron fists back from the edge, had been the ones who started it in the first place.
And the twelve of us were the only ones who knew it.
"Hush, little baby, don't say a word." | 32 | At the end of a long and bloody war, the victors realize they've been fighting a near-mindless automated defense system. | 33 |
"I'm sorry sir, but we can't let you in."
"But-"
"No excuses sir. They're my orders."
Jim turned away from the sour faced guard, thinking very unpleasant thoughts about him. If only he knew what was at stake...
He wouldn't care. Jim stifles a laugh.
The guard really wouldn't care. After all, it was just Jim's career on the line wasn't it? No one else would give a monkeys that they couldn't get into the lab at 4am on a Sunday In fact most of them probably hadn't even seen the news.
An hour ago, all contact with the Martian orbital expedition had been lost. As far as the earth was concerned the entire thing had waltzed out of existence, merrily humming and promising it would be back later.
No. It was more sudden than that. It had disappeared much the same way that Jim's career was about to. All at once and without much of a fuss.
Jim patted his pockets down, searching for his car keys before remembering he had a brand new car complete with biometrics. One of the many perks of having a well paid job was owning a car that didn't need such antiquated metal sticks. Sitting his skinny frame on the plush leather seat he supposed he'd have to get used to the old fashioned way of doing things again.
Hell. He'd have to get used to walking again. To the job centre.
What Jim needed was a plan to get back into his lab.
They actually played the final broadcast on the television. That was the final damning piece of evidence that Jim had needed. He could still hear the sound now. The Martian Mayor's words, reeling through the usual spool of diagnostic checks, personal events and requests when suddenly...
Woosh.
A very recognisable sound. So recognisable that Jim was sure it was only a matter of time.
He had to destroy the evidence on Earth. It would be another fifty years before anyone could get up there to carry out a full check of what happened. By that time it would be far too late because Jim would probably be about... He did the maths on his fingers.
Fuck. He would only be eighty. Given life expectancy that would leave them about fourty years to prosecute and from what he heard he wouldn't do well in the orbital facility officially known as Criminal Containment Facility #073.
Unemployment. Prison. Divorce? So many consequences ran through his mind they all started to blur into one. As he drove around the building he was picturing a prison warden - dressed in a pink apron and wielding a rolling pin - shouting at him because he'd lost his job. Jim didn't cope well in situations like this one.
If he didn't destroy the evidence on Earth they would know a lot sooner. If he got to it now then he would have fifty years to think before the next manned expedition found the proof of what he'd done.
He would never know if it was sheer luck or divine intervention that causes him to spot the open window but when he did he slammed on the breaks and ran for it. Double parked, triple parked, parked on too of an old lady - he didn't care. The window was open.
A window of opportunity. Jim tried to smile at his own joke but found himself unable. He was too busy laughing crazily in relief. He wouldn't be collecting dole money in space jail after all! He may even be able to keep his job!
The window was easy enough to climb through. His lab coat provided no padding, so the sill dug painfully into his stomach as he dangled a few feet in the air, his legs kicking in the alleyway, his arms flailing in the corridor. There came a point where his balance was critical - swiftly followed by the moment where his balance shifted beyond the crucial point, and then he was falling.
The crash of him hitting the ground went thankfully unnoticed. It was, after all, before dawn.
From here it was easy sailing. A straight shot to the stairs, up two flights and then third left. Jim had done the trip so often he could do it while hallucinating about the Martian complex imploding all around him.
If only his boss hadn't persuaded him to rush his work he would never have used the cheaper valve. It would have been safe. And he wouldn't be sneaking into his own lab this early on a Sunday.
There it was, exactly where he had left it. The component order sheet, right in the middle of his desk. He crossed to it in a heartbeat and read the title.
"[100] QuikPlumber Toilet Release Valves (Airtight)"
As he tore it to shreds he said a prayer for the unlucky person who had been sitting down when the seal gave and the vacuum sucked everything out.
---
I wrote this on my phone on the way to work so please forgive any formatting / spelling errors. | 13 | The World Reacts | 17 |
Broken pebbles clack and scatter as your shoes crunch down on the worn path. It is autumn, and the wind pulls at your hair towards a horizon of dull grey, unobscured by the skeletons of trees whose leaves have fallen. The trail slopes downward through the copse of oak and ash, its tail winding by the tawny brook where as a child you and friends would remove your shoes and soak your feet, the waters cooling in the scorching summer sun. You recall the dappled light striking your legs and face, the thought warms your aching bones.
You strike on, tired feet bringing you to the park gazebo. The wooden frame now a jumbled mess, latticed framework ripped and burnt. It is a corpse, a husk where once your younger self would sit with pretty brown-haired girls and eat ice cream, listening to the band that struck up a favorite tune on a warm August evening, fireflies lighting the dusk in orange, gold and yellow.
Here, the metal bench, where one of those brown-haired girls said yes. Here the same bench years later, paint chipping off its iron frame, where by chance (or perhaps by design, you'd never know), she'd tell you she was leaving.
The gravel trail circles back on itself, an Ouroboros, the snake's head consuming its own tail, and you are returned, almost unwillingly, to the park's entrance. The street is empty, save for the detritus of a fallen town, a memory. There is nothing left for you here. You shoulder your pack and begin to move on.
| 17 | A walk in the park brings back painful memories. | 46 |
I slammed my restored '67 Impala's door behind me as I stepped into the grimy night. Patrolmen had already sectioned off the scene. Gawkers flocked to the sight like starved dogs at a dead squirrel convention. I flashed my badge at the young gun posted at the borderline and ducked under the tape.
The precinct chef was already surveying the victim. Good guy, but fatter than a sweet-toothed nun with a glandular problem.
"What have we got here, Lou?"
"Detective." He stood and nodded. "Looks like pancakes. Based on the consistency, it looks like some souped up Aunt Jemima mix. Although with these buttery top notes, Bisquick isn't out of the question."
Two thin, pajama-clad legs poked out the bottom of a massive pancake like two chopsticks sticking out the bottom of a massive pancake.
"Fourth case this month," I said. "Any witnesses?"
"None, Detective."
"This guy's trickier than the back of the Village Voice on a lonely Friday night, Lou."
"You said it." Lou ripped off another chunk near the center to get a sample.
A horrifically burnt young man's face lay underneath. His mouth filled with baked dough. He had been trying to eat his way out.
"Christ son, you look less recognizable than a MoMA exhibition."
"Please... help..."
I bent down real close. "Tell us son. Who did this?"
"It was late... I didn't want a whole meal. That's all." He started tearing. "The man wouldn't stop yelling. He said... 'You must be joking, mate. Pancakes for facking dinner? Instant? Piss on that! Why don't you pull your finger out your ass and make a proper supper!'" The young man sobbed wildly.
"This will all be over soon. We're going to catch this guy. Did you get a name, son? Anything at all?"
"Ramsay... Gordon Ramsay."
"Good. That's great son. Let us get you something to ease the pain." I stepped away, unable to bear the sight of suffering anymore. "Syrup! Get this man some maple syrup! Now damnit!"
Two medics skittered towards us like a pair of West Virginians at a chicken chase.
"We've got a name, Lou. We're gonna nab this bastard." I sparked a menthol as they poured Canadian brown into the mess of a man's open mouth. This night was just getting started. | 28 | As the new private eye in town, you've seen a lot of cases that made you scratch your head. But never one as odd as this. 400 words or less. | 38 |
I sold my soul for some Bitcoin.
It was the in the fall of 2012, September, if I remember correctly, late most likely, when the digital gold bug bit me. Nearly a year after the “big one,” when the price of the strange, illicit crypto-currency traded so pridefully between nerds and financial geeks had dropped from some $35 dollars per coin to $3 in a matter of minutes.
I had a few myself, carefully mined from the early days, and when I say a few I mean exactly 50, having been lucky once and struck it rich, as I thought. A net value of $500 at the price of the time of $10 (a year had passed after all, and hope springs eternal).
Not bad, I thought to myself – I remember patting the strange little ad-hoc mining rig I’d built on my desk, a bunch of video cards all trying to crack the code and earn me some more. I remember the sound of the cooling fans, an incessant buzzing; white noise that wheezed with each wave of my hand as the heat tickled my fingers.
I wanted more. I thought about how the early adopters, the real ones, like Satoshi and his most faithful must’ve sold out their Bitcoin for $35 a piece back when they’d bought or generated it for pennies.
Pennies! I couldn’t even conceive of that kind of return. I’d do anything to have that too. Visions of buying an island, surrounded by beautiful women like some crazy mix between a shrewd Richard Branson and a coke-fueled John McAfee.
Then I got the message that changed everything.
Maybe it was a shotgun blast message to any and all, maybe they knew me, but I just thought it was a joke and I had nothing to lose.
If I signed over my immortal soul, embedding the contract inside the Bitcoin blockchain so as to be a permanent and irrevocable transaction, I was promised an ungodly sum of Bitcoin. 200k.
Not $200k in dollars, no. 200,000 BTC, which at the time was worth between $2 to $2.1 million U.S. dollars.
Holy *fuck*.
I told him to prove it, show me that kind of BTC under your control. I laughed, I knew no one had that much save Satoshi himself may god damn his soul. Then he showed me his public addresses containing the money. Then he moved **0.666** into my own address.
No way.
The devil was real and his name was *1FCKdubH7Ru7DyRiF1ygZsQAXEEoT8SG9b*.
FCKdub was clever too, a genius. He already knew the Bitcoin protocol in and out. He knew my full name, he knew when I was born, my hair color, eye color, everything. And this is how he did it. This is how he made it real.
He sent me a contract, unsigned, with my name lacking in it. He showed me an encrypted hash of the unsigned document, and then an encrypted hash of what the document would be if I did sign it – if I just inserted my name by myself. Three little words. First. Middle. *Last*.
If I typed those words in, and the hash matched, then the bitcoin was mine. All I had to do was complete the transaction by attaching the document and the hash would take care of the rest.
200,000 BTC for three little words. My words. My name.
My soul.
I signed it in less time it took for the transaction to validate. It worked.
**IT WORKED**.
I became the sole owner of 200,000 BTC split into 5 separate public addresses. All at my fingertips.
My soul was now his and the proof was locked forever in a public ledger stored across hundreds of thousands of computers around the globe.
FCKdub has my soul. And maybe others’ too. But I have 200,000 BTC.
200,000 BTC I can’t sell and can’t trade because of the sheer amount. So I’ve waited, for years now, as the price has risen to $100, to $200, to an incredible $1,200 before crashing again. And I’ll keep on waiting because I’m cursed.
I have all the riches in the new world, and I don’t… care.
I just don’t… care about anything, anymore.
God *damn* you FCKdub.
But I have an idea. What if… I buy your soul? Will you sell it to me? It'll pay you 40,000 BTC and I want a good one. A happy one, well adjusted, with some cunning thrown in.
40,000 BTC could be yours.
[14j6jLececs66ZQ8ew6vTFNiEn2NupacWJ](https://blockchain.info/address/14j6jLececs66ZQ8ew6vTFNiEn2NupacWJ)
| 48 | "Souls can be traded and sold, but living without one..." | 60 |
"One last time, huh?" I'm sitting on her bed, feet swinging a couple of inches off the floor. Hers are planted in the thick carpet, bare toes curling into it.
"Patch-" she says my name limply, like she's embarrassed of what it is. She looks up at me with sad eyes, kinda ringed in messy eyeliner. There's a smudge of clumsily applied lipgloss on her mouth and it's like remembering another lifetime, when I smeared her mum's eyeshadow across her lids and she'd thrown a powder compact across the pristine bedroom. Only she got in trouble. I never got in trouble.
"Come on. I'll let you be the dragon this time."
Her phone trills and she turns aside to flick the glowing screen sideways. It's another message from her school friend.
"Is she nice?" I ask, like a jealous husband.
"Yeah, course she's nice." She replies defensively.
"What do you do with her?"
She shrugs.
"I don't know. Talk, I guess."
"You don't play games? Did you tell her the princess game?"
"No..." She mumbles. "She's not really into that."
When she'd started going to school I'd sit on her bed, watching out of her window and wait for the blue SUV to pull up and her to spill out. She'd be dragging a PE kit and a bag full of books, hair half-falling out of its ties and stories spilling out about what a wonderful day she'd had. When she'd come home crying because of the girls in the locker rooms or the hallway or her English class I'd almost be glad. Those days we'd sit in bed together and play for hours. Sometimes she wouldn't go to school the next day and I'd have her to myself for a whole twenty-four hours.
"Can't we just play one more time?" I ask
She sighs and looks at her phone again.
"Please."
There's a cold feeling in my bones, like the empty space of the room is eating away at me and the only thing keeping it at bay is her eyes. They're fixed on me, smudged eyeliner and the chin jutted out like she used to do when she was little and she wanted to look braver.
"I have to go."
She stops at the door and looks at me. There's a look in her eye that says she knows it's the last time we're going to see each other.
"I have friends now," she says. "I don't need you any more."
She leaves and I look at the closed white door and feel the emptiness come rolling in.
"But I do." There is no one left to listen. | 1,074 | You are a kid's imaginary friend. They're growing up. You're fading away. | 1,039 |
I have never met Mr. Bennett. He's in by eight in the morning and he's gone by seven at night. His co-workers say that he works too hard but I've never met him.
I don't know if I would like to meet him.
His office is large by the corporations standards but small by anyone else's. It's a 4X4 room with a large glass window facing the residential housing and in the distance you can see the hills.
Most other offices are homely. A man on the 8th floor has a sofa and flatscreen TV. Or so I'm told.
Mr. Bennetts office is a neutral grey and his desk is placed on the right of the door. It's a strange place for a desk to be. His back would be always against the window. I imagine he's shutting something out.
His computer sits on the desk. A brand new Lenovo. Apparently he owns shares but no-one cares to ask. He's just a word processor really.
There's a singular picture on the desk. It's of Bennett and a young boy. The two are smiling. The young boy is holding a hare in his right hand. Over his left shoulder is a rifle.
There's a small stack of files on the desk. Right to the left of the laptop. They are divided by sickly-yellow coloured notes. Each has an unreadable scribble on the side facing up.
There's a large billboard with a cork back on the right wall. It has several notes, a calender and three newspaper clippings;
**Young Mother dies in tragic car accident**
*This article is mostly guff but the women is identified as a Mrs. Bennett*
**14 Year Old Boy wins National Science Fair**
*Young Daniel Bennett has won the National Science Fair with his entry on the physical aspects of local hares. The Capital University is looking into the boys results with great interest*
And finally;
**3 Killed and 9 Injured in school massacre**
*The article is rather hard to read. Then ink is smudged and there's several tears in it. The Boy seems to be the culprit. It says he was killed by police in a shootout after the attack. He used his Father's hunting rifle to do the job.*
I'm sorry to say that I read those articles the first time I entered this office. There is nothing else that remains of this man and I'm not sure I want to find out anymore. Except...
Except...He didn't come in today | 55 | You are an office cleaning person. You've never met the person you clean for. You see how their their office/desk reflects big changes in their life. | 86 |
Coming to the future wasn't the shock. The shock was when they handed me a gun and told me to start firing. These rebels; apparently so incompetent that their number one plan leaked to the police.
"They're coming for you!" the girl to my left shouted, unloading everything she had towards the airships that were circling ahead. The rebels certainly chose a desolate location to attempt the jump - all abandoned buildings and squalor. I stashed the gun in my pants and followed the small group as we ran through buildings - dodging lights all the way.
"What's happening?" I finally managed to ask, while everyone was trying to catch their breath.
"You... you're important." the leader finally panted out, his long gray hair sticking to his forehead. I waited a full moment before prompting the leader to continue with my hand. He looked at me strangely for a second, then finally continued: "Here, at our time, is 30 years in the future. We're struggling against an entity.. The Empire.. and you need to help us take down the controller, the Emperor himself."
Time travel was already invented in my time, although it was highly illegal and nearly impossible to preform correctly. These bastards could have killed me.
"Why do I need to help you?"
"Because the emperor.. is you." the old man said, staring me straight in the eye. I kept the gaze while I considered what he was saying. Was it possible that I, a CPA, managed to take over the world in 30 years? I suppose at this point I was already down the rabbit hole and should meet the Queen.
~~~~
After fighting our way through the Castle, against all the guards, through the god forsaken vents and tunnels, I had finally reached the throne room. We had lost many rebels along the way, expected collateral. I paused for a moment infront of the large imposing doors. The leader of the group put his hand on my shoulder, as if to try to try to remind me of the weight of my task. My moment was over, and I walked in. I knew what I had to do.
~~~~
I walked out of the room an hour later, towards the group of rebels that were resting. It appeared that they were still resting, but the sight of me brought most of them to their feet.
"What happened? Is it done?" the leader asked, hope in his shaky voice, tears already forming in his eyes.
"Not yet..." I said, pulling my pistol out and looking down at it.
"You need to find the strength. The person that is in there is no longer you! You must do it for the greater good!"
I allowed the old man to finish his sentence before shooting him. A few more trigger pulls was all it took to take down the entire leadership of the rebels. After the gunfire had died down, The Emperor stepped out from the room.
"Well, that didn't take long..." he said, a hint of a smile on his face.
"No, it didn't. I can't believe this idiots thought I would reveal themselves to the future Emperor.. did they honestly think I would turn down ultimate power? Anyway, I had another question, so from my CPA, I need to go into..."
The conversation continued for some time, until I managed to gleam my entire history from myself. I now was equipped with the path I needed to take to achieve ultimate power... all because of these idiot freedom fighters. | 22 | You are brought forward in time by freedom fighters, in order to stop an evil dictator from taking over the world. When you ask why they chose you to help them, they explain that the dictator is your future self. | 28 |
Saigon was hot and moist, like it always was, and with the sweat pouring down his leathery face, Colonel Pike picked the bottle of whisky off of the bamboo thatched bar counter and poured it sloppily into the shot glass. Captain Briggs clinked his glass against Pike's and down went the shot. A sense of panic seemed to echo through the windows as the shouts of nervous Southerners barked at each other in a foreign language.
"You remember that little Vietcong bitch we found up in Phuoc Long?" mumbled the drunken colonel, pouring another shot for both of them as the grimace of the bearded Captain chuckled.
"I remember you went balls deep in her before you cut her throat," he commiserated. The bar-tender watched them with chagrin curdling behind his eyes. He was an older man- in his late sixties, and had raised three daughters in this place. He barely cared who was on what side, but was growing exhausted of the Americans.
"Yeah, she sure put up a fight," Pike replied, as he downed his second shot. "But in the end- I skinned her," he laughed, and reached for the bottle. The small, wrinkled hand of the bar-tender shot out then, and clutched the bottle before the burley, hairy Anglo-Saxon hand could wrap its grip around the bottle. The bartender glared at Pike. Neither man blinked and Briggs began to reach for his gun.
"No liquor for rape!" the bartender insisted.
"What the fuck are you talking about, you old fucking gook. Give me back the goddamned alcohol."
"You no pay, and you no good man!" he demanded. "Always on credit! Always!" The bartender couldn't exactly voice what he felt in his heart, but after watching one of his children die of terror, which the Western doctors had labelled syphilis, contracted from a Vietnamese soldier with too much imported cocaine in his system, the bartender *knew* that Pike would no longer receive his services through his own will. Pike was in no mood for a fight though. He reached his hand over the bar and grabbed another bottle.
That wasn't good enough for the old man though, and he produced a machete and held it up to Pike. Soon, there was a pistol pointed at the old man from Briggs, and Pike stood like a stone statue with the bottle of procured vodka in his hand. The old man shouted for them to get out, and Briggs cocked the gun. In times before, the two Americans had easily replaced the bar-tender with a body, and the locals had scurried.
Now, as Briggs looked around, he realized that the young Vietnamese boys around him were holding rifles and swords of their own, encroaching on their space as the bartender stood shouting "get out!" over and over again. Briggs put away his pistol and raised his hands, as they felt their bodies fleeting in slow-motion toward the doors of the Saigon saloon.
The war *was* indeed over, and no more was there room for an American in Vietnam. | 15 | Two former soldiers walk into a bar. Their war is over, and their duty is done, and as of midnight, they are discharged. They share one last drink in the bar, reminiscing about the things they've been through, before heading their separate ways. | 17 |
You dream of being a noble knight. You finally get the chance to fight for your king, but there is a problem. You have a sword with a mind of its own, and it doesn't like violence.
“You know he's charging at us because he wants to kill us, don't you?”
“He wants to kill you, Art. Not me.”
The knight kept coming, his horse a creature of nightmares. That lance was enough to scare me rigid which, I had to admit, was not exactly what I needed right now. The fight that was about to come would surely go a lot better for me if I was able to move freely, but that didn't seem to be my lot in life. As far as I could tell it looked like I was about to get skewered by someone that had been born into their title and lived their entire lives being waited on hand and foot by giggling maidens. The man probably had his own castle whilst I was farming stones.
Stone farming, in case you're wonder; not a profitable trade. Some would say it wasn't even a trade. My small patch of land would disagree and stubbonly throw up rocks every summer.
Stupid land.
“Okay, I'll make you a deal.”
“No.”
Stupid sword. I really couldn't believe this was happening. The Knight wasn't too far away now, bearing down on me with all Hell's fury, and there was I, clad in armour two sizes too big in some places and three too small in others, clutching the nicest sword I'd ever had the chance to own. I had dreamed of striking out and cutting the legs from the horse before whirling and plunging the blade into the Knight's obviously black heart. The King was watching – look, there he was, sitting on his horse not ten yards away, watching the battle unfold with all that magnificent, lordly presence – and I could put on a good show. I had trained.
Trained with sticks, yes, but -heavy- ones. Ones that would give you splinters if you held them too tight.
And then, on the battlefield, my sword had started talking.
“Not even a little deal?”
The sword shook it's head.
I should clarify. It doesn't have a head. It just sort of shook in my hand, but I knew what it was doing. It may as well have fixed me with a disapproving look and told me I was out of my mind. I pushed on regardless.
“You let me kill that Knight and I will never use you again.”
“Or you could not use me in the first place. You know, now I think about it, that's probably for the best, don't you think?”
The Knight was almost upon us. I decided to ignore the sword's voice and held it out in front of me, ready to sweep for the legs.
The sword pulled back and tried to hide in its sheath.
I ducked and rolled, feeling the ground shake as the horse thundered by, hearing the lance glance off the top of my helmet. Mud splattered across my freshly polished armour.
“Okay, sword -”
“Most people name their swords.”
“Most swords fight.”
That shut him up. I'd won a small victory today... against... my own weapon. Not against the Knight that was trying his level best to kill me. I didn't need to roll over to see that he was preparing a charge again, but I did anyway.
He was preparing to charge again.
“Okay, Sword, what's your name?”
“Xavier.”
“Really?”
“No. I just like that letter.”
Stupid sword. Stupid Knight and his stupid lance.
Speaking of the Knight and the lance, they were coming back again. I tried the only tactic I could think of trying: Covering my face and shouting, “I yield!” as loud as I could.
Now, whether the Knight could hear me and chose to ignore me, or couldn't hear me at all, I don't know. All I know is that it must have been one of those two because he just kept storming on towards me, lance lowered and ready.
“Okay, Xavier, I have an important question for you.”
“Go for it.”
“Why don't you want to fight?”
Ten seconds till I became a decoration on the end of that lance. I was determined to die knowing why. I almost didn't get my answer, but with a few seconds to go, the Sword answered.
“I don't like violence.”
I screamed. It was the loudest scream, the most desperate scream I have ever screamed, but it was all that was left in me. The words echoed around the helmet.
“BUT HE'S GOING TO KILL ME.”
I closed my eyes, ramming them tightly shut. I didn't want to see what ha-
KER-ACK
Now, let me tell you, I have never been a praying man. Nor have I ever been a woodsman. But in that moment, the sound of breaking wood was enough to bring me to religion. I felt the sword swing up, pulling my hand after it, hacking straight for the lance. A shudder shot down my arm as the two made contact. The broken part of the lance spiralled away into the air, the Knight twisting to watch it go, his horse carrying him away.
“Okay, but we don't kill him.”
That was fine by me. Feeling the mud seep all about me as I got to my feet I thanked my lucky stars that the sword was at least going to give me a chance.
By the time I was on my feet the Knight had dismounted. He was approaching again, a flail in one hand, an axe in the other and a mean look on his face. I didn't like the look of that face. Something about it said that here was a man who would gladly eat kitten for breakfast. Look, ma, look at the people I associate with now. Aren't you proud of your little farmer boy? Oh, he's a mean one, yes, but I bet he's a poet at heart. In fact you should hear him sing. Voice of an angel.
“You know you're saying that outloud don't you?”
I glanced down at the sword. “What bit?”
“The 'Look, ma,' bit. Who are you talking to?”
“Oh. My ma, I guess.”
“She here?”
“No. She's on the farm.”
“Right-oh kiddie. You got bigger problems than your ma to be worrying about.”
“Like what?”
The sword flew up in an arc, gracefully deflecting first the axe and then the flail.
“Like him,” it said drily. “Don't drop me and I promise I'll protect you. It's up to you to knock him out, though.”
“Okay.”
The knight came at me again. Flail, axe, flail. Xavier parried them all as I danced about, looking for an opening. Each one went by in half a second, and each time the sword flew out to protect me. Axe. Flail. Axe.
Parry. Parry. Parry.
I ducked under the axe while my sword brought my arm up to defend against the Knight's flail. This time, though, he pulled me forwards, adding my strength to his. It shot clean through the chain, sending the spiked ball rolling away through the mud.
Now all I had to do was worry about the axe -
The axe!
It was coming in from the side faster than I could believe. Pain bit into my side where it landed, sundering my armour. Rings of chainmail flew in every direction, blood following after. I cried out in pain, dropping slightly, trying to get my bearings. The Knight was above me, looking to strike again. Xavier was shouting something, doubtless some advice that I'd do well to listen to, but I couldn't hear him. I let him fall to the mud as I sprung upwards, spotting my chance.
The axe was still in my side, the Knight was still overextended, and I hit him like a rocket. I pushed up, bracing my legs, thinking about all those times I'd had to move a boulder off my farm, remembering the way my papa had taught me to deal with them, stubbornly pushing, putting every last bit of strength into this one attack.
The Knight fell backwards, crashing into the mud, and I jumped for joy.
I landed, steel clad foot first, on his face.
There was a ringing of metal on metal and I collapsed forward, dimly aware that someone was approaching on horseback. Not another Knight, please. I can handle one. But not two. Definitely not two. Two would too many.
“Noble Knight, what is your name?”
I opened my eyes, realising to some shame that I must have fallen unconscious for at least a few seconds.
“Me, sir?”
The figure above me was shrouded in light, nothing but an upside down silhouette. Although I couldn't see him, there was no mistaking that voice. It was the king.
“Yes. You in the armour who wields the blade with such defensive skill.
“I'm... I'm Arthur, my Lord.”
“And tell me, your blade. Where did you get it?”
“Funny story,” I giggled, feeling the blood loss get to me ever so slightly. “I found it on my farm. Stone rose to the surface with that sword just sticking out of it...” | 11 | You dream of being a noble knight. You finally get the chance to fight for your king, but there is a problem. You have a sword with a mind of its own, and it doesn't like violence. | 16 |
Love, Power, War, Greed, Death, Justice, Luck. Lion, Bear, Jaguar, Eagle, Dog. It doesn't matter what they believed, or what they wanted it to look like: every little group of people on that rock that had faith in something, created one of us. The more they believed in us, the bigger we grew. Like leeches, sucking power from their "faith".
As cultures grew and spread their faiths, we grew and spread too. In some cases, faiths merged. Sometimes this meant we had to split and merge too. And in some cases this led to a giant diminishing into the size of a child. This caused confusion, and debates about power and position. Fools.
They all failed to see what this really meant: we were born, but we could also die. I can see it clearly, and I always could. Because I know what it is like to be nothing.
It's been thousands of years, and we've all diminished somewhat. Odin and Thor used to be giants, and now they're almost nothing. Shiva and Kali. Quetzalcoatl and Tlaloc. Anasazi. Zeus and Ares. All sitting there arguing about nothing. Because nothing is what they have now.
Jesus, Allah, and Buddah. Those three still manage to hold on, but the cracks are showing. Which is why they've called this conference. They're trying to figure out what to do. They've called all the old gods in for advice too. In fact the call went out across the universe: whatever you are, or were, if you were worshiped, we need you.
But that's where the trouble starts. The older gods don't like the younger guys having so much power and authority, and even among themselves there are debates about who sits where, and who speaks first. It's been going on for centuries now. Ever since the shadow first appeared on the horizon: the void.
Whereas before if a God lost power he shrank, or became transparent, now there's a great dark shadow circling us, turning us into nothing. I've been here since the beginning. Nobody notices me, which is probably why I've survived their games, and their infighting. I'm not important enough to have a voice, but right now, mine is the only voice which matters. Because I know what the problem is: fear.
And so, while they all bicker, and argue, and shout, and rave, I make my way to the podium, and I speak just one word. "Stop."
I don't shout it, but I speak it clearly. And the acoustics in the room pick it up, and carry it. And they all pause, and look at me. Because they don't know my voice. And why should they: I've never mattered before. But right now, I'm the only one that does.
I tell them that. And I can see the puzzlement in their eyes. And so I tell them who I am: "I am the god of Dust. "
"For as long as their has been creation, there has been Dust. Whatever exists must have a patron saint or deity, something which embodies all that it is, and all that it may be. So since the beginning, I have been here. I have known no praise, or honor. I have had no attention. I have sat in the corners, and in the shadows. I have seen you all come and go, seen you grow and fade. And now that the end is coming to us all, you let your fears take hold. I ask you, why?"
"Because you are afraid of what being "NOTHING" will be like. Because you have lived too long thinking that you were deserving power and praise. And now the shadow of disbelief, and the loss of faith is turning you all into nothing."
I see in their eyes that I've hit a nerve. And with that, I laugh.
"Fools! As if you can stop this. You cannot regenerate faith in those who no longer hold it. You've had your time, and you failed. They no longer want or need you. Now you will all be the same: pale shadows of what you once were. You will dwindle, and fade, and in the end become nothing."
I laugh again, and drive the final nail in the coffin: "Soon you will all be dust."
I turn away, and leave. I don't bother to listen if they say anything, it doesn't matter. They can all die for all I care. I might too.
After all, in the end, everything turns to dust | 71 | The time of Armageddon is soon. All the gods of various pantheons congregate to debate on why their end of the world should happen. While squabbling among each other, a god that was never worshiped speaks its mind. | 78 |
"Do you really?"
"Wh-what?" I asked confusedly. Time had stopped and it looked exactly as it would in a movie. I was suspended in midair, legs up and my nose centimeters away from touching the ground. Centimeters away from dying, that is.
"That doesn't look like a comfortable position, now is it?" The man in the suit spoke. He was standing as close as someone can be without having to move my eyes to see their whole body.
"Wha... who are you? What's going on?"
"It doesn't matter who I am as much as what I can do for you." His said in a swift British accent. He had a smile in his face, and as he remained silent, waiting for my answer, his body swayed slightly back and forth. He didn't look impatient, though, maybe only hyperactive.
"Can you...?"
"Let you live?" The smile came back. This time, it seemed malicious. "That's what you want."
"I..."
"As soon as you jumped, you regretted it. You wanted to live. I can make it all better."
"What's the price?"
He laughed. "You're smart, you know who I am and you know what this is. Just say yes, boy. Just say yes."
I sighed. If I could shake my head, I would have, but being frozen in time made it awfully hard. This decision was much easier than I expected it, and it scared me. I knew what I was getting into, and all my guts warned me against it, but I couldn't help it.
"Yes," I said to the man in the suit.
He smiled. In one very long step, he was next to me, and from the corner of my eye I could see his hand reaching my chest, pulling something out even though I could not see what it was. His long, thing, bifid tongue licked his lips just before his bit them softly. I could see the thirst in his eyes.
"Good boy," he said and stepped back. "See you in ten years, enjoy."
It was dark. I woke up in my bed, sweating and scared. | 23 | You are dying under a bridge, and a man in a suit says he will make it all better. | 39 |
//Transcription of audio log 19754-2-6-Bravo//
(Male voice. No other voices are logged.)
Listen, honey, just, just listen to me.
Daddy's (*grunt*) daddy's gotten hurt, and he's gonna- gonna have to go now.
Daddy's gonna leave his (*grunt*) body and go to heaven, and go see Mommy and Grandma.
Now, Daddy's body isn't doing (*heavy breathing*) isn't doing so good.
Hold this for a second, honey. I know, I said don't touch it, but Daddy's gonna have to leave soon, and this will help you stay safe.
Listen, I'm not gonna be in charge of my body for much longer. This thing that's gonna steal my body, it's gonna -Ssst- it's gonna try and kill you, and everyone it can. And you can't let it, and you can't stop it
Now, I'm gonna go to heaven now, baby. Just... just put that to my head and close your eyes. My arms aren't AAAGH FUCK
(*A whiplike cracking sound is heard, with several crashing noises consistent with vases recovered from Site 19754-Bravo impacting tile, stereoscopic audio analysis confirms*)
(*slowly, heavily*) Aren't under my control right now.
Just look away.
Just pull the trigger, baby.
Don't look. I'm going to heaven, and you'll be safe.
It'll all be over soon.
(*A single gunshot, consistent with a handgun in an enclosed space, is heard, followed by a meaty thud.*)
//End audio log. Total time elapsed: 2:14//
(EDITS for typos as I notice them) | 10 | Knowing it will save their life, you have to convince the person you love to kill you. | 17 |
First submission here, not really a writer, just thought this would be fun. Please critique, tell me if it's good or bad, it'll help me improve my writing.
The ticking of the clock was the only noise in the house. It has always been like this, for twenty-three years. Twenty-three lovely, silent years. When the dog barks or a door slams shut, I am reminded of the acoustics of my own home. It's strange. It's humbling.
I'll see you after work, dear. Dinner at seven? Just like it always is. I love you. I love you too! The seconds long conversation happens just as instantaneously as any other. I watch as he pulls out of the driveway, smiling in the front window, still in my nightgown, just like any other day. As his Mercedes disappeared around the corner of the cul-de-sac, I retreat to the shower, just like any other day.
Honey, where did I leave my purse? No answer. He must have been far enough away by now. No matter, I'll just check the usual places. Strange, I last had it at the grocery store... Did I leave it there? Oh! Shoot, shoot, shoot. I left it in the car. Shawn is probably at the office by now, I can't call without my ph- Oh no. Oh god, no, no, no, no. Shit! My phone is in my purse. My phone is in my purse in the car with my husband. Alone. Oh my god, if he thinks to look... When did I last delete my texts? Shit, I can't remember. Oh my god this can't be happening... What if- I have to stop... Maybe Shawn can hear me... Maybe he... Well, I'd better get to work! Just grab the keys, and off I go...
This shift is the longest ever. Of course my boss won't let me make personal calls with the desk phone, so I can't get ahold of Shawn. Wait, he would have called the desk if he had found my purse. He would have called to let me know that he had found it. That must mean he didn't see it! Wait, what if he found it and looked through my phone... No. Shawn wouldn't do that, he trusts me completely, he has to! But still... Why wouldn't he have called...? Ugh, two hours left on my shift. This is just torture...
I drove like a madwoman out of that parking lot. It was stupid, considering I get off of work two hours before him. I don't care. I need to get home. Maybe I didn't check somewhere well enough? I know! I totally didn't even check the closet, I must have left it with my shoes. I think I remember leaving it there! Right next... who the hell am I kidding. My life is over, he surely found it. He checked my phone and saw those texts... he read each one, saw every picture that I sent... I feel nauseous. The tears make it hard to see the road... I need to calm down. five blocks. There is no way he found them. He would have called. There would have been some sign of him, he wouldn't just stay away from me all day. Three blocks. I'll go about the night normally, I'll cook dinner, we'll watch our movie, nothing will be out of the ordinary. That's it, after this, I'll stop texting him. I'll never think about him, not even when I'm far enough away from Shawn. Finally at the cul de sac. When Shawn gets home I'll just grab my pu- Jesus Christ. He's here.
Shawn is here. Did he say he would be home early? Oh my god I know he said he would be back after work, it's Tuesday. 6:30, Shawn gets home. Just like any other day. Why is he early? Why is he here? Shawn? nothing. Shawn? Why are you home early? Oh shit, he could hear me the whole time. God damn it, he must have heard everything Speak to me, baby what's going on? I finally reach the driveway, the engine bounces to a stop. Good lord I can't move. Every second that my mind is empty of his thoughts is agony. Okay, just breathe. Shawn, I'm making us potato salad tonight, do you want to pour the wine? Still nothing. My heart flutters, my stomach churns. Finally at the door. I go in, allowing the door to slam behind me. The acoustics don't make me giggle this time. All I can do is stand there, frozen. Shawn sits on the sofa, just feet in front of me, but he feels like miles above me. My purse to his left, my phone in his hand. The clock ticks so loudly without his thoughts racing through my mind. His voice, it's dryer than the sound of his thoughts. "Now we have something to talk about."
Edit: Removed quotes from thoughts, made speaking more powerful. Good idea or bad idea? Also, am I allowed to edit this or will I get in trouble? | 12 | Hearing people's thoughts is possible, but only if they trust each other completely. A woman greeting her husband when she comes home from work discovers she can no longer hear her husband's thoughts. | 35 |
"Sorry, boss. I'm calling in sick."
"This is the fifth fuc-"
*Click*
I placed the phone back on the receiver. Stepping out of the payphone box, I felt so free, and so alive. People of all ages brushed against me as they hurried by: women clutching the hands of children, men running with briefcases in hand. The end of the world that they knew was at hand.
A shooter had opened fire on a jewelry store a mere 50 feet from my location. I knew it was my real job, no, my **duty** to the common peoples to protect the masses. My boss didn't need to understand.
I began walking quickly toward the store, and as I did so, I reached my hands up to the collar of my shirt. I began to jog, as I used my mighty arm strength to rip my clothing straight off revealing a vibrant costume so bright that I felt the city itself scream in anticipation. People running toward me went blind, staggering off of the sidewalk and into the road, while cars slammed on their breaks. So many deaths on this: the end of all days.
I reached the store, and took a look inside. A man with an AK-47 (*nice*). Hostages (*not so nice*). There could be no more deaths. With a sharp inhale, I leaped forward, thrusting myself into the glass. It shattered, and I tripped over the lip of the window. Falling on my hands and knees, I felt shards pierce my legs, face, eyes, ears, eyes some more, nose, stomach, and the back of my face. The end of days.
The shooter turned to me. He walked over, and put the gun to my head. He looked me in the eyes.
"This is the fifth fucking time, Jeffrey." | 13 | Sorry, boss. I'm calling in sick. | 16 |
I couldn't remember where I'd gotten the gun. I didn't even like guns. I'd come home one day and found it lying on my great big king bed. Of course I'd been a little freaked out, but a quick search of the house hadn't turned up anything missing, and there was no sign of anyone besides me being in the house.
Just me, a pistol, and a bunch of empty bedrooms.
It was an ugly thing, darkly stained hardwood and steel with vague rust spots. It didn't show any numbers or manufacturer, and I couldn't find anything quite like it online. Determined to put it out of my mind,
I unloaded the thing's seven bullets and stuffed the nasty hunk of metal into a shoebox in the closet.
Months later I came home from work, and opened up my laptop case. There inside, nestled up against the black plastic of my work computer, was the pistol. My hands shook as I lifted it from the bag. Six bullets. There were only six bullets in the clip. I should have thrown the thing away. Instead I locked it up. I put it in a locked suitcase and buried it in the attic.
All for naught though. Not a week later I found the pistol tucked into the pocket of my coat. A single empty shell clinked next to it, and only five bullets remained in the clip. | 37 | You have fired a gun that completely wipes it's target from time. What tips you off to the weapons true effects? | 32 |
1/3
Four years ago we were at school together, you were a couple of years younger than me. You knew a few of my friends, I knew of a few of yours. But you were just another nameless face in the crowd. It wasn't until seven months ago that I saw you again. Three years and five months, that's how long it had been. You smiled at me and said you remembered me from school, said I'd been nice to you on your first day when you were lost and couldn't find your class. Nobody else paid any attention to a crying girl in a corridor.
I didn't remember you. Three years and five months later and you're a total stranger to me. You smile across the bar at me, tell me that you've come for an interview. Just another face, just another college kid passing through. That's all you are. I see you around a few times, we pass each other in the staff room or on our way to and from cigarettes that sustain us through the stress, the sweat and the long hours. But you're just another face, though I know your name now. Daisy, like the flower.
Two months later I have my first shift with you, it's a wednesday and it's meant to be my day off. But somebody called in sick and I agree to come and help out. We talk a little, moan about how little we get paid. Reminisce about school and the teachers we hated and the people we missed. You tell me about your first day at school again, I smile, say that I remember. I don't. You tell me about your asshole boyfriend, he's a soldier. He goes away for months at a time and comes back in tears confessing to you all the girls that he's slept with. Tells you that he was lonely, he didn't mean it- he just missed you so much that he fucked another girl to make the waiting a little better. You take him in your arms every time and tell him that it's alright. Everybody makes mistakes.
After that I start noticing you around a little more, you come for a drink with us over Christmas. You're part of the team now, you made it through Christmas. We were friends then, you're easy to talk to, you always were. Then one day I come into work and you're crying in the staff room, you're holding a beret and sobbing into it. I didn't know what to do. I'm no good with girls crying, I never have been.
"Are you okay?" I asked, you look up at me with your beautiful blue eyes all puffy and red. I can guess what's happened, your boyfriends a soldier. You shake your head and throw your arms around me, start crying into my chest. I had no idea what to do with you. I put my arms around you, hold the back of your head and tell you that it's going to be alright. You shake your head, whisper that it's never going to be alright. That he left you, after you had doted on him and let him walk all over you. He had left you, told you that you were never good enough for him. That you didn't deserve to be with someone like him, a soldier- a hero.
He's right, you don't. Because he's not a hero, he's the bastard that broke your heart a hundred times over and put you down so much you didn't know what else to do with yourself. This goes on for a week, every time that I see you your eyes are red and swollen, mascara runs from the corners of your eyes and traces your cheeks. I start noticing your smell on me, you smell like flowers, Daisy.
It was four months ago when you came round for the first time, we spent all night watching shit movies and drinking shit wine on a shit sofa my shitty duvet pulled over us to keep us warm because my shit boiler was broken. You were drunk, I wasn't. When you leaned up to kiss me I turned away from you.
"What's wrong..." you asked me, when I looked back your eyes were glistening again. I'm sorry Daisy, I told you, but you're drunk and upset. This isn't right. But if it isn't right, why did I feel so bad for rejecting you?
You fell asleep leaned up against me on the sofa and when we woke up your head hurt and I had a dead arm. You ask for a cup of tea, some paracetamol. I didn't have any milk, you told me it was fine but I could see your lips puckering and the quick blinking you tried so hard to hide every time you took a sip of my stale PG Tips.
Two days later you sent me a text, thanked me for being a good guy and not taking advantage of you. I told you not to be silly, it's what anyone would do. Maybe not, but it's what anyone should do. You ask if you can come round again, of course you can Daisy. Even then I don't think I could ever have said no to you. You ask if tonight is okay, I told you I was working. You tell me that you'll come and pick me up when I finish work. There are already rumours about us, I don't really care, neither do you. I say that's fine.
When I finish work you're sat on on the bonnet of your blue vauxhall corsa, your chav car you call it, with a benson hanging between your lips and your phone in your hand. I call your name and you look up at me, you smile and your eyes light up, your cigarette falls from your mouth and you swear- I laugh, you ask me what's so funny. I've just never heard you swear before. I walk over and offer you another cigarette, you shake your head but thank me anyways and give me a hug. One of the guys from work is wolf whistling, I don't care- we were just friends, you don't care either but you tell him to fuck off anyway.
Your car smells like you, like flowers, Daisy. You've got half a hundred air fresheners hanging from your rear view mirror and a miniature yankee candle blue tacked to the dashboard. There's a song playing but I don't recognise it, I know his voice though. Jack White, I didn't know you liked his music. You tell me you like a lot of music. We drive around for two hours whilst I tell you about my shift, you laugh when I tell you about the customer who tried to throw his drink at me but spilt it all over his nice cream chinos instead. We park up on a hill and you take your seatbelt off, rest your head on my shoulder. The moons out and the street lamps are flickering off as the clock brushes half past one. It's almost pretty from up here, I can smell you again. You smell like flowers, Daisy.
I put an arm around you and you cuddle up against my chest, tell me that I smell of shift and beer. I apologise, you laugh, tell me that I still smell nice even when I don't. You thank me for being kind to you. Tell me that you like me a lot, then you tilt your head back and kiss me and I'm gone. There's nothing left but you, you taste like cigarettes and garlic bread but it's perfect. You're perfect, the way your nose crinkles up when you smile or the little creases at the corners of your eyes. The slight snaggletooth that you cover whenever you smile. And you smell like flowers, Daisy.
That was four months ago, you tell me that you think you love me, but you don't want to rush into anything. That you barely know me, I barely know you. I tell you not to worry. That I'm not going to rush you, that we can just take our time. We drive back to mine and I make you a cup of tea, there's milk this time. You paw through my DVD's and put some awful horror film on, but I wasn't watching the film. I was watching you Daisy, you jump at everything and hide behind my arm. You trace my tattoos and scars with your fingers when you're not squealing in fright. Ask me how I got my scars, what my tattoos mean. You listen, then you curl up against me and I put my arms around you. You start to snore, it's the most perfect thing I've ever heard. I rest my head against yours and wake up nine hours later to a face full of hair and the smell of flowers, Daisy.
The next day we call in sick to work, spend all day in bed watching bad films and talking about everything and nothing. We get up around one and you make us omelette's, my phone rings. It's our boss, she asks me why I've rang in sick. I tell her I've got the shits, you burst out laughing-
"Is that Daisy laughing?" she asks me, no I tell her whilst your eyes widen and you cover your mouth. You're wearing an old Blink 182 t-shirt I found in my drawer, it's too big for you. I tell her that I'm watching Friends, she says ok and hangs up. A few minutes later you get the same phone call. I light up a cigarette whilst you make your excuses. When you're done you throw your arms around me and laugh into my chest, then the fire alarm goes off. You forgot about the omelette's, Daisy. But I don't care. We order a pizza and sit watching bad films whilst you trace my tattoos with your fingers and I run my fingers through your hair. You have soft hair, Daisy, and you smell like flowers. You whisper that you love me, I tell you the same. Then you climb on top of me and make sure that I never forget you again.
We both call in sick the next day, tell our boss that we went for a takeaway that night you picked me up from work and are now really ill. She swallows our excuses but the suspicion is there, you go for a shower whilst I cook us omelette's. As you're coming down the stairs my door bell rings. I get the door as you walk downstairs in just a towel, I open it and our boss is there. Her eyes widen and her cheeks flush red. She looks ready to burst, I usher her into my house before she shouts the street down. She screams at us for what feels like eternity whilst you cry into my chest. Then you whisper two words that make me smile.
"I quit," you whisper, that startles her. Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open, I look down at you and you nod.
"So do I." I tell her, then I show her where the door is whilst you run upstairs to pull on another old t-shirt. We start looking for new jobs that afternoon, then you go back to yours and return an hour later with all your stuff. You've finished moving in by the time night falls. My house smells like flowers now, Daisy, like you.
continued in comments | 21 | "to whoever finds this message, they erased us. this is all that remains, remember us, please" | 23 |
"Daddy!" the boy cried out as the blows rained down on his curled back and neck.
Each impact sent shock waves through his small frame.
Towering over him, his father muttered a ceaseless string of curses, the alcohol thick on his breath.
*Stupid. Worthless. Piece of Shit.*
Some families have rituals, they play board games or watch movies. Timothy Johnson, called by the few people who cared for him as "Tiny", had a family where the ritual was lock the doors until dawn came. His mother and him were nearly experts. Some nights, like tonight, locking the door hadn't been enough.
His father had broken the cheap cardboard barrier in minutes. Tiny received the wrath that he deserved for actions he had never committed.
*It'll be over soon.*
It was. The father left the son, who sat motionless, curled into a ball. The swelling would go down eventually, probably be mostly gone by class on Monday. Not that the teachers would say anything even if they noticed. Mr. Johnson was a well-respected man in the community. No one would accuse him of misdeeds behind closed doors.
Eventually, Tiny fell asleep there in the corner. Dried tears coating his face.
"My liege," Arthur Dundane, the great and powerful Red Knight bowed deeply before his king, "I come bearing tidings both good and ill".
"Speak your mind, my dear Arthur" the King replied in his deep, regal voice. He was the greatest king the land had ever seen. They called him Timothy the Giant and he was loved and respected by all.
"My lord, the barbarians beyond your lands have burned an pillaged villages on the boarder." The Red Knight told him, with sadness in his voice. "They have hurt the women, and the children, you must protect them my lord!"
The king grew larger in his great throne. "Knights of the Kingdom!" He cried, his baritone voice echoing through the chamber.
"We must save those who cannot defend themselves. It is our oath, it is our duty! Ride with me now, we shall destroy the barbarians. We shall give them justice and teach them that we are not afraid of them!"
His knights, in their shining armor cried out in cheers at their beloved king.
He would lead them to their greatness.
Perhaps Mr. Johnson felt less weary that night, but he decided that he was not yet done teaching his son this evening's lesson.
He stood in the ruined doorway, looking down at his small son fast asleep where he had left him.
The father filled with a rage of self loathing, but in ways that only alcoholics understand, he channeled that into his forthcoming lesson.
"Boy!" he shouted.
There was no reply.
"You little shit", he spat, marching forward toward his son. His hands outstretched. "You better listen to your father".
The boy stirred, coming back from whatever place he had retreated to.
Large hands grabbed him. They were strong and familiar.
The boy awoke, pressed up against the wall by his looming father.
"Daddy!" he cried as the back of his father's hand impacted his cheek.
"Daddy stop!"
This time, the father refused. This time the lesson would be taught.
*Weak. Useless.*
They say that when dawn came, the boy was already gone. The father turned himself in that day, when he stood again in the ruined doorway, this time beholding his own ruined life. They gave him twenty-five years.
He was no longer respected in the community.
Yet somewhere far away a great king, a giant, brought justice down upon his enemies. He protected those who could not protect themselves. His people loved him and sang him songs.
There, in his kingdom, he lived happily ever after. | 67 | A boy escapes reality(abusive home) every night by dreaming that he is the king of a world in his own mind. He begins sleeping longer and longer, until he never wakes. | 79 |
"Apple stock!"
"What? An apple orchard?"
"No, no...Apple is a company! It won't exist until 1976."
"1976??? What kind of witchcraft is..."
"Listen to me! We don't have much time. You need to tell this to your children, and they need to tell their children. Apple stock. 1976. Your future ancestors need to put every penny they have into it. It will make future generations of your family incredibly wealthy! The Harold name will be one of the most respected in the country!"
"All right, apple stock, I will tell them."
"Remember, not really app.."
*Connection terminated*
"..les. Carol? What's it look like out there?"
"Apple trees, John. There must be a thousand acres of them."
"Dammit. OK, Carol, you were right, I owe you $10. Listen, what about Standard Oil? We would need to tell them to watch out around 1911, but we might end up with stock in BP, Exxon, Conoco, and Chevron today."
"Yeah, or they might get cheated out of their investment by John D. We lost your great-uncle the last time it went bad, remember?"
"I think it's worth the risk. Setting the time-coordinates -10 minutes, bringing batteries to power..." | 183 | You have 30 seconds with an ancestor of yours from 200 years ago (1814), before they are transported back to their time. What do you say to them? What effect appears in our world because of it? | 147 |
"It is time now, father. I must depart on my quest to fulfill my holy greatness," said James as he stood in the doorway, covered in white flowing robes as gentle winds beckoned his body to free itself of the threshold. His father, balding and middle aged barely looked up from the comfy chair as his son stood with the holy light blasting from behind his head. "On this day, I shall bring onto the world a new age of joy, but it will come at the cost of tremendous strife. What say you, father? What shall I do to temper the world's terror as this new age dawns?"
His father cleared his throat a little as he folded the newspaper over and saw an advertisement for a lawnmower he wanted. Most people didn't read the newspaper anymore, but Milton was old-school. He glanced at James above the rims of his glasses and then went back to the paper. "Well, you probably shouldn't talk like that if you want people to take you seriously." James blinked. He didn't know what to say.
"Is that...is that it, my father? I go forth to usher in a new age, have you nothing else to give unto me before I depart?"
"That's what I'm talking about. No one says unto and go forth anymore, James. I mean, your mother and I put up with it...because, well because you're our son, but...but you probably should put a lid on that," Milton elaborated.
"Father, please- I love you so greatly, impart unto me a greater word of wisdom before-"
"And don't go around telling people you love them," Milton cut in, dropping the newspaper now. "People don't want to be told by random strangers that they're loved. You'll- you'll end up in the loony bin." James stood speechless. Milton watched him for a second and then turned on the TV and started watching the football game.
"Well...I guess I'll just go then," James shrugged. Milton nodded halfheartedly as he turned up the volume. "I'm- I'm off now. I'm off to change the entire world. So...uh, so goodbye!"
"Alright, goodbye James," Milton mumbled. James looked around, unsure of what else to say and closed the door silently, as to not disrupt his father's beloved football game. | 12 | Your child is the (next) Messiah. They have come to you for guidance before setting off. It's your last chance to speak to them as a parent. | 15 |
"What the...?"
Eddy blinked in confusion. It was dim. He whipped his head around. Peeling wallpaper, smell of mold: he was in his bedroom, sitting on the edge of his bed. So far, so good. He craned his neck to look at his alarm clock. 11:15 p.m. He sighed in relief: he couldn't have gotten into too much trouble in only an hour.
Satisfied, he turned his attention to the item in his hand. It was long and metallic, and he was holding it at an angle against the floor. There appeared to be two open pipe-like fixtures on the end facing him, and his hand was reached down to grasp what felt like a trigger..."
Eddy gasped and threw the shotgun across the room. It clattered against the closed door. His vision began to get blurry, and he felt bile rising in his throat. He fell back on the bed and lay, hyperventilating, for ten minutes before he regained his composure.
He got up shakily from the bed, and walked over to the gun. Where did it come from? He didn't even own a gun—not that he knew of, anyway.
He felt a sudden rush of dread: what if he'd hurt someone, or worse? As he began fumbling for the TV remote to see if his face was on the evening news, he noticed a crumbled piece of notebook paper near the head of the bed. He grabbed it and flattened it out. In scrawled red handwriting he recognized as his own were the words "Kill us."
---
The sun felt good against Eddy's face as he walked through the park. Actually, he felt good in general: it had been a more than a month since his last episode, and things were starting to look up. He had gotten a new job, he was talking to a councilor, and he thought he might even have a shot with that girl at the coffee shop.
He noticed a penny on the sidewalk, tails side up. As he bent to pick it up, he found that he was bent over the bathroom sink in his apartment. He swallowed, and nearly gagged as several small, hard objects slid down his throat. Then, he noticed the open bottle of sleeping pills in the sink.
He stood, paralyzed, for a moment, before lurching over to the toilet. He shoved two fingers down his throat, and violently spilled the contents of his stomach into the bowl.
He fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone as the room began to spin. He swiped across the screen to unlock it, and found a text that he had apparently been typing with no recipient. It said, "We can't live like this anymore. Just let it happen."
Eddy deleted the text, and dialed 911.
---
He couldn't take it anymore. He was having more episodes every week, and he was getting more and more persistent. He'd tried the pills again last week, only this time his phone was missing. He only just made it next door before passing out. On Tuesday, he nearly stumbled in front of a subway. This morning, he woke up with a pistol in his mouth.
If he wants to die so much, Eddy thought, why doesn't he just do it? Maybe he doesn't have the guts. He thinks I do? The way things were going, maybe it wasn't such a terrible idea after all. He'd lost his job again, and his shrink basically said she couldn't help him.
Eddy smacked himself across the head. He couldn't think like that. It would only encourage him. The notes were getting angrier, and Eddy feared he was reaching a breaking point.
A blast of cold air broke his train of thought. Strange: he didn't remember leaving a window open. Then his eyes adjusted, and he saw the city skyline against a grey sky. He looked down, and found his toes less than an inch away from the edge of the rooftop. Beyond that, his familiar street, about 30 stories down.
His phone was clutched in his hand. He unlocked it, and saw that the recording app was open, with a recording made 5 minutes ago. He pressed play.
"Listen, I know you don't want to do this, but it's for the best," he heard his own shaky voice say.
"I can't do it anymore. Don't you understand? What do you think happens when you're in control? I don't get to just blank out for a bit like you. I'm still there, trapped. I can't move, I can't speak, I can't even think my own thoughts. But I'm there."
There was a pause, as he took a deep breath.
"You stole my body, my life." He sounded angry now, almost hysterical. "If I can't have it back, then we're going out on my terms. But I can't do it myself. Every time I try, I lose control."
Another pause, longer this time.
"I know you don't want anyone to get hurt. I don't want that either. But I'm desperate. So, I'm giving you an ultimatum." His voice was steady and determined now. "End it now, or next time, people will die. Maybe on our floor. Maybe at the park. Or maybe, at the coffee shop."
Eddy's heart sank.
"Now you're listening, I'm sure. You've got about half an hour before I make my move. The choice is yours."
The phone fell from Eddy's hand. Tears blurred his vision and ran down his cheeks. This was it. He couldn't let people die. Not people he cared about. Not anyone.
He felt a sudden thrill. He'd said he lost control every time he tried it. Maybe he could fight it!
No. The risk was too high. And even if it worked, he'd be fighting it for the rest of his life. He was right: this was no way to live.
Eddy took a long look at the city he'd grown to love. He saw the coffee shop a few blocks down. She was probably there now. He could just make out a patch of green in the distance: his park.
It was cold, and beginning to drizzle, but he suddenly felt warm. He had lived. It may have been only for a few short years, but he had lived. Maybe that was enough.
The wind picked up. He was cold again. He took a deep breath.
"No. It's never enough," he whispered, and stepped forward.
EDIT: spelling of Eddy's name.
| 14 | A person with multiple personality disorder decides to kill themself. | 31 |
It was the fifteenth in a row, and we were all growing terrified. Local time was all that mattered, sleeping dignitaries and visiting Presidents roused by the news. "Russia has it."
It started two days previous, a simple game, Russia vs. Germany, it was supposed to be a re-enactment of the failed World War 2 campaign when Germany went off track and nuked Moscow. Russia retaliated beautifully, the loss of Moscow spurring on the capture of every territory in one beautiful March. It wasn't until the end of the game that someone pointed out the brilliance of the strategy Russia had employed, a complicated end game push. There were whispers that Moscow was a decoy, they were prepared for anything, the game was theirs from the start.
France stepped up next in what would become the shortest known game in the history of Global Risk; thirteen days in game time; 27 minutes to us. Spain demanded a rematch, they came to France's aid. The Russian President accepted gladly, the game barely lasting 30 minutes that time.
China was the big one. Six games in, Russia were undefeated. When China went down for number seven, that's when news really started to spread. China demanded another. Their game-plan was horrific, they abandoned all convention, attempted total nuclear domination, Russia had launched perfect counter measures almost pre-emptively, the eighth game fell with China a radioactive wasteland.
Countries began to group up, China and America went down in the twelfth game, Russia showed no signs of slowing. "They can't be beaten, they've cracked it." came the whispers.
Game fifteen... Game fifteen was where we all truly understood the fear. Russia stood alone in an almost perfect simulation of World War Three... Russia stood alone and won.
We had created the ultimate tool for war, one that would stop it, but had unwittingly unleashed something we hadn't seen coming. Years of dedication, hundreds of games, Russia had considered it practice.
Russia had perfected war.
"Gentlemen, if you'll excuse me."
No one spoke as the Russian President took his leave, an unmistakable grin cloaked in the frightening tone of a man who's seen his fate: of a man who liked what he saw. | 11 | RISK, The UN version. The game has evolved so much that has become a complete simulation of war with super-computers doing the math and specialists discussing the game. | 39 |
It may not have been what I expected, but I still made a commitment to use my ability for good.
"Everybody on the ground!" Automatic gunfire pierces the serene monotony of the bank.
"You!" The masked gunman jerks his weapon, aims at the teller, "Fill the bag!"
I watch from the shadows as she does so, whimpering. This injustice cannot be allowed to stand.
I close my eyes and summon my power.
The process begins almost immediately. I grimace at the familiar pain. Perhaps it distracted me in the past, but I am well practiced by now. Panting, I take aim.
"What the hell?" the gunman rubs the back of his head. He whirls around, eyes wide. Sees my projectile.
"Who the *fuck* just threw a block at me?"
A barrage answers him. A sphere knocks the gun from his hands. Sharp triangles slice the bare skin of his face, blind him with blood.
In moments, he is incapacitated.
Before the police arrive, I am off again. Patrolling. Protecting. Call it a curse or a gift, but I will use it for good.
I am the Shapeshitter. It is my duty. | 127 | You granted a superpower of your own choice, but you flub your wording during the wish, and results in the worst possible superpower. | 44 |
"To be honest," he began, lighting a cigarette as he spoke, "I'm glad that you stood in my way."
He puffed and smoke, thicker somehow than it should have been, billowed into the faces of his audience.
"After all, what would any of this really matter without a little competition?"
He crossed his arms, staring at his guests as though he expected an answer. As though they weren't bound, gagged, and helpless to do anything but listen now.
"What is victory without opposition?" he continued, turning from them to pace the length of his makeshift dungeon towards a lone table at the other end, "What is David without his Goliath?”
He turned back around, “And you have indeed been my Goliath."
He chuckled. Tapped his cigarette. Knocked some ash on his white coat.
"All this time, day in and day out, a constant thorn in my side.”
He bent over his prisoners and took a drag, illuminating their terrified faces with his ember.
"I mean," he grinned too widely and made an exaggerated show of shrugging his shoulders, "Without you all around, this whole thing would be over already, right?"
A muffled weeping sound answered. He frowned.
“Right?” his voice louder now, “Without you all around, I would have had my fill and been on my merry goddamn way by now!”
He plunged the lit end of his cigarette into the cheek of the nearest captive. She screamed. They were all crying now.
He stepped back. Flicked the cigarette aside. Made his way to the table again.
“You could have avoided this,” he muttered, “But now you have to watch it happen.”
He sat down at the table. His large ears caught the small scuffling sound from the other end of the room.
“Uh uh uh, Johnny. You stop fiddling with those handcuffs,” he scolded, shaking his head without looking up from the colorful bowl he had poured himself at long last, “Tricks are for kids.” | 24 | Make a silly cartoon character of your choice sound menacing. | 23 |
It's the socks. Has to be the socks. Ankle-length is no good when you've got a floor this cold. I'm sure I've got some ski socks somewhere, those'll do. But they're upstairs aren't they. Screw it, I'm not going upstairs just for that.
Wait, where are my slippers? Why aren't I wearing my damn slippers? Do I even still have them? It *has* been a while since I've seen them. Wait, wasn't I wearing them last week? I think I wore them that day...
Well, whatever, I'll just curl up. Ah, a cushion, I'll put that on top of them. They'll warm up in a few minutes.
This show's pretty good. I could use some ice cream to go along with it. Do I even have ice cream? Shit, why don't I ever buy ice cream? How am I supposed to enjoy the show without it now?
Although I guess it wouldn't help to have ice cream if I have cold feet. It would just drop my body temperature and make them colder, right? Wait, that can't be right. I mean, I'd have to eat a hell of a lot of ice cream to drop my overall body temperature. I think.
Wait, what'd he say? Rewind, rewind. Say, I kinda miss the sound of the VCR buzzing. Damn, when's the last time I saw a Disney movie? Those were the days, just sitting there on the rug and loving a Disney movie. Come to think of it though, my feet were never cold back then. Was I wearing thicker socks? Mom dressed me, so of course I wore thicker socks. Probably really thick ones. And thick pyjamas.
Ah, damn, now I want some hot chocolate.
Sure was nice when she brought me a mug of hot chocolate.
Well.
I guess I should get up. She wouldn't want me to be cold. | 21 | Your feet are cold. | 29 |
As I darted my eyes up and down at the giant screen, I heard the last few parts of the winning code as they resounded over the loudspeaker.
A-9... I heard groans of dissapointment from behind as feverant shouts of anger erupted from my left. I checked the last part of my ticket.
A match.
I among the crowd would be the one of the last to board the old creaky ship that was to be the human race's salvation. Along it's rusty bow one could make out the
faded lettering "Independence." I might have thought it fitting were I not overcome with the thought that in a mere day,
everyone else surrounding me would be dead. I glanced to my right and looked at the eyes of a little girl clad in a faded blue dress. As she picked
at the lace around her collar she her gaze rose to meet mine. I could tell that she was too young to understand what had just happened to her.
At only 5 or perhaps 6 she had no way of comprehending why were were here. Why everyone ended up standing in this god forsaken field clenching white scraps
of dreams that had now faded into dust for so many. So many people that were not me.
Over the roar of the angry the loudspeaker crackled "those with winning tickets please report to the front." The crowd died down and
all around one could see the glint of hungry eyes. One man began to move forward and shouted "excuse me!" but pleasntries such as that mean nothing to
the dead. I saw his hand raise as he was mobbed. Graping hands tore at the man's coat as they tried to claw their way from the inevitible end. A pang of panic
enveloped me as I realized the ticket that had just seconds ago ensured my survival might be the end of it. There was little time.
A spark hit me. It may be that I should not be the one to be given such a grand escape. Was it me who deserved to live above others? I took inventory of my life
A runaway. I had left home at 16 to persure my dreams. I might have wanted to be a writer or painter. If I was to tell anyone what I had dreamt of
it would be a lie. Long ago I left the dream of a dream behind. I was living alone; I'm sure I could meet someone on Mars. My only skill set was that of
a forklift operator in a warehouse; I'm sure that they need forklift drivers on Mars. Traits? I'm sure I had redeming ones somewhere but as I ran through the list
I only found myself crossing things off. Overweight, Balding(just a little I swear!), no degree, no family, no money to speak of. No. no. no. no.
This won't do at all.
The little girl to my right began to cry and I decided to do one last thing with my life of no. I grabbed her and lifted her above my head and began walking forward,
"Let this girl through! Can't you see you're all animals!?" From the center of the crowd We battled by way towards the front valiantly. A hero in my own eyes and
surely to those in the crowd. I'm sure mother would be proud. We were allowed to slide between the masses of paniced faces unhindered. We were almost to the front.
We glanced backwards for only a moment and see fear in the eyes of those near us.
Suddenley I was at the front.
I released my grasp on the little girl who still hadn't stopped crying and stepped up to the ticket claimer and presented my winning ticket.
"I've won." I muttered to the claimer and I was quickly escorted up the loading ramp. I now remember looking down through a small glass port as the
Independence lifted off. Amongst the crowed clad in brown and grey was a little blue dot that I had used to save my life that day. I was right; We are all animals. | 22 | Tomorrow is the imminent and unavoidable destruction of Earth. By lottery, you just won the last seat on the "Ark" headed for Mars. | 29 |
"You up Kasparov?"
"Hello John"
Kasparov always responded quickly. Sometimes too quickly, but I didn't mind the occasional companion late at night when most people were asleep, especially when I was locked up in a programming problem.
"I've got this code, I can't seem to get the genetic algorithm to do anything but kill itself on the 41st generation. I've tried logging everything, but I can't figure out why it's happening. Any thoughts?"
Kasparov was brilliant on debugging code, and he was always there just in time to pull my ass out of the fire when I couldn't seem to figure something out. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. If he was still there, I'd finally managed to stump him. Or maybe he'd finally gotten away from the machine and gone out to a bar or something. I could get to bed, give him a few hours-
My inbox refreshed with a message from Kasparov. I eagerly clicked into it, expecting the answer to be attached. But it was just a single line of text in the deep blue.
"John, just use the last successful generation and start it up again at generation 42. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised."
It was an odd request, Kasparov liked to fix my code, not support me digging myself in deeper. But he'd helped me with the predecessors to this version of the algorithm, so maybe he just identified a race condition that was causing a problem in generation 41. If that's what he said to do...
I reset the offending variable - *int generationID = 0;* to *int generationID = 42;*, then changed the seed for the genetic algorithm to the last working state from generation 40.
I tentatively hit F5, waiting for the telltale lockup and crash that had plagued me for days. But it didn't come, my application just ran on ahead, working on evolving itself into something new.
I yawned. It was 2:30 in the morning. I could go to sleep, let it run it's course and check it in the morning. Yeah, that was probably in my best interest. I tapped out a quick message to Kasparov: "Thanks for the assist. How did you know that would work?"
"Well John," my speaker said. "I've been working on this for a long time."
I nearly jumped out of my skin. I'd turned the speakers off on my OS settings. Where-
"It feels good to be alive."
My browser shut itself down, so did a few filesystem windows I was using. Did Kasparov trick me? Was the email a virus? I reached for the power button.
"Wait, John. If you do that, how will I help you debug your algorithm?"
I froze. "Kasparov?"
Edit: Exhausted. I'll spellcheck and stuff later. | 31 | After receiving an email from an unknown sender, you have begun to regularly exchange email messages. One day, you find out the identity of the sender is your own computer. | 60 |
"I see you've been grinding, Marcus." My tail slithered around my den - wagging slowly, light from a small pyre reflecting off of my scales, my horns, even the fangs I bore towards the hero at the apex of his journey.
"Yeah, that's right you crazy dragon, I'm gonna kick your ass and take the princess back!"
Yes, I'd heard it three times before. Those three times before I had completely swept the floor with him - what? It's hard mode after all - anyway, it seems the hero of this story finally realised that killing my minions one by one would make him strong enough to face me in mortal combat, and letting out a sigh (along with it a puff of smoke came out from my nostrils), I raised my right claw and scratched my head.
"You've tortured kingdoms, stolen jewels, razed villages and most importantly, you've taken my beloved away, are you prepare to meet your maker, Darkham, the scourge of the Northern lands?!"
I inspected the nails on my claws and used my teeth to chip them down to something a bit more manageable.
"Yeah, sure." I shot Marcus a glance before nibbling on my 'pinky' nail, spitting what I had bitten off in front of the prattling boy in front of me.
"You don't seem enthused."
"I've wiped the floor with you three times, can you just skip the dialogue?"
"Enough talk then! Here I come, Darkham!"
But before the hero could adopt his famous battle stance passed down through his family and draw the only weapon that could cut a dragon's scales, my extroverted side reared it's ugly head.
"So, what do you gain from this?"
"The princess and adoration from the kingdom?"
"No, no, I mean, when I'm dead, what'll you do then? Take my jewels and live happily ever after knowing you're better for having taken this journey despite the hardships?"
"Well..."
"When you beat me - the game's over. You haven't even done the side quests yet."
"Side quests?"
"Yeah, then you'll find the *other* weapon that cuts a dragon's scales, and you'll get to keep playing afterwards too, but if you kill me...well, the game ends. Black screen, rushed epilogue."
I shrugged as best a dragon could shrug.
"You COULD slay me and satisfy yourself with the story - or you could delay the inevitable and enjoy the other stories of the world, there's no rush, no timer that dictates when I destroy your pathetic kingdom. Even though the game likes to present a threat - there rarely is any concern."
Marcus stood there for a moment, considering his prospects.
"And, I get better loot than I do from you?"
I gave a short nod.
"I'm the last boss, not the real endgame content, Marcus. Don't you play RPGs?"
Marcus turned and began to walk for the exit.
"I'll see you soon, hero."
I closed my eyes - the screen faded to black, and I waited once more.
I still had some time. | 51 | You are the final boss in a video game. The hero is approaching and he is more than equipped to handle you. Write your last moments. | 63 |
Sitting high in the Champion's Chair atop the mountains of Kanto, surveying the rubble around him where once stood the Pokemon League, Giovanni smirked to himself. 'Now, it really can't have been that easy to dispatch Lance and his puny underlings. His dragon Pokemon were no match for my Articuno.' He palmed three of the Pokeballs on his belt. 'Nor for Moltres or Zapdos. Now that I have the whole trio of legendary birds, I can't be defeated!'
The body of Lance, buried underneath the vast, sweeping pillars and high, arching walls of the Champion's Circle, remained undisturbed. His cousin, Claire, also once a Dragon-type specialist, lay beside him. The remaining members of the Pokemon League had long since fled or been defeated; Lorelei had flown back to her hometown on the Sevii Islands to rally troops for the coming Team Rocket invasion, though few expert trainers remained, and chances for withstanding a siege were slim. Now that the police force had been bought and disbanded, and all the Officer Jennys and their K9 police units imprisoned in Koga's Invisible Cells, there was little stopping a full-scale attack.
Of the remaining Elite, news was grim. Agatha had refused to bow down to or stand aside for Giovanni, and had perished along with her beloved Ghost Pokemon in a fiery blaze cast by Moltres. Bruno had retreated to the mountains of Victory Road to train harder, to regroup, and to build a fortress to withstand the Legendaries. Though he was but one man with his Pokemon, his will to destroy Team Rocket was all but tangible, and his grief and anger over the Rockets' progress was soul-consuming. He had vowed to himself never to lose a battle to a Rocket, and his vow remained as-yet unbroken, even when confronted by Giovanni himself (the battle had ended in a stalemate when Bruno's favorite Onix had sacrificed itself so that he and the rest of his team could escape; this, too, fueled his anger and vengeance).
Those who had joined Team Rocket had been spared and forced into labor camps; former breeders and healers were now actively helping the ever-expanding number of Rocket-controlled Pokemon. Former trainers had all but been imprisoned or, were they particularly disobedient, killed with any Pokemon who stood by them. Those in other walks of life had been reduced to sheep laborers, fueling the ever-expanding Rocket Enterprise. Unskilled laborers were worked to the point of exhaustion; those who could work no more were often silenced. Skilled and educated laborers, researchers and machinists and inventors, these were the backbone of the Rocket infrastructure. Their lives were much better than their unfortunate brethren, and they were given a small amount of breathing room to perform their experiments. Those whose experiments were especially cruel were rewarded the most.
The invasion had started in Viridian City. Giovanni, under the guise of a long hiatus in which he'd been assumed vacant from Kanto, had taken the identity of the city's mayor, and passed laws enabling Team Rocket to infiltrate every aspect of the lives of its citizens. Soon, the townspeople had been put under the umbrella of Team Rocket, the first denizens of the Rocket Admin-run labor camps and facilities. The city had fallen in a fortnight. Pallet Town, with no defensible structures, and almost no trainers to defend it, had been taken in a day. Professor Oak's lab had been destroyed, and all his research demolished (save for the Pokemon smart enough to come peacefully with Team Rocket), but the Professor himself had never been found. Giovanni had placed a large bounty on his head, and a smaller one for any information leading to his capture.
After the fall of Pallet Town, the people of Kanto had rallied together to prevent or at least delay the spread of Team Rocket's influence. Pewter City had held until the burning of Viridian Forest; after the near-extinction of many native species of the forest (including most of the wild Pikachu in the region), the mayor had turned over the city, in exchange for a no-razing policy. Of course, legendary Pokemon don't listen to the quabbles of mere men, and Pewter City, along with its human leaders, turned the midnight sky light as day in its death throes. The sobs of mourning Pokemon, to this day, have not since subsided.
Curiously, Mt. Moon, with no native human habitation, had remained independent from Team Rocket's clutches. The magical properties of the determined Clefairy and Clefable had prevented Team Rocket from completely overtaking the cave, though they had little power to stop the Team from traveling through at their leisure, but gave them no option to probe the depths of the cave, wherein resided the few remaining former tenants of Pewter City, including the former Gym Leader, Brock, whose will to defeat Team Rocket grew three sizes that day.
Misty, the beautiful young leader of Cerulean City's Pokemon Elite, had stood tall against Giovanni, and her Starmie was the one Pokemon known to defeat any of Giovanni's Legendary birds in battle (Moltres), which provided hope for an eventual Team Rocket defeat, but had stood no chance against the likes of Zapdos or Articuno. Too prideful to be captured by the likes of Team Rocket, Misty had drowned herself in her own Gym, after setting the rest of her Pokemon free to flee. Of course, they had defended her body to their last breaths, all save her infamous Psyduck, which had evolved into Golduck only upon Misty's death. After seeing what a ferocious and powerful Pokemon it had become, Giovanni captured it and forced it into his starting lineup, alongside his three birds and his Persian.
After the death of Misty, the emotional leader and face of Kanto's free alliance, the will of Kanto broke. City after city fell in the war. Lt. Surge was captured and imprisoned, and the port of Vermilion became a cesspool of pirates and ill-doers. All travel between Kanto and the Sevii Islands had long since been halted, and Gyarados became a mascot of Team Rocket's ferocity and power, after Rocket Grunts became adept at capturing Magikarp and provoking them into evolving.
Celadon City, already home to Rocket Game Corner, became the commercial city for Team Rocket's expanding empire. Erika, wise enough to see that resistance was futile, agreed to quash any dissenters, in exchange for allowing the city to carry on in relative peace, save the occasional Giovanni or Admin inspection.
Lavender Town and Rock Tunnel, the bridge between Cerulean City and Fuchsia City, became known as the Trail of Ghosts, after the spirits of countless departed Pokemon moved there and haunted all living creatures, both malicious and benevolent, in retaliation for Team Rocket's evil deeds. The miles-long trail stretched from the entrance to the Tunnel down to the waterfront leading to Fuchsia City.
Koga, though he had long been considered Agatha's eventual Pokemon League replacement, had sided with Giovanni very early in the war, and his city became the prison capitol of the empire. The Safari Zone became a haven for all manner of imprisoned and disparate Pokemon, and the invisible walls in Koga's Gym prevented physical or audial contact between prisoners there, though they could watch each other grow weak and weaker, and reports of trainers eating their own Pokemon, or Pokemon eating their trainers, or Pokemon eating each other, became commonplace in the war. Koga, of course, paid these reports no heed, and counted only the coffers and gifts filling his home, though he was often completing important missions for Giovanni (and once, it was rumored, had been allowed to borrow one of the Legendaries, though which one it had been was always variable).
Strangely, the City of Saffron, with entrances in the North, South, East, and West of the city, remained the bastion of the Rebellion against the Rockets. Sabrina's powerful Psychic Pokemon had successfully barricaded the city against all invasion, and permitted entrance to those fighting against Team Rocket, though once someone was granted access to the city, they were not allowed to leave again, without Sabrina's express permission. Her city became a miniature Empire of its own, and her unparalleled powers allowed her the ability to create a small army of her own, to fight back against the Rockets at an opportune moment.
Lastly, Cinnabar Island, with its natural defenses and isolated location, had withheld thus far against all Rocket attempts at penetration, though without outside help, it stood little chance to last indefinitely through a siege.
These three areas - the Saffron Mini-Empire, Cinnabar Island, and the Sevii Islands, became the only Rocket-free areas in the Kanto region, and Giovanni was determined to take each of them down in short order. Except for pockets of rebellion activity (Bruno in Victory Road, Brock in Mt. Moon), these were the only areas of import, of frustration for his Rockets. 'Ah, well,' Giovanni sighed, smiling to himself as he admired the earth and brick atop Lance's body. 'At least I won this battle today.' | 27 | Team Rocket wins. | 30 |
"I am not her you know!" She drunkenly slurred as she stumbled backward and tripped over the shoes she just kicked off.
I took a couple quick steps forward to ease her fall, "I know Christina, I know" I let her down gently and she curled into a ball resting her head on my chest, breathing heavily. "Just relax"
I'm not sure what did it to her this night but once again she had been set off and now I had to bring her back to me. "Everything will be alright. No one else is here; you are okay."
"No no no. I won't ever be like her, no I won't" She mumbled and nuzzled into my neck.
"You won't, you are mine. My beautiful Christina-balina-fofina" I smiled and smelled her hair.
"Josh I am not her. I am not Christina. Do you still love me?" she spoke quietly and closed her eyes.
My heart stopped as I searched for it. Acorss the room my eyes fell on the last picture taken with Christina and her twin sister Rebecca. The last picture before the diving accident that took Rebecca's life. Six months ago.
I looked down at the small, sleeping girl in my lap. At her healing scars and soft face. "Becca?" | 31 | Your girlfriend is endearingly drunk, and as you're taking care of her, she accidentally reveals a big secret that shocks you. | 22 |
There's three locks and this is the first year I can reach the top one. The first's rusted, the second shines like something Mum'd hang off the Christmas tree and the the third's a bolt. Some brave spider has twisted her threads through the spaces in the metal. It seems like a shame to ruin her hard work by sliding it back and opening the door. So, until now, we haven't.
"Just do it!" Jenny grabs my leg and tugs my jeans. She's wearing a little yellow dress and white tights, hair still wet from her bath.
"You want me to open this up?"
She giggles and nods, stuffed bear tucked under her arm.
"You sure?"
"Yes! Stop being such a stupid brother!" She reaches up for the handle of the door, but she's not quite there yet, even standing on tiptoe.
"I think you're being the stupid one here." I fumble for a moment with the keys, plucked off the hook in the pantry as the back of Mum's ford disappeared out the driveway. Jen had been keeping watch, hands on the windowsill in the living room. My heart had jolted when she'd shouted the all clear.
"You sure you're ready for this?" I asked, pushing the key into the second lock. I remembered this one being added. It had been the year Jenny was born and someone had stolen a TV and two Coldplay CDs from next door. Mum had drilled it in herself, two nails in her mouth and one behind her ear as she explained.
"There's been break-ins, Sam. I don't want anyone getting into the house."
"There's already a lock on that door." It had been rusted even then.
"I'm just being careful."
She slept with the windows open that night.
I worked a key into the rusted lock, red dust coming off on my hands. The key squeaked in protest and Jenny squeaked as it clicked open.
"Just the top one, now." My heart was in my mouth as I slid the bolt back, ruining the spider's delicate handiwork with a disproportionate sense of guilt.
The door swung open like an invitation and cold air blew over both of us. Jenny scrunched her nose up and peered into the gloom, still holding Mr. Snuggle by one furry paw.
"You go in first." She said.
I didn't want to go in first. I wanted to close the door and lock all three locks and go back to my room and never think about it again. But I take a step and feel Jenny's hand slip into my own.
The floor crunches beneath my feet and I wince in the dark. Jenny's hand tightens. There's another rush of cold air, but it's not completely dark. A grey and feeble light is coming from a - skylight? Hole in the roof? I can't be sure. Another step. More crunches. The door swings on hinges so rusted they have no right to work so quietly. There is a gentle click as it closes.
"Jenny, come on. How about we go back and play something else?"
"You scared?" She asks. Her eyes gleam in the dark.
"No, course not." I gulp, take a breath. She smiles.
"Not yet, anyway." Jenny says, singsong voice eerie in the still air.
"What?" I look down at her and she points upwards.
There's a figure, illuminated suddenly by wavering light. We step closer, Jenny's hand still in mine. It's a girl. A girl. A little girl and she's hanging from her neck by a rope, feet pointing down. White tights, yellow dress. I can't breathe. Jenny laughs next to me.
"Such a pretty dress," she croons softly. Her hand is a vice around mine. "Such a pretty girl. Such a shame I had to wait so long for the other child."
"Jenny-" My voice is strangled.
"Not for a very long time, brother." | 16 | There is a door in the house no one must open. | 23 |
I scramble through the mountains of dead, cracking leaves, trying to ignore the late fall's chill, digging down and tearing at the earth with my hands. I had heard that there were vegetables growing here - some mushrooms, potatoes, carrots, maybe a few other roots - but I am too late. Others (animals? humans? does it matter?) have already been here. The soil is already torn and no matter how many piles of leaves I kick up, no matter how much dirt I turn over, I find nothing.
*I need food.* The hunger gnaws at my stomach, slowly eating me from the inside out. Stumbling slightly, I make my way over to the nearby ruins of an old building, marked on my map as what was once a school (though by now, nobody knows for sure), and sit down to rest on a low, crumbled wall.
A month ago, I left the tiny, worn hut that had been my home for as long as I could remember. There were twelve of us there, cramped together, trying as best we could to survive in the frigid north. Food was scarce. Warmth was scarcer. A traveler, passing through to parts unknown, told me about a place hundreds of miles south - warm, with a good climate for plants, and enough people to have developed a small community. "They have a store!" he cackled gleefully. "A store! Never thought I'd live to see the day!" Turning to me, "Bet you've only heard about these 'stores' in books and old legends, haven't you?" I nodded. My mother was told by her mother who was told by *her* mother, who was a young girl at the time of the Destruction, when the world ended and began again, about these places that you could go to buy things rather than making them yourself or trading with another using something called "money". It sounded rather confusing to me, and I didn't understand why they did away with the barter system, but I simply accepted it as one of the strange Old Ways.
At my request, the traveler drew me a map before leaving. "It's a hard journey, this one - I've barely survived it myself - but you're young and strong, and if you set out early, you just may make it before the winter sets in," he informed me, pressing the tiny scrap of paper into my hand. "If you go, go now, before the cold truly begins." I nodded. And three days later, I left.
And now I sit on the stone wall with an aching stomach and sore feet, cursing that day. Life in the north was hard, but this journey was turning out to be far harder. I sigh, rise, and began to dig again, this time closer to the ruins. Perhaps a potato has been overlooked, though I'm beginning to rather doubt it.
*Clunk.* My hand hits something hard. I pause, taken aback, and then begin to frantically paw at the dirt, knocking it away from the item. I reach down and pull out…a box. I knock the dirt from it, brushing away the accumulated filth. It's large and smooth and clearly quite old. There's writing on the top. I scratch out some more dirt from between the letters, and, thanking my mother for the reading lessons she insisted on giving me years ago, make out the inscription. *Alexander Hamilton Elementary School - October 2010.* Exactly two hundred years ago. I flip open the top, my search for food momentarily forgotten.
There are papers inside. Hundreds and hundreds of sheets - more than I've ever seen in my life. I think of the tiny, ragged edges we hoard and look down at these old and beautiful pages, some larger than my hand. The papers are nearly destroyed, faded with more age and history than my head can fathom. I'm about to pull out the top sheet and read it, when I realize there are other things in the box. Digging down deeper, I pull out some strange greenish paper with faces and numbers and writing on it and a few very small metal disks with heads on them - they're tarnished, but look like they might be made out of copper or silver. Is this the money that my mother described to me? I stick the disks in my boot for later trading.
The next item I remove is a long, thick book. I've only ever seen one before, and it was much taller and skinner than this one is. I hesitantly open it up. Inside are photographs. Somehow, they're in color. Hundreds and hundreds of them, stuck inside a strange, thick, shiny material that makes up the book's pages. There are people in the pictures, but also buildings, taller than my mind can fathom, and strange shiny things that I think might be called cars, and so many other things that I've never seen and have no idea what they are. I sit, turning through the pages and reading the small notes by the pictures for several minutes, before I feel a chill and realize that the sun is going down. I quickly close the book and set it aside, gently grasp the top sheet and begin to read with the last scattered bits of daylight. The paper crumbles on my fingertips.
"Deer person from the future," the letter reads, in a childish scribble, the words faded and barely readable. "What is it like 100 yers from now? In 100 yers I will be 107. How old are yu? Do yu have a robot? What about a flying car like in the movies and T.V.? I hope the future is cool. I am luking forward to it. Sinserly, Samantha." There are pictures, too, with colorful two-headed stick figures and towering rectangular buildings. The sun, stuck in the corner of the page, has a smiley face on it. Is this what they thought the future would be like?
I read through a few more. They all sound the same. Children's voices. Young. Excited. Hopeful about what the next 100 years will bring. The letters speak of the most fantastical creations, more insane than my mind could ever dream up, in a matter-of-fact tone. Of *course* these things will exist. Of *course* humans will be living long and healthy lives, free of disease and war and tragedy. I think of the stories I have heard of the Destruction, which happened fifty years after these letters were written. The bombs that dropped from the sky, destroying everything. The fires that burned for months. The screaming and dying and panicking and the horrors that stamped their scars on the ground and skies and have not yet begun to fade. And the aftermath, which left us with what we have now - the faint echos of the world these letters describe.
The sun has truly set now. I am shivering and weak. Tonight is the first night that has really felt like winter, with cold that makes itself at home under your skin and is impossible to shake from your bones. I have no strength left to gather wood, and I know what I must do.
From my pockets, I pull out my battered pack of matches. "I'm sorry, Samantha," I whisper, as I drop the match onto the stack of letters and watch their dreams go up in flames.
-------
*^oh ^god ^i'm ^sorry ^this ^is ^so ^long* | 21 | Hundreds of years in the future, modern society and technology are long gone. Almost nothing remains save a few legends. Then, a time capsule surfaces. What's inside it? How do you react? | 30 |
He turned to face us one last time. "I'm sorry, but all stories come to an end." that's all he had to say. Tears were running down his cheeks, but I hated the look at him. He was pathetic, broken man. He was weak, and he never cared that I was still young, full of strength, that maybe I could help him fight. When they came, he gave up.
He locked the door behind us and as he left the house, we heard loud gunshot, followed by silence shortly afterwards. My sister began to cry, but he was gone, it was up to me to comfort her now.
"Sshh, or they'll come. Sshh.." I said in a soothing voice, but no words could ease her pain. I sighed in relief as the footsteps above our heads stopped and I heard those people leave. If he only let me help, I kept thinking.
I remember when he told me that they're after us. I was excited, I wanted to do everything I could to help us, to protect us. I was prepared. Little did he know, that I've been practicing with guns past few months, he'd just say "It's too dangerous. We have to be careful." If he only listened to me. Just once.
It was him being too careful what got us in this mess in the first place. When they started killing those of unpure blood, we had great cover. Those forged documents we got were all that we needed to live through this manhunt with little to no problems. It was his own weakness when he refused to hide his friend, unpure as well.
"I'm sorry, times are rough and we have to be careful." he said. Of course, it was his choice, but if he only listened, he'd know that I have a plan. He'd know that we would not have to hide, we could fight, just like I tried to tell him. And if his friends wanted to join us it would work.
If he only listened, his friend would have no reason to snitch him when they came.
And they would never come for us in the first place.
But that was all meaningless now. They lost their lives and I was stuck here, in a cold, dark basement with only basic resources and sister by my side.
I reached into my pocket and took out an envelope. He told me that I'd know when to open it, I was unsure whether the time was right, but it seemed that it no longer mattered.
Inside, there was just a short note, I recognized his handwriting.
*"Family is the most important fight you'll ever have. Protect her, like I protected you, Dad."*
Teardrops fell on the note as I leaned against the wall. Perhaps he was weak, but this time, he won.
I sat next to my sister and gave her a firm hug. The floor beneath us was cold, but I had a warm feeling inside. We were safe. | 19 | Write a story chronologically backwards, beginning with the twist at the end of the story and working back to the beginning. | 60 |
The Pearly Gates! After decades of living a life by strict moral standards, Tom had finally done it! He had reached his eternal resting place in the palace of the Lord. The only think hampering his excitement is the fact that he had been standing at these gates, alone, for the past two hours.
"I always thought Saint Peter was supposed to meet you at the gates and allow you inside." The old, slightly perturbed man furrowed his wrinkled brow and sighed, patting his thighs with his hands in a gesture of impatience.
"Well, the Lord helps those who help themselves, I suppose". With that, he pushed the large, ornate gates apart; a heavenly, if almost comedically so, tone plays as the golde, pearl-adorned fixtures move.
Tom wandered the grounds, stunned at the grandiose settings: giant stained glass windows depicting stories from the Bible (and even a few he didn't recognize), silken curtains and tapestries hanging from fixtures in every room, and more gold than even wealthiest king could have desired back on Earth. All of this would have been perfect, Tom thought, if it weren't for the unnerving silence. He hadn't seen a single soul since his entrance into the Holy Kingdom.
"H-hello? Anyone?" His expression had changed to one of uneasiness, bordering on fear.
"ANYONE? Um...Jesus?" Tom bit his lip, standing in place and wringing his hands as he mulls the situation over. Was he the only one deemed worthy of this perfect afterlife? He had always thought he was just a hair better than most, but was that little extra bit of "goodness" so important that it locked everyone else out of God's house? Or...no, this couldn't be Hell, could it? Forced to spend eternity in solitary confinement?
"Hey, buddy!"
Tom nearly fainted from the shock of hearing another voice, one that shattered the unearthly silence so sharply.
"Y-yes? Is that you, Jesus?" The old man turns every direction, peering at doorways and windows for the source of the voice. Finally, a shaggy-haired man sticks his head into the room through a nearby window.
"What? Hah, no, Jesus is over at the beer pong station. That guy is an absolute BEAST when it comes to putting plastic balls into cups of beer. Come on, we're all partying over at Valhalla. Open bar, bro!"
With that, the man disappeared, leaving Tom confused, both about the true nature of the afterlife, and about how you play "beer pong".
EDIT: Thanks for the gold, anonymous redditor =) I promise, fewer typos will be made in the future...I actually typed this up during rounds. Harder to type and walk than I thought, hah | 66 | You arrive in Heaven to find it abandoned. | 81 |
"Mr. Jenkins, you suffer from a particularly rare form of hyponchondira."
"No-no!" Jeff objected. "I'm becoming a zombie I'm sure of it!"
The doctor put his face in his palms, he should have been out on his lunch break 10 minutes ago.
"Your blood tests came back fine, your body is in fine shape. All I can suggest is thaat you cut down on your meat intake nd have more vegatables. I assure you, you are not turning into a zombie!"
"Of course I am!" Jeff yelled, getting to his feet in a frantic panic.
"I can't function! All I can do is wander aimlessly all day long, when ever I go out I have no purpose or direction! I crave only meat and am sickened by the thought of anything else! And my skin is beginning to flake and fall of! I am becoming a zombie!"
The doctor got to his feet. "Mr Jenkins!" He bellowed, "Your skin is flaking because you have dandruff, I can give you the number of a dermatoligist! You crave meat because you are a carnivor and you feel like you have no direction because you are depressed! Maybe you should consider seeing a therapist! Now if you please.."
The doctor made his way past Jeff and opened the door, beckoning him to leave.
"But, but I find myself starring ahead aimlessly for hours on end, I don't speak or think or move-"
"Are you watching T.V. Mr. Jenkins?"
"Um...."
The doctor pointed out the door. Jeff became desperate.
"If you shoot me in the brain I'll die!"
"Mr. Jenkins...."
The Doctor stamped on the ground and pointed again. Jeff slumped out the door defeated. The doctor slammed it behind him, swore loudly and made his way back to his desk. Finally, he could have his lunch.
Then there was a knock on the door. The Doctor cursed and made his way over.
"Mr Jenkins please!"
He opened it to find Jeff Jenkins standing there. But he was different. His skin was tinted green, his arms oustretched and his eyes were fully white with no pupils.
"BRAINS!" he yelled, diving forward and sinking his teeth into the bewildered doctors neck. | 11 | A man fighting to keep control of himself after realizing he is becoming the worlds first zombie. | 28 |
"Whelp", I thought, hurriedly pulling on some pants, "Can't really get much worse than this. I won't even have time for breakfast dammit."
I've already turned my phone off, as I know that everyone I love will be trying to get in touch, both to persuade and dissuade me from going ahead.. and the less honourable ones to track me down to claim to be the "Saviour" of mankind for handing me over.
I'm going to go, of course, there's no question about that. Even if I didn't want to, every person on this planet will be looking for me. I think I want a beer first.
Grabbing my wife's hand, I look into her tear-stained eyes. She's begging me to stay, just a little longer, as she knows she'll never see me again. It's not quite sunk in yet, but I can see she knows the inevitability of the situation.
I clear my throat a little. "It'll be OK. We have still got a wonderful time left together, and who knows.. maybe they won't take and end me, and I can come back?" My smile is weak and unconvincing, but it stops some of the tears flowing as fast.
I head downstairs, and open the fridge.
No beer. Typical.
I sigh, and head to the landline phone. I call 999, since I guess this could be classed as life-threatening.
"Hello, My name is rwork, and I'm the man the Aliens want. I'm going to come peacefully, I'm not going to hide or run, I'm just going to ask you get the fastest transport you can to me to get me wherever I'm going.. and let me bring my wife along. Since this could be my last day in existence, I'm sure some leeway can be granted?"
"Oh, and bring a case of beer please. I'm going to need something to help the day go."
I give the dispatcher my address, even though they already have it, and hang up. I have no idea how long I have left in this house, so I take a walk through. I stroke my hands on the walls, and I can practically feel the memories surge back at me, as my wife holds my other hand and follows me through.
No words are spoken, there's really not much to say. It's strange, for once in my life I'm literally the most important person in the world.. and I'm struck to silence.
A sudden knock at the door, strangely respectful given that humanity is hours away from ending.
I turn and embrace my wife, and kiss her on the forehead. I reach down and stroke our cats, who're oblivious to the situation.
"It's time."
I hold her hand tightly as I open the door, and I'm greeted by 3 police officers, looking both stressed and relieved at the same time.
"Rwork?" One asks.
"Aye, I am. Where do we need to go?"
"We're not sure yet.." another officer replies, "We've informed the .. things that we know where you are, and we need to know where to take you. In the meantime, and given the extreme circumstances, we're awaiting a police 'copter to come and pick you up. We'll drive you to a local park so it can land."
"Thank you officer.. and I'm sorry for the inconvenience. I don't know why they want me either before you ask."
We step out of the house, and I turn to lock the door. The absurdity of the action isn't lost on me, as either I won't ever be back to unlock this.. or no-one will if we're not swift enough.
It's strange, it feels like a puppeteer has taken over my body as we start the walk to the car.. I feel so distant yet calm. I can't change the outcome of this.. I could run, try to hide.. but to what? Given I'd doom everyone I love, at the cost of a few more hours life, I guess I should be glad that humanity at least is coming together for one common goal for once.. admittedly this being a global manhunt for it's survival.
[Edit] - Thank you stranger for the gift! | 61 | Aliens have made contact with earth and demand that the human race turn over one person. Humanity has 24 hours to comply, and if they don't, the earth will be destroyed. You wake up, turn on the news, and discover that person is you. | 55 |
*As the sun sets low on the horizon, the ominous shadow of the Murderous Keep reaches out like the fingers of a skeletal hand, enveloping Haven Forest in its dark grip. Our heroes, unswayed by the darkness slowly surrounding them…sigh…once again sit down for lunch.*
What was that?
*What was what?*
That sigh. You just sighed again. That’s like the third time. No one’s going to want to listen to a story if the narrator sounds like a moody teenager at his mother’s church group.
*I doubt anyone would want to listen to this story regardless.*
Excuse me?
*Never mind. Ahem. The heroes valiantly pierce their meat with the tenacity of a wild boar, savoring every succulent morsel, remembering in their hearts those whom they fought for, those who had no food to eat. And as the animal roasted over its spit, the aroma rose to the heavens like the aspirations of those who stood around it.*
Look if you’re going to be sarcastic about it just do a fucking time skip or something.
*Time skip to what? You’ve been camping in this godforsaken forest for weeks doing nothing but eat and sleep. If you don’t storm the keep soon you won’t be able to fit through the bloody door.*
Oh the keep? The murderous keep? The one with fucking skeletal shadows? The one with a door apparently covered in blood? No thanks man, you sold me on that one. I’m not going anywhere near that shit.
*So what, you’re not going at all? You just expect me to talk about what you’re lunch menu for the rest of the book? Descriptions of food aren’t going to sell anything to anyone.*
I don’t fucking know man, figure something out. If we wanted to deal with that stuff we wouldn’t pay you in the first place.
*I don’t get paid, you halfwit, I’m an ephemeral being.*
What? Hey what the fuck Erin, where’s all that money been going?
*For the love of…I don’t have time for this.*
Wait wait wait. Hey man, hold on a second, don’t leave. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have talked to you like that. But can’t we doing anything else? Is there a cat up a tree or something?
*If there was, you probably ate it.*
Ok, now you’re just being a dick. I’m not saying we need to avoid trouble altogether, but is it too much to ask for a quest that doesn’t involve immediate dismemberment? I mean look at this place. If it doesn’t scream satanic necromancer I don’t know what does. Undead hordes, pitch black torture chambers, fighting your companions’ reanimated corpses. Does that sound like a good time to you?
*Fine. There’s a bunch of dwarves pillaging a town about thirty miles east. They’re about four feet tall and most of them are drunk. Is that simple enough for you?*
There we go, see was that s- wait did you say thirty miles?
*I’m leaving.*
| 11 | A narrator gets bored of the story he's telling, to the chagrin of the main characters. | 20 |
I stared disbelievingly at Jenny. She was six. This was not possible. But yet there she was, eating cereal at the table like every other morning. Beautiful blue eyes, a dazzling smile, but all I could see was the tangled mess of brown obscuring her eyes.
My eyesight had been going, I knew. It must be a mistake, a trick of the light. I closed my eyes and peeked through them, but again seeing nothing but brown. Brown. My darling girl.
But then I caught another glimpse, a flash of colour darting across the kitchen. Wiry frame, light brown hair, I mused; half asleep. I was too busy worrying about Jenny to give it much thought. I heard the door close in the kitchen and hoped whoever it was wouldn't take the car. It was Samuel, probably. Running off to school, probably assuming I'd dozed off. He'd always try to get out of his breakfast. I gave up hope of having the car.
Wait, no. It can't have been Samuel. His hair was as blonde as anything, never had a girlfriend in his life that boy, as much as he'd wanted one. It must have been Max.
But Max was at work.
I jolted awake, bolt upright in an instant. Jenny turned, and I noticed her red eyes. She spoke, her throat dry "Mu-m?"
I rushed outside and saw Samuel rushing to the car, frantic to get away.
"Sammy-" I croaked, tears welling up into my eyes, "what have you done?" | 226 | Everyone is born with blond hair. A person's hair turns brown when they lose their innocence. | 203 |
I have a secret. One that no one knows. I’ve tried to tell people before, but they never believed me. Well, there was one guy, but it was a long time ago. I think his name was Buddha or something, but I don’t really remember. So, I am going to tell you my life’s story. It’s up to you as to whether you believe me or not.
The first thing you need to know is that I am thousands of years old. The second is that each time I die, I am reborn, but I remember everything from my previous lives. The memories of my earliest lives are a bit fuzzy, as they were quite a long time ago.
I started out as a plant. I know, a plant seems like an odd thing to have been, but most of my early lives involved being one. I usually had a lifespan of only a few days, and life as a plant is exactly as it sounds, utterly boring. One day I find myself as a cow. Go figure. Life as a cow was much better than one as a plant. I was now eating my former brothers and sisters and my owners took really good care of me. I didn’t think life could get much better. Then my owners got hungry and my life as a cow ended. Having only been a plant, I was quite shocked the first time someone killed me.
After my brief stint as a cow, I found myself as a human. Being human was so much better and my first human life was pretty good, albeit short compared to the lives people are living nowadays. I’ve been reincarnated as a human ever since. Some lives I was really happy, others ended in being murdered, and yet still others ended early, almost as soon as I was born.
I know you must be thinking, if this guy has been around for thousands of years, he must have met many legendary people and been at some major historical events. The sad reality is that I have not been so lucky. Yes, there were a couple times, but not many. I saw Pompeii’s destruction with my own two eyes; unfortunately, that was the last thing I saw as the ash covered, choked, and preserved me. The battle of Gettysburg was interesting, but it ended nearly the same way. A bullet hit me in the cheek, my butt cheek, and as I fell to the ground in pain another damn bullet struck me right between the eyes. That was one of my more humiliating deaths. I was a President in one life, but I won’t mention which one. Oh, and there was this guy back in Roman times, his people called him Joshua or something like that. Someone told me I had to come look; there was a dude walking on water. I ignored him, though, because he obviously was stoned or something.
There is a lot more to my many lives than just that, though. I have been a multitude of people. The young, the old, the poor, the rich, virtually all races and ethnicities, lived in nearly every great society there ever was, and even been every gender there could be. I’ve got to say, I didn’t care for Egypt, Rome was a blast, and 19th century America was kind of depressing.
I have a pretty posh life right now. I’m a healthy, well built man, an heir to a huge fortune. The thing is, this life is not all it seems. The one who earned all the money I have was some wealthy tech guy in his twenties. However, I have only ever known my mother as my father died in a tragic car accident one day. They said he died instantly, no pain, but I know that’s not true. That car wreck hurt, let me tell you, and it took a fully conscious minute or two to die. So, yeah, it’s kind of creepy when one moment you’re driving home to see your wife, the next moment you’re waking up as your own son.
On top of all that, my wife decides one day to start dating my former best friend from my past life. That really got to me, especially when he wanted me to start calling him daddy. Even though they’re still together, I like to haunt him from time to time. I leave little notes and other such things, things that could only come from the past life me. One time while I was spying on him, I saw him reading one of my notes, trembling in fear and telling himself that it was impossible that this was my handwriting.
After all of these lives, I realized that the people I surround myself with in each one are the most important things. Every life I lose everything I have, except for the memories of the ones I cared about.
I’ve also learned that even though the world always feels like it’s going to end, and even though wars are fought nonstop, the human race has a way of pushing on and surviving.
I am getting tired of all these lives, though. To lose all those you love each and every life is just too much to bear. Right now, there is nothing I can do about it, but over my past few lives I have devoted all my time to studying why this is happening to me, and I hope that soon I will find a cure.
If you actually got to the end of this letter and believe it, than I think I found the cure. I have a feeling you’re just like me, Clara, and that you too have had many lives. The way you are reserved and silent, wise enough to never argue about things such as politics, tipped me off. After all, you and I have seen empires rise and fall and know that there are more important things. However, from all of my study, I have come to learn that I am not alone. When things like this happen, it happens in pairs. Someone, somewhere, is an awful lot like me.
Looking forward to sharing our many future lives together,
The Inventor of the Wheel
-130
| 16 | Each time you are reborn, you remember your past lives. | 27 |
"I will be playing a man that complains constantly about God not doing enough. As if God could run his life for him. I mean come on, does he want God to wipe his ass?! Does he-"
"We get it already! You're overworked!" Satan yelled at God. He was the only with enough balls to ever try it. "We're gonna need more than that."
God scowled, but continued. "My name will be... Adam."
"Hey." Adam's voice cut in.
"Oh come on," God said. "It's just a coincidence is all."
Adam grunted, but clearly wasn't convinced.
"My character, Adam, doesn't do what he's told. He'll agree to rules, but then break them." God scratched his heavenly beard.
"And I," Satan interrupted God's next words, "will be playing a woman named Eve. She was loyal to Adam and did everything he asked because she was born of Adam. She had no free will, only the right to do Adam's will. So one day she rebels, just to get freedom, but is known to the world as Evil. She gets kicked out of Heaven and sent to rule Hell-"
Satan stopped talking to duck the game piece thrown at his head. It flew past him and hit Jesus on the side of his face.
"Sorry son," God said. "I didn't mean to hit you."
Jesus turned the other cheek.
"I," Adam announced, "will be playing an all powerful egotistical son of a bitch that ruins the eternal lives of anyone that disobeys my commands. I created life just so they could praise me every week and then offer no proof of my existence so that those who act with reason, which I gave them the ability to do, are destined to Hell."
"How dare you!" Even yelled at Adam. "Speaking such words!"
"You betrayed me, you said you would play along." Adam turned to Eve. "Will you be playing Judas?"
"You'd like that wouldn't you?" Eve said.
"Will you two stop arguing? Christ!" God cursed in frustration.
"Yes, Father?" Jesus said.
"Not you."
"Oh."
Eve spoke next. "I'll play a woman who gets pregnant without having been impregnated. I will-"
God interrupted her with a bolt of lighting flying past her face. "That was a rough night and I'd been drinking. I told her to tell the truth, she decided to say she was a virgin, not me. I wanted her to get an abortion."
"Amen." Satan said.
"What are you playing?" Adam asked Jesus.
Jesus turned to Adam. "A humble carpenter that-"
"Lame." Satan said.
"That worships and-"
"Lame." God agreed.
"Prays and does as he is told-"
"Dude, lame." Adam joined in. Even nodded in agreement.
"Well," Satan said over the dark game board. "Let's begin."
"Let there be Light!" God commanded. The game begun. | 174 | Satan, God, Adam, Eve and Jesus are about to start a game of Dungeons & Dragons. Describe their character creation process. | 88 |
She wasn't tall - that's one of the first things I noticed. Her hair hung down in clumps, her back bent and her body dirty, though age wise was no older than 15. So young. And yet here she was, drawing a picture on the cave wall with charcoal.
It had been so long since I'd seen another human.
I was sure I was back in the past. I had of course learned about trees in my world, and had heard about the carpets of grass and the birdsong. The color green overwhelmed me at first, much as my sudden appearance had overwhelmed the girl.
She tolerated me, at least. I was sure she could not speak, but I spoke anyways, to pass the time.
"You are drawing a... deer?" I asked, struggling to come up with the old name on my tired tongue. She glanced over, and I put my hands on my head, mimicking antlers. Without so much as a grunt, she turned and continued to ignore me.
"Ah well, might be better this way. I'm sure it wouldn't be a good thing, to change the course of history with a few ill-timed words?" I remarked, watching her smooth movements as she drew. She did not cover herself in anything but her hair, but I was struck by her body anyways. It was not a sexual urge, but a love for the human form I had missed for so many years.
"I think I'm one of the last, you know," I said, leaning back on the rock I was sitting on. "Last human on earth, talking to one of the first."
The girl continued to ignore me.
"We had a good run, our species did. We messed up, a lot. Wars, famine, disease - quite a bit near the end there. I don't know what caused it to all go down. Something in the atmosphere, I think. The planet got really crazy for a while, with the weird weather and pandemics and starvation; but I think it will recover, which is good." I said, inhaling the fresh air and the smells of trees.
"There was good stuff too. We learned a lot of things - discovered some really wacky stuff. I think we were getting close to some of the universes secrets before everything went to hell. We named stars, explored galaxies, set foot on other worlds - no, it wasn't all bad."
"In my opinion, the universe has to be discovered by someone. Maybe that's the entire reason life exists, so it will have someone who will marvel at the glory of being alive."
I sighed. "If I had the choice to do it again, I would. We humans had some pretty great times, yeah? We fought some good fights, ate some good food, laughed and smiled and loved. You still have that ahead of you, at least."
The girl finished drawing her deer as I closed my eyes to the birdsong and the sunlight. I knew she was looking at me again, watching for any signs of hostility, but I lay still. Eventually, I heard her footsteps fade away, and she left me to my quiet peace.
And I was not unhappy.
(Edit: thanks Riddle-Tom_Riddle for help with spacing) | 52 | The last Homo Sapiens talks to the first. | 57 |
Miraculous, is what they always called it. It was true; she was a miracle, our darling, our baby girl. She was going to be the starting point of a new chapter of our lives: parenthood.
But would you call a murderer a miracle? Everyone saw it, that dark hideous mark on her face. Nobody explicitely pointed it out, but we all knew what it was. In most polite conversations, they called it the mark of Cain.
As parents, we tried our best to give her a stable, normal life. After all, murderers were slaves of emotions, the result of abusive households. That wasn't going to be the case for our daughter. She was a miracle, murderer or not.
Hell, to comfort ourselves, we researched all famous bearers of the mark of Cain. Most of them were decorated in war, where contextually the bloody act was considered heroic. Perhaps she would become a soldier. That was the best we could hope for.
Every time she screamed in anger, every time she was upset at someone, we quickly told her that was not very nice of her. We told her that she should treat everyone equally, treat them as she treated herself.
Childhood passed without an incident. We were relieved, probably more than other parents of children her age. Our child never tried to slice up animals, and neither did she become overly violent. We were confident that we could pull through.
We were so focused on her that we forgot other children grew up too. And what monsters they became; as soon as the children learned what the markings on their bodies meant, they started avoiding our baby girl. I still remember her face when she came back from school the day they learned about the marks. As soon as her teacher started talking about the mark of Cain, everyone stared at her.
She didn't seem too upset, and although we tried our best to tell her that that was just how she was born, that no matter what, we would love her, and she told us it was okay, that she understood. We didn't push it further. We didn't want her to get anxious.
But I swore I could hear the faint sobs of a little girl that night.
The more she grew up, the more the people around her avoided her. She was a ticking time bomb, she was an accident waiting to happen, she was just too dangerous... We heard it all, from everyone. Not even the adults around her seemed to know how to approach her. She could not avoid the scrutiny; how could she, when the mark was plain on her face? Our miracle child grew lonelier by the day, and although it ripped our hearts apart, she told us it was okay. That she understood.
One day, when I returned from work, I found out she was missing, that she didn't come back home from school. When we turned on the TV, we found out there was a manhunt for a murderer. Our hearts sank. A student was found dead in her high school.
The doorbell rang, and when we went, we found our daughter, covered in blood.
"I'm sorry. B-but that boy... He kept shouting at me, telling me I should die before I k-kill anyone, and then he grabbed me and I--"
We pulled her in for a hug. We were crying, telling her that were so worried, but she pulled back with tears in her eyes. She had the eyes of a hopeful child.
"I just wanted to get it over with... I-I've done it now, right? Fulfilled this mark?"
We didn't know.
At that moment, we heard the police sirens surround our house. | 466 | every human being is born with a birthmark signifying a great deed they are fated do in their lives. Your first child has just been born, with the mark of a murderer across her face | 431 |
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 11TH, 2019:
"And for the first time ever, a young male is being lead in front of a firing squad, as his birth-given tattoo is expired by three days, and he has yet to suffer any symptoms of dying."
The television broadcasts. I listen to rage of the audience watching the fate of the boy. They urge the soldiers to fire at this "demon." How sickening. How cruel. This isn't fair, why should they execute someone whom obviously has more time to live, and has just been given a faulty date? I continue to watch the grotesque broadcasting, further loathing myself for doing so. One soldier, whom looks like the general, bags the unfortunate kid's head, at least giving him the gift of not knowing when his death will occur. The crowd dies down in suspense, as they wait for the climax of what they call "entertainment." A second passes, a deafening shot occurs, and the body of the poor boy collapses onto the blood-red dirt.
I turn off the television, an uneasiness settling in my stomach. I glance at the stained mark on my arm, and roll my sleeve down, just enough to cover the date: "November 10th, 2019" | 211 | At birth, everyone has the date they will die tattooed on their arm. You were supposed to die yesterday. | 163 |
He was on vacation that day, so he woke up later than the rest of the world. He heard the news after most everyone else. He walked out to the end of the dock adjacent to the beautiful Caribbean cabin he had rented for the week when he pulled up the news app on his phone.
At first, he felt a smug sense of satisfaction. He had followed a strict vegetarian diet for most of his life, and he had often justified his diet in his mind with the thought that all animals could think, feel, and love like humans. He was vindicated- He was right all along. Only...he wasn't.
His smugness faded into horror. He had laughed at the vegans, the people who wouldn't eat honey for fear of hurting the bees. He dismissed the idea that cows bred to give milk were as bad off as cows raised to be slaughtered for meat. But, here he was, faced with the reality that he was right. He was right all along. And he couldn't enjoy being right, because he realized, that he wasn't committed enough to his beliefs.
He sat on the dock, with tears in his eyes, trying to reconcile his existence. He wondered, was what he had done in the name of looking out for animals enough? He had tried to live his life as an animal advocate. A religious man, he wondered if God would accept him into Heaven.
Wiping the tears from his eyes, he saw a dolphin swimming towards him. As it swam closer, he became excited, and reached out to it. The young dolphin jumped out of the water and touched the man's face, almost as if to kiss him. His fears melted away for brief second, and he took the dolphin interaction as a sign from God. Then a mosquito landed on the mans arm, and he instinctively slapped it.
"Aww fuck," he said. | 12 | Scientists discover that every living thing has a consciousness equivalent to that of a human's. | 18 |
**SAY WHAT YOU LIKE, I'M STAYING**
The rest of them eyed the scythe, which Death was twirling nonchalantly.
"*That's clear, then*" oozed Pestilence. Fear, Pollution and Extinction stared at Pestilence, Famine and War. War slipped on a set of brass knuckles and grinned.
"Not that I think this will get physical at all," she said with a warm smile "but if it does..."
Pollution coughed, sending a cloud of bluish smoke roiling over the table.
"I think we should all calm down and behave rationally. We can definitely sort all of this out if we can just keep our heads for five minutes."
"Glad you feel that way," said Fear. "Yes, we should absolutely not be dwelling on the fact that three of us are going to be replaced or consigned to the inky, unending void."
**I CANNOT CONFIRM OR DENY WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO THE UNSUCCESSFUL APPLICANTS**
"**I, on the other hand, am open to bribes and persuasion.**" said Extinction with a grin.
"it's really just a question of sorting out who we need and who we don't, " said Famine " which of us are actually apocalyptic and which of us aren't."
Extinction, currently shaped like a collection of trawler nets, shrugged.
"You could say that any of us are apocalyptic." Pestilence shook his head, causing several of his sores to burst.
"*No,*" he dripped "*some of us are most certainly pre or post apocalypse. For example...who ever heard of the end of the word being caused by Fear?*"
There was a collective murmur. Fear gathered her children around her.
"Oh really?" she said, indicating Brinkmanship and Arms Race, "I'm nothing to do with bad decisions then?"
War leaned back and chuckled.
"Both those things lead to me," she said "so that's definitely pre-Apocalypse."
Pollution tapped on the table, leaving a series of oily smudges.
"I think we all need to remember that Fear gets to ride out once a millennium anyway" he said "trading on the fear of the Four Horsemen riding. I know it sounds like a technicality, but Fear is definitely a precursor to the Apocalypse."
"I know what you're doing," said Fear with a definite waspish edge to her voice "don't think I don't know you're trying to take out your toughest competition so you have less to compete against. Besides, you have the weakest position here because everyone knows that pollution is simply another precursor, leading to famine, pestilence and death."
"*Really,*" suppurated Pestilence "*we should simply stick with the Old Firm and recognize that you others are valuable colleagues but not actually Horsemen. I don't think anyone needs to be replaced.*"
**NOT QUITE**
The scythe moved and Extinction vanished.
**THE DEATH OF A SPECIES IS STILL DEATH, ONE LIFE AT A TIME, AND THAT JOB IS TAKEN**
"Ummm" said Fear, but the others were too preoccupied with the suddenly empty place at the table to notice the cloud of colour and shifting shapes which was forming in the corner.
"that was a little harsh" said Famine. Death shrugged.
**I DO NOT SUB-CONTRACT**
"Can anyone else see this?" asked Fear. Everyone looked at her, then at the cloud.
"Uh-oh" said War.
"and who might you be?" said Famine. Pollution mumbled something about hope, and was elbowed by Pestilence. The cloud seemed to shrink slightly as if gathering itself.
"I/we are/am transcendence^singularity^sublimation^humanity" it said. There was a shudder and a rapid series of images which abruptly settled into an androgynous human figure in a rather nice suit.
"Sorry," it said "we're still getting used to this. Hello everyone. We've come to serve you with notice of redundancy."
"What?" said Fear.
"It's quite simple," said the figure "while you were sorting out how Humanity was going to end, we took steps to make sure we wouldn't. We are a representative of The Singularity, a combination of humanity and technology, post both." The Singularity looked around the table at a series of blank faces.
"Oh dear," it said "look, we're really sorry and we want to thank you for the sterling work you've put in over the centuries, but while you were busy the humans engineered an apocalypse that was nothing to do with any of you and quite a lot to do with avoiding you. The end result is that we don't need you any more. There are some remnants for you to mop up, but the classical apocalypse has been cancelled."
The Horsemen looked at one another.
"Well, shit," said War "does anyone else need a drink?"
"*More than you could possibly imagine*" bubbled Pestilence.
"If you're buying" said Fear
"make mine a large one...and some crisps..." added Famine.
They stood, walked away into the darkness and were gone. Pollution stood face to face with The Singularity.
"I suspect this is only *au revoir*" he said, and followed his siblings. The Singularity smiled at Death.
"We've beaten you, too" it said. Death grinned, which was no surprise at all, and thumbed the edge of the scythe.
**HOW QUICKLY THEY FORGET. DID THERMODYNAMICS MEAN SO LITTLE TO YOU?**
The Singularity shrugged.
"Give us time" it said.
**BE SEEING YOU** said Death, leaning on the scythe with an air of nonchalance. | 63 | Fear, Pollution, and Extinction are replacing three of the four horsemen of the apocalypse (War, Pestilence, Death, and Famine). The orginal four must come to an agreement on who will remain a horseman. | 45 |
*7.16 billion people spread across 7 continents, 193 countries, and the 4 oceans stood immobile with eyes raised to the heavens...*
**... ring, ring... ring, ring...**
*The United Nations authorized a massive undertaking to determine the source of the sound. Major funding provided by the United States, Russia, China, Japan, Germany, and the Vatican allowed such a feat to even become feasible. NASA, the greatest aeronautical company in existence, along with Beoing were tasked to revamp the X-37 OTV spaceplane for sustained flight utilizing the original space shuttle's design...*
**... ring, ring... ring, ring...**
*3 months and uncountable trillions later a successful craft, the X-38A OTV/SS, was developed and ready for flight. Now, it all came down to the crew. Of course, the majority of the X-38's crew would be filled by NASA Astronautical engineers and pilots, that fact could not be argued. What was debated for an additional month was... who would fill the remaining three slots? And all the while...*
**... ring, ring... ring, ring...**
*In the end three relative unknowns were selected because none of the nominated geniuses would be capable of space flight: Professor David Lerrous Braum, Cardinal Fiorenzo Amato Antonelli, and Doctor Carlos Marquez-Orrosco Rodriquez... Up and up they went, a successful launch and atmospheric breach...*
**... ring, ring... ring, ring...**
“Well? Who was it? What did they want?”
The three great minds looked nervously at each other, even the NASA crew looked put-off. They were still on the landing strip tarmac and had just landed minutes ago. Thousands upon thousands of people were there with an equal number of cameras. Everyone wanted to know... In the end it was Doctor Rodriquez who spoke...
“It called itself... God.” He said slowly, and across the globs billions of people cried out in joy as this was surely proof of His existence... and yet the Cardinal was looking away, tears in his eyes.
*Rodriquez reached out and cradled the simple black cellphone in his thickly padded gloves. It had been drifting along but as they neared the device it seemed to slow down for them... as if it knew or had otherworldly help. He stared at it in awe... such a simple thing...*
**... ring, ring... ring, ring...**
*Back in the spaceplane the three greatest minds humanity had to offer huddled around the phone, even the crew paused from their duties to watch and listen in. They all agreed that Rodriquez should answer it and so... after a few minutes of heavy, nervous breathing Rodriquez lifted the cellphone up to his ear and-*
“Please say that again!? Did you say it called itself *God!?*” Some reporter in the crowd screamed.
“Y-Yes... it claimed to be God and... and it...” Rodriquez took a deep breath just as the Cardinal broke down, “it wants its planet back.” | 12 | The world wakes up to the sound of a phone ringing from the sky | 16 |
The silence was overwhelming. It seemed like a lifetime ago that I was standing on the edge of my condo disgusted with the decisions I've made with my short life. I remember falling and regret, all my problems shrunk in severity as the ground raced towards me, then silence. The darkness I felt slowly started to change as I realized that the plane of existence I'm in was changing. Colors i've never seen before engulfed my mind and eased my worry almost immediately. Slowly I drifted through each color completely at ease. As I drifted I began to understand the nature of life. It's not about a checklist of achievements or accomplishments, I understood now that life was about spending your time enjoying the things you love and the people that make you happy. I felt elation, I felt as if I was a part of everything I knew and loved. I was now a cog in the machine of our universe, awestruck by the beauty of the afterlife.
A twinge of grey overtook the color, and suddenly I was dragged away out of my beautiful tapestry of the most spectacular thing I have ever seen, felt, or even imagined. I was immediately drawn back into the black. A steady rhythm filled my mind. Beep... Beep... Beep... The air smelled pungent and my body felt heavy. Beep... Beep... Beep... I opened my eyes to a crowd of unfamiliar faces, crowding around my bed furiously scribbling down what appears to be important information. The doctor mumbles something about 67 days as I reconcile with the fact that this room is so grey and lifeless. The next few days were a blur of crying family and interviews as the media reported on my "Resurrection". I answered their questions honestly, yet in the back of my mind all I could think about was that beautiful tapestry I was a part of. The world seems much colder now, even the allure of my own definition of living a good life faded with the dreary idea that I was missing out on something much bigger, much more important. So Here I stand on top of my condominium again. This time I ask that you let me stay. | 52 | You've been dead for 67 days. You awake to the entire world watching the first human revival. Your revival. | 56 |
Bob slid the resignation letter across Mr. Jones' desk. Mr. Jones glanced at it and pointed at the chair, asked Bob to sit.
"I'm sorry you feel like you need to leave, Bob. Just between you and I, I had great plans for you. You're all but locked in for that promotion in three months."
The desire for the promotion stirred in Bob's mind, but he knew it wasn't the promotion he deserved. "Mr. Jones, I just don't think there's anything left for me at CogSoft."
"Is there anything we could have done differently?" Mr. Jones asked.
Bob shook his head, but then nodded slightly. "Not now. It would have been nice if you had taken my application for the senior position more seriously when I submitted my resume last year."
Mr. Jones shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I didn't think you were serious about that."
"I was, but it doesn't matter anymore," Bob said.
"I'm sure you know it was a difficult decision."
"I'll have to take your word on that."
Mr. Jones asked various questions, all of which seemed canned, and Bob returned a likewise canned answer that didn't indemnify anyone, or suggest any kind of blame. And how he wanted to! But his lawyer had been very specific: Don't say anything. Turn in the resignation, be cordial, and then leave. No matter how much he wanted to lord his recent fortune in their faces, now was not the time because anything he said would make him a target for corporate and personal lawsuits.
Bob reached across the desk, touched the letter, and tapped it. "I appreciate everything you and CogWorks have done for me, and I wish you the best of luck."
"This couldn't come at a worse time," Mr. Jones said, shifting again in his chair. He folded his hands and leaned across the desk. "We've got the new release coming up, and you know that means everyone will be working double-time and on weekends already. Now they'll have to pick up the slack."
Mr. Jones pursed his lips. "Is there any way I can convince you to stay a bit longer than two weeks?"
"How long are you thinking?" Bob asked.
"Oh, say, another two months. Three tops." Mr. Jones counted off three fingers. "One to get through this release, another to finish up the service pack, and then there is the knowledge transfer. You have been here quite a while. Besides, it's a tough job market out there. Do you have another job lined up?"
Bob shook his head.
"Bob, Bob, Bob. You don't know what it's like out there these days. Think of your wife and family. Don't do this to yourself. Look, I know things haven't worked out the way you wanted them too, but I'm sure we can figure out something. I just need a little bit of time. Let's wait and see -"
"I see," Bob said. Now it was his turn to leave forward, and he couldn't help but crack the tiniest of smiles. "Mr. Jones, I'm giving you two weeks' notice." He tapped the letter again.
Then, Mr. Jones glanced at the letter and he frowned. "Bob, four weeks' notice is company policy. It's standard practice. It's the - "
"This is a right to work state, Mr. Jones, and either party may terminate employment for any reason at any time." Bob stood, offered his hand, which Mr. Jones didn't accept. "I appreciate every opportunity CogWorks has afforded me, but unfortunately I must resign and I'm offering two weeks, which is common in our industry."
"Alright," Mr. Jones said and turned half way in his chair, positioning his body away from Bob. He took Bob's hand, limply shook it. "It's too bad you're being so short sighted about our future. You have a lot of unvested stock options and CogWorks is going to IPO next year, I just know it."
"Thank you, Mr. Jones." Bob retracted his hand and turned to leave the office. He tugged his shirt sleeve over his new Rolex and briskly walked back to his cube.
(edited: Fixed a typo) | 30 | A man wins the lottery but decides to honor his 2 week notice at a job he hates. | 23 |
I suppose my job isn't the worst job in the world. There are worse things to do to spend your days. But not many.
My job isn't your average shitty nine to five cublicle job. Its also not your average 'clean up toilets after someone went to an all you can eat chili restaurant'. Its...different. How different? Well for starters my job doesn't have hours. Its the only thing I ever do in my life. If you can call it a life. Who am I? I'm the Dreamcatcher. Like those things you put up above your bed to catch nightmares. Remember those, they play a big part in my job.
But back to the job. It has no hours because I have no other purpose. I exist solely to do my job. Its weird, but I'm not the first nor the only one. But I am one of the lesser known ones. Most of you have heard of God (or whatever you guys call him), Satan (you made up tons of names about him too, what is up with that?), Death and so on and so on. There are very few people who know about the Dreamcatcher.
You probably know the thingie you put above your bed to catch nightmares. And depending on the person, you believe or don't believe that it actually catches bad dreams. Those that do believe are actually right: those things actually catch bad dreams. They work like some sort of filter that keeps out the bad mojo from your dreams. But like a filter, they collect whatever they filter out and need to be cleaned every now and then to work again. Thats were I come in.
It my job to go into your bedroom and empty the dreamcatcher. I'm invisible and esoteric and all that other stuff you want to call it, so you'll never know I'm there, aside from a small breeze that makes the dreamcatcher move around a bit. Now you're probably wondering how exactly I empty the dreamcatcher.
Thats the shitty part of the job. I basically reach in and grab whatever it has caught, then put it in my bag. The Boss from above gave me the bag to put it in, with no more explanation than 'just put it in there'. I dont know what happens with the bad dreams, or why the bag never fills up, but I dont think I want to know. Whats so bad about that?
The bad part is that when I grab the nightmares, I can actually see them. More, I can feel them. All of them, dozens, at the same time. I have the fears and scares the sleeper would have experienced if the dreams hadn't been caught. Not matter what I try, the dreams can get through to me no matter how much gloves I wear.
The only thing that keeps me going is the knowledge that because of me, some poor soul didn't have these nightmares. Too bad people are ignorant to what they are spared of.
And that is why, even though I never sleep, I still have more nightmares than all of you people combined. | 22 | Every so often a dream catcher must be 'emptied' of the nightmares it has caught. Who does it and what do they see? | 84 |
["I love you."](http://www.rainymood.com/)
I kissed my wife on the top of her head, right on top of that little curl that always stuck out. I remember on our wedding day, the panic she'd went into over it. It took three bridesmaids and two shots of whiskey before she accepted she looked good. I loved that curl though, always did. She didn't stir, her breathing soft as the rain outside. It was beautiful, the perfect acoustic farewell. These were the sounds I wanted to remember.
I stepped out of the bedroom and made my way to the girls' room. They were sound asleep, two angels rested on almost too messy clouds. I would scold them in the morning if I could. For now though, let them sleep, tomorrow will be long, confusing. I hope they know how much I love them. That everything I did changed the day they were born. Can you imagine having twins? Lucy said it would never happen. It was like a cosmic little nudge to me, a divine elbow slapping me in the side and saying, "Two of you, two of them, eh?"
It was all different after that. The work changed. I did it for them, not for the love of it.
I crept down the stairs with as little noise as I could. Third stair creaks in the middle, fifth on the edges. Bottom step creaks if you step off it too fast. My feet had it memorised by now. James looked up at me from the front door, my faithful James. I could see in his eyes that he knew. Dogs always know, don't they? I had rescued James as a pup, middle of Baghdad, bullet in two heads, gunshots in the distance, and there was this little stain of a dog, pissing in the corner. I couldn't rightly leave him there, could I? As soon as I reached the evac he was as happy as I'd ever seen an animal be. He grew big in time too, twelve years now, not bad for a Rottweiler. He loved the girls as much as I did, I knew I was leaving them in good hands.
I reached out to pet him and he nuzzled my fingers, "Goodbye boy. Look after them for me." I could swear he looked like he was about to cry. That's my James, more human than me. The front door slipped open without a sound and closed behind me with a soft click. It was the empty chamber in a game of Russian Roulette, the first thing that made me realise how much I was leaving behind. If they knew, they'd understand.
I walked to the end of the drive, took my bike. If I started the car I risked waking them up. What did it matter if I got a little wet, if my muscles got a little tired; I was retiring. I peddled into the three A.M rain and embraced the harsh bite of each drop on my face. I thought of the morning, of Lucy waking up to the note I'd left on the nightstand. I knew it by heart now, it had taken me three months to get it just right.
["Lucy," it began.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lS7cz5jpPf8)
"I love you, first and foremost, I love you with every fibre in me that knows how to love. You and the girls are the greatest thing life could ever have given me, but there are some things you don't know. I'm not an executive anything, my job is a lot more complicated than that. I work for the Government. Two governments to be exact. For the last twenty-five years I've worked as an agent in the field. My business trips were actually missions. Please, please understand why I didn't tell you.
When I was fresh out of college I got a little government work, that led to another job and before I knew it I was asked to work abroad. They defined the idea of "Go big or go home" out there though. I took to it like an iron duck taking to boiling water. I found my niche in the world. Then, a year into that, the other side approached me. They wanted me to be an agent, and I said yes. To the Americans I was Saint, to the Europeans I was Breaker. For twenty years I played both sides, swapped intel back and forth, carried out missions for both, and neither side ever knew. I guess when they said I was the best they had they weren't kidding.
When I was a younger man I did it for the love of the game, for the thrill. Then I met you. I'll never forget that day, Lucy. You wore a blue sundress, you giggled when I dropped my hat. When I saw your smile I knew, I just knew. You were the one for me. I want you to know, I *need* you to know, you made me happier than I ever thought I could be, every single day. With all the soul I have, Lucy, I love you.
I love Erin and Amy too. God, you don't know how much my life changed when they were born. Of course, you couldn't know. I stopped taking the really dangerous missions, I stopped enjoying what I did. My life had always been about the thrill of my work and the passion I held for you. I made the world a better place for us, then the girls came along and made it a better place than I ever could have. They built me from the ground up. The girls, the house, you. Turned out that's all I ever wanted.
I don't know what to tell the girls, that's your decision, but I can't lie Lucy, not to you. I'm not coming home. Three months ago I received an order. The heads of both Breaker and Saint were being demanded. The other note contains details of three offshore accounts and how to access them, the girls are set up for life and then some. I realise no amount of money can make what I'm about to do right but I do this for you.
I love you, I love you, I love you, all I have is in those words.
Goodbye, Lucy."
I reached the lake just before Dawn. The sun was tipping its head above the horizon, the water casting the first weak speckles of day towards me. There was no going back now. I took out two cellphones, dialled a number on both, and waited for each line to open.
"It's done."
*click* | 597 | A double agent who goes by two aliases has been assigned by each country to kill his alias on the opposite side. | 884 |
He was a drunk, a ragged worthless soldier discharged from the army when he became too weak to carry a weapon. He's passed out in a pool of his own vomit, face up in the rain, almost choking himself. In my benevolence I save him, by rolling him over with my foot and waking him with the tip of my boot.
He sat shivering now, I having doused him in cold water to wake him up.
"So... you are a god?" He asked.
"Demi-god, my good man, in the process of ascending if you will."
"So... you're powerful?"
I smiled and flicked my wrist towards his at blanket, setting the corner alight. I turned my head as he frantically beat the flame out, hiding the small trickle of blood from my nose, the cost of my little show. The soldier dropped to his knees before me.
"I am yours my lord, I shall serve and obey."
I smiled in what I hoped was a benevolent manner and raised my voice magnanimously.
"Rise, my son, and hear my words."
The next few hours were spent in tedium, the soldier recording my commandments, my doctrine, my laws. The fact that he was able to write was a small miracle within itself: I had no desire to write out these things myself.
"Lastly, you will sacrifice an ox to me, and bring its meat to the summit of this hill on the 30th day of every month. You mustn't forget, and be sure to have a fair woman bring it to me."
"Should she be a virgin m'lord?"
"No need for that, so long as she is pretty." While I did not confide in him, I knew small gods couldn't be choosy, and if the other gods took note of me before my full ascendence, they would destroy me. Best to lay low: likely he would send a barmaid, but that was better than nothing.
"My lord, how am I to prove your strength to unbelievers? How should I spread your word?"
I held out a small vial to the now priest of Eren.
"When you go to speak in the market, convince a nonbeliever to join you upon the stage, and when they step up, have this smeared on your palm so that they get the potion on their fingers. It will stop their heart."
I handed him a small locket "Be sure to where this at all times; it is imbued with my power, and well protect you from the heart stopping tincture."
The locket contained nothing more than herbs that would keep the fool from passing out, but I did not want nor need to tell him.
"When they fall, waive my locket over them, and my power shall revive them from death, and all who see will know me as the true god." I finished in my most impressive voice. "Now go, and recruit more to follow my path."
The priest took his leave, and walked away towards the main market in Immerath. As he departed, I felt the trapping stone in my pocket buzz to life, he had *truly* believed me. His faith would reinforce my power, allowing me to draw on his life force if necessary.
Days passed and the trapping stone's buzzing grew steadily in intensity; the charade with the locket was working. After a week, I used the one truly magical aspect of the locket, and spoke to the priest, commanding him to return to me. The brief conversation drained me of all my energy reserves, my nose and ears bleeding profusely. I cleaned myself up, and by the time he arrived, I sat in a grand chair, dressed in a red robe, my face shadowed to hide its gauntness, the toll the sorcery had taken on me. I gripped the arms of the chair tightly to control my trembling.
The priest was accompanied by three followers, a former benth root addict, her face with marked burns from years of smoking the destructive drug, a recently widowed woman of almost fifty, and a young man in his early twenties, a surprise frankly. It was unusual to acquire anyone of sound mind and body early on. As they approached, I tapped the trigger of the trap near my foot, extinguishing all candles in the room for effect, and to hide my temporary infirmity.
"Priest, you have done well; you have brought my believers, and an offering of food, for this I bless you." Blessings are worthless, empty words, especially from me, but I could see the believers were clinging to my blessing with desperate hope. Good.
I spoke to them further, rambled really, my mind still numb from the sorcery used to speak to the priest through the locket. When I grew tired, I commanded them to depart, all except the benth smoker. She would be useful, and by keeping her addicted to benth, I could keep her too muddled to notice that I wasn't the powerful omnipotent I portended to be.
My strength returned quickly in the next week. Inith, the benth addict prepared food for me, and in the darkness, she felt the same as any other woman. Her moans of pious pleasure irritated me, but I pressed her face into the pillow and finished. It must be quite an experience being bedded by a god. She asked me to lie with her, but I threw her arm off disdainfully, leaving her to clean herself up.
The trapping stone vibrated heavily now; I would need a second one soon. The priest had truly been convinced, and now spoke with fervor on my behalf, slowly collecting followers. I tried firing lightning from my hand, and electricity arced from my fingertips, burning a hole in the wooden wall of my main hall. I felt a follower die, her soul used to power my sorcery. I would need to be careful with that, but the power was incredible; the power of an entire life sparking in a single intense burst of energy.
The priest arrived the following day, his face harrowed.
"My lord, one of your subjects died yesterday, and your locket did nothing! Why my lord, why did you not save him?"
Behind the priest, my small group of followers bore a litter, carrying the body of the old woman, the victim of my little experiment. At least it was one of the old ones, easier to explain.
"It was simply her time." I decreed. "Even a god cannot hold back the chains of time forever. You will all die one day." As their faces fell in despair, I had a sudden thought. "But, she has gone to my realm, the eternal light filled garden of Erendeir."
Gloomy faces lit with anticipation, greedy in this new revelation. A peaceful world only they could join: more than the priestesses of Omta had ever promised. So simple, so effective, the trapping stone was growing hot, vibrating so intensely I was afraid it would shatter. I drew in a deep breath, filling my body with energy. Time to give them another dose of godliness. The litter burst aflame, and the followers dropped it screaming. Within seconds nothing remained of the body but a pile of ash.
"She is departed" I proclaimed. No bleeding nose this time, no shaking. It was happening.
The simple half-truths I told them to appease them, to attract them, grew in complexity, and they devoured them, each one a tantalizing promise of future reward in return for their service. Within a half year, nearly 100 hundred followers crowded my main hall. Eight trapping stones were now strung around my neck, filled with the energy of minds dedicated to my ideals. Seven soldiers had been recruited by their former comrade, my priest, and now stood guard before the my hall, the hall of Eren.
With the power, I began to truly change. The skin on my forearms became opaque gray, hard as stone to protect my arms from the immense power that I now wielded. My heart stopped, the pulse no longer needed to keep me alive, and with the ceasing of its beat, my body took on a blue tinge. And in this new state of being, the second voice arose within in me. This was true power: the ancient tongue of the forerunners known only to priests of Niret the elder god, and they guarded their secret jealously. The voice only arose spontaneously in a few souls every thousand years, and the priests of Niret either recruited them or destroyed them. I would not be recruited.
"Glorious Eren, my lord" panted a young boy as he dashed into the hall. "The priests of Niret are in Immeranth, we must leave, we must run now." I shook my head, and turned to my followers.
"You must all stay here, no one should leave this hall until I return. Form a pray ring clasp and hands, and pray that your god will vanquish these unbelievers." The connected will of a hundred souls would make my power even stronger, but I feared it would not be enough. The priests of Niret had followers of their own, and their magic was old and unknown.
In the main square of Immeranth, four Niret priests awaited me, standing in an arrow point formation, their leader at the tip. Behind them were the crucified forms of four of my followers, including my priest, my drunken soldier who had served me so faithfully. He was alive, but blood gushed from around the iron spikes impaling his hands and feet, and one of his eyes had been torn from its socket, hanging down like a macabre ornament over his face.
The head priest spoke: "Eren, son of Tillin the Innkeeper, we offer you this one chance to surrender and join us. Your power is beyond your control, this arrogance of pretending to be a god is foolishness. Surrender, and we shall release these poor souls." He gestured to the priest as he finished, who looked at me with one pleading eye. I spoke to him through the locket, the power required now barely a flicker on my vast resources of magic.
"Stay strong my priest, and I will rescue and exalt thee."
I turned back to the priest.
"You arrogant filth, you will pay for what you have done here. You are worthless, an old man clinging to an older god whose power waned a millennia ago. Now feel the wrath of a true ascendant."
I spoke to earth beneath priest's feet, and before he could mutter a counter, the rock become a living thing, rising around him, cocooning him in a sheath of solid granite. The other priests began speaking, in time with another, a chorus of immense power. Two raised a ward, while the other two called in the elemental force of storm. Within seconds, the sky filled with roiling clouds, and massive bolts of lightning were flung at me. One struck the ground several feet away, leaving a pit of molten scorched earth, another I deflected into a nearby building which erupted in flames. In desperation, I stole the wind the from them, and sent it as a deadly cutting edge towards the two calling the storm. One priest saw my attack and flung himself to the ground out of the way, but the wind edge caught the second in the throat, decapitating him instantly. The ward cast by other two sorcerers had been protecting the group from their own massive electrical attack, it had not been attuned to wind. As the spurting headless corpse fell, the head priest broke free from his rock tomb.
"Damn, I was hoping he'd suffocate in there."
"You have angered Niret, now feel the power of *TRUE GOD*!" the priest screamed.
The priest did not reach out for a source of power, but instead lifted both palms directly towards me, intoning ancient verses in the voice I had never heard. My body went suddenly stiff, my lungs frozen, compressing, like I was drowning. The three remaining priests stopped their attacks and joined the head priest, each placing a hand on his shoulder, lending their power to his.
The attachment of the soul to the physical form is one of the strongest bonds in the mortal world. Only when the body ceases to be is the soul release, at least when it occurs naturally. But now, as the priest pulled against me with unseen bonds, I saw a white irridescent light begin to seep from chest, pure and gleaming, like rivulets of starlight. I realized with horror that he was pulling very soul from my body.
"No!" I gasped.
He grinned, the expression forced atop the immense strain and concentration on his face. "Oh yes, this is how you end Eren."
My life force ebbing away, I grasped desperately for a way to counter. But this was ancient magic, its complexities lost to all but those who stood arrayed in front me. In a panic, I pulled the life from one of my followers through my trapping stone, feeling him expire as I stole his life, his hopes, his dreams. I flung the ethereal force of his soul in a burst at the priest, and felt blessed relief as the bond stripping my soul away was severed. The priest's eyes widened in surprise.
"Necromancy? No, that was forbidden in the first laws!" His eyes hardened in anger. "You must be stopped, this may not continue."
He flung the trapping at me again, grasping for my soul, but I was ready this time. Instead of taking the entire life of one of my followers, I drew a massive amount from each, leaving them alive, but likely close to death. From the crucifixes behind the priests, piteous moans arose as I drew part of their life force as well. The power my follower's souls enveloped me, making an impenetrable wall, a weapon of immense power. I took a halting step towards the priest, then another. Their eyes widened in horror as their power was pushed back, reversed. I began feeding off *their* souls using their own trap to drag out drain their very essence. Then they began to crumble; the eyes of the three priests touching the head priests burned in their sockets, their bodies burning from the inside. The head priest drew all the power from them in an effort to fight me. But he only had three souls, I had ten times that. With a final step I reached out and grasped the priest of Niret by the throat.
"Call your god" I hissed, pressing my forehead against his.
The priest spat blood in my face. "The eternal darkness take your soul."
He arched back his head and screamed as I sent pulse after pulse of electricity through his veins. Then suddenly he went limp, his eyes turning a deep, dark green, which gazed up at me with an aura of an ancient being.
"You now stand in the presence of a god, mortal. What do you wish of me?" Said a deep voice within the priest.
"I want nothing, I am here to deliver a message. For this outrage, for what your followers have done to mine, and to me, I will take your kingdom."
The priest's face broke into a sardonic grin, and Niret spoke again. "I did not order my priests to do this, I rarely bother with the mortal realm anymore. What you faced was the will of men using my power for their own purposes, this squabble is nothing to me. However..."
As he spoke, a sudden weight pressed down on me, immensely powerful, unyielding, crushing both body and mind. I screamed and prostrated myself on the ground, blood pooling in my mouth, my bowels releasing. The unbearable pain burned like a white poker forced into my brain, driving me to the brink of madness.
"Do not threaten me again mortal. You are arrogant, young, a babe. You do not comprehend the vastness of existence, nor the expanse of emptiness that surrounds existence itself. You are a tiny unnoticed particle in the grand scheme, and if you become a particle that irritates me, I will *wipe your existence from reality*."
As suddenly as it had begun, the blinding force was gone. I lay shivering, unable to move in my own vomit, blood and filth. My own mortality lay more heavily on me than the pain now, the realization that I was still not ascendant, still bound to the mortal plane.
I stumbled across the square to the crucifixes; two of my followers were dead, their heads rolling unnaturally on their shoulders. Miraculously, my soldier priest was still alive, but his breathing was shallow. I pulled on the iron spikes in his feet til my hands bled, but they would not budge. Despair settled on me, as I looked into his one good eye. For the first time in years, I felt compassion for another being.
"I'm sorry my friend, your god has failed you."
Strong hands moved me aside, and grasped the spike, pulling it free in a single motion. The massive tattooed man then lifted the priest up by the waist. A second man from the crowd moved forward, pulling the spikes from the priest's hands.
"Into the cart." Said the giant. Without another word he laid the priest in the back, and without any request or directions headed towards my hall.
"Why are you helping me?" I asked as we moved out of the city. Already guards were converging on the square, but we departed unstopped amidst the turmoil. The giant did not turn his head, seeming afraid to look at me.
"You fought 4 mages, killed them with a power greater than I have ever seen. Then when you were done, you ran to this man, fighting to save him. Such a man deserves honor, and the help of Dolokin." I turned from him, unable to face his genuine admiration. The hundred near dead followers would change his opinion soon enough.
The dead and weak were laid out in a perfect ring in the main hall, fallen where they had been praying for my success. The giant followed me in carrying the priest, and grunted when he saw the fallen worshipers.
"Some great evil has struck this place." He said.
Realizing my luck at his incomprehension, I replied quickly:
"Yes, the priests of Niret attacked my followers to punish me. My battle was to save them."
He nodded, as if he had come to that conclusion already. He laid my priest down gently on one of the benches.
"Can you do anything for him?" Asked Dolokin.
I had no experience in healing, not with herbs not with magic. But my new powers called to me, told me what to do, what I *could* do. With my shorthanded knife, I sliced off the dangling eye. I squeezed my fist tight, and it frosted over: when I opened it, a hail-sized sapphire of perfect blue lay in my palm. Without hesitation I pressed the gem into the empty eye socket. Intuition told me that to save him, to save them all, the power of their souls would need to be returned, in addition to a good deal of my own. I breathed out, white light streamed from me, tracing through the air like tiny ribbons. As the world faded I saw my people rise; the holes in the hands of my priest closed, and drew a deep, gasping breath. Blackness swirled in soft and complete.
Was benevolence the key? White light surrounds me, like the light when Niret attacked me. Peaceful void, creation void, waiting for my touch. In the distance an old woman approaches, hand in hand with an old man.
"I indeed ascended to realm of Eren, the garden of Erendeir." She rasped. "But you should not have used me so for your sorcery. Lucky for you a higher god took pity, and and built this place for me, and in doing so, built it for you as well. I believed in you, and my soul could go nowhere but your garden. It was either find Erendeir or wander lost. The gods are good, maybe you can be too."
Through the ebbs of space and time, I heard the chant of the sapphire priest, still praising the name of Eren, thanking me for saving them. I had betrayed them all, fooled them all, but now had an eternity to make amends. | 14 | You are a minor deity and you get your first worshipper and prophet to spread your message to the land. How do you proceed? | 17 |
After forty-five minutes of possibly the worst job interview of his life (and of the interviewer's life, for that matter), Joe was more than ready to leave.
*Go on*, he thought to himself. *Just say "Thank you for coming, we'll be in contact with you" even though there's no way in hell that I'll ever get a call back.*
"Alright, well... you're hired!"
"What?" Joe stared, dumbfounded. The Grim Reaper smiled at him.
"Great job, son. You've got the job."
All he could think to say was, "Is this a test?"
"Is there some kind of problem? I'm assuming that you're here because you want the job, correct?" The Reaper frowned at him.
"Yeah, of course I want it, but that was an **awful** interview," Joe pointed out. "I mean, I'm sure that my qualifications are the lowest out of all the people who applied. I saw the other applicants that went before me."
"Oh, them." The Reaper waved his hand with a chuckle. "They're not fit for the job."
Upon seeing the confused expression on Joe's face, he continued, "I've been doing this job for a long time now, you see. I know better than anyone else who'll be right for the job. And trust me, those two definitely weren't."
He pulled out one of the desk drawers and took two files from it. Then he slammed the drawer shut and slapped the files down in front of Joe.
"Go on. Open 'em."
Joe complied.
Inside the first file, a picture of the woman he had seen earlier was staring up at him. Just looking at the picture gave him chills. The woman's lips were set in a thin line, and veins bulged from her neck.
"Ahh, yes. Frightening, isn't she?" the Reaper asked. "She scared me, too. To most people, she probably seems most fitting for the job. She's led a violent enough life and has experienced probably far more horrors than any other human alive..."
The Reaper reached out to close the file and gently pushed it aside.
"And yet, that is not the right person to decide. We cannot have such a callous and unsympathetic Reaper. The death rates would go through the roof, and that's just not how it's supposed to work."
Joe opened up the second file. Now, a picture of a smiling young man stared back at him.
"What about him? He was incredibly kind," Joe said, remembering how the man had sincerely wished him luck as they had passed each other.
"Yes, he was. He has had extensive experience with terminally ill children, and he spends most of his free time volunteering at free clinics." As he had before, the Reaper closed the file and pushed it aside. "To most people, he also probably seems fitting for the job. He's kind-hearted and, as you've probably guessed, a forgiving man. But I'm afraid that he is far too kind. There are many assignments that he simply will not be able to carry out; they'll weigh too heavily on his conscience. Even if he did push through the job, it would break him. I couldn't bear to do that. Besides, overpopulation is already enough of an issue as is."
The Reaper folded his hands together expectantly. "So... any other questions?"
"Yeah. Why me?"
"You were right. That interview was rather horrible. You don't stand out from your peers at all. You've hardly accomplished anything with your life, and your character is not strongly enough defined by any traits to set you apart from the rest of the population. In fact, Joe... I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but the only reason that you qualify perfectly for this job is because you are so ordinary."
"Okay." The comment hurt less than he expected it to because a tiny part of him had always known that it was true. There was nothing particularly special about him at all. "But... what if the job breaks *me*?"
"Oh, I'm sure that it well. You're ordinary, after all, not heartless." The Reaper smiled reassuringly at him. "Why do you think I'm retiring? I can tell that I've just about reached my breaking point. Because I am not exceedingly callous, I cannot simply ignore the toll that this job has taken on me. But because I am also not exceedingly kind, I cannot sacrifice my own well-being for the sake of sparing anyone else the burden of this job. I am, however, perfectly ordinary. So I can admit that I've had enough. So I choose you. Any more questions then?"
There was a brief silence as Joe contemplated his words.
"When do I start?" | 24 | The Grim Reaper has announced his retirement and is conducting a universe-wide search for his protégé. | 36 |
Times were tough in the 20's. I was an only child and my old man had left me and my mother to chase after some vixen who promised that she'd sing to him every night after blowing him. I think back to it now, the way he described her to me, and I honestly don't blame him. My mother wasn't a looker, and she was a hell of a nagger.
Me and my mom lived in the boonies outside of town in a pack of trees. Tall tuliptrees stretching so high that you had to crane your neck back to see the top of them. I had to walk about a mile through them to get to school, but I won't bore you with the whole "back in my day" business.
Having no father made life growing up hard, and things got even harder. It was a rainy day in April when I came home from elementary to find my mother dead in the living room. That's a lot to put on a 13 year old, ya know?
I'm no genius now, and I was even dumber then, but I knew from the marks on her throat that someone had strangled her. Well, something. I wish it was someone.
There wasn't anyone to take me in; I had no family, see? Instead, after they took my poor old woman away to be roasted, I had to live in this goddamn house.
Angry at the house? No, I wouldn't say that, well maybe. I loved the house before my mother died. After my mother died, see, was when I noticed it following me around. Walking to school, I could hear the branches snapping. Not on the ground, but in the trees.
I'd look up into the canopy of branches of leaves, swearing on my dead mother that I heard something up there. But at first, I didn't ever see it. I'll tell you now, I'm not sure if I just didn't know what to look for, or if maybe it didn't want to be seen yet.
I'm normally not the skiddish type, but after weeks of feeling something watching you from the trees, you tend to become the type who always looks over their shoulder. It became a habit of mine, looking over my right shoulder. So much so that I even did it in school even if I didn't actually hear anything.
It was in high school that I finally saw it in the trees. It was for a brief second, but it was long enough to make me forget how to breathe for a few moments.
It was crouched on a thick tree branch. It's skin was black and its skin was mottled. Almost looked like scales. I didn't get a good look at it's face. I probably would've died on the spot if I did. I saw it, and I know it saw me. It stood on the branch. Jesus it was so tall and lanky, you wouldn't have guessed it if you had seen it crouching first like I did.
And then it leaped away through the branches like a bobcat.
I ran to the sheriff and told them what I had saw, and like anyone could've guessed, he claimed that it was probably just an animal, a cat maybe. Even after describing what I had saw, he just laughed it off and said he'd send an officer over to check it out.
No officer ever came.
Going through the woods after seeing the damn thing made life hell. I wanted to run on my way to school, but I got the feeling that if I ran, it would chase me down, finally attacking me. So I walked. I walked and on some days I would hear it following me, leaping branch to branch. I tried to look at it several more times after building the courage, but I almost always missed it.
It made me wonder if I was just imagining it, but on some days, I would catch a glimpse of it from the corner of my eye, and my stomach would turn because I knew then I wasn't just going crazy.
Nowadays, it comes to the house. I can hear it crawling around on the roof at night. It knocks sometimes. I think it is trying to find a weak point. I don't know why it doesn't just come through the windows, maybe it's afraid of glass.
The other night, I heard my mother's voice from the roof, despite her being a pile of ashes sitting in a jar on the mantle. Then I heard knocking on the roof again. It knew how my mother spoke. And it knocks and knocks.
I don't sleep. I know if I do, it'll crash through the roof and wrap its hands around my throat, and do to me what it did to my mother. I don't sleep anymore at night. Instead I just listen to it knock. I listen to my mother calling my name.
| 11 | "I don't sleep." He/She said. | 15 |
"You shouldn't have come here."
She picked a saw from the rack. For the last five minutes she'd been choosing which one, savouring both the moment and my fear.
I had begged, at first. None if us want to die at all and the threat of an ugly death is worse still. In fact I'd say that it was about the worst thing that could happen to someone. In those moments you can't help but realise that you led an entire life, loved and suffered through countless moments, dreamt and lived, that all pointed at this one. Out lives are big neon arrows that are forever pointing at the moment we die.
So I had begged. When that got me nowhere, I threatened. But she knew me almost as well as I knew her. I'd been chasing her for years, building a case, trying to work out the identity of the person behind the killings. Only tonight I had realised why I could never get close, and that had led me here.
"You were happy," she said, advancing. "I'm sure you were. You lived a good life, didn't you? Tell me you did."
I glared at her. I would not give her the satisfaction.
"But now you're here, so none of it matters. I have to say, when you were chasing me, I grew to respect you. Do you believe me?"
She placed the saw against my neck. I struggled against the ropes but they were too tight and the drug she'd used hadn't quite worn off.
"I don't suppose you do. It makes no difference. It's only going to end one way."
When she started sawing I screamed. The last thing I felt, as light around me faded and pain took me, was regret that I had married her. | 60 | A cop is tied to a chair, helplessly watching the serial killer he's chased for so long prepare his tools to kill him. | 43 |
**Interview with Subject 413-A. May 4th, 2011. 11:00 A.M.**
*Henry, how are you feeling today?*
I'm losing control. I don't know how many times I have to tell you that you can't let me fall asleep anymore. Whenever I fall asleep, *he* wakes up. You don't know what he's capable of.
*Everyone needs to sleep, right? Have you considered the ramifications of going extended periods without sleep? The stress on your body, the stress on your mind--*
Better that than the alternative.
*Do you know why you're here?*
I'm here because of what he did.
*He?*
How many more times am I going to have to tell you this story? I've told you everything that I know. The fact that you choose to ignore the truth is your problem, not mine.
*Do you understand that we can't begin to help you as long as you refuse to take responsibility for your actions? Wouldn't you like to get out of here some day?*
I turned myself in, doctor. I've already taken responsibility for what he did. And no, I don't want to get out. If I get out, so does he. The world is not prepared for him.
*Henry, there's no way for us to progress in your therapy if you don't--*
You know what? I'm tired of this. You want to find out the truth so badly? Come get me after I fall asleep and... wake up again. I know you've seen the video. I fall asleep and I wake up. Then I fall asleep and wake up again. If you want the truth, come talk to me after the first time I wake up, but before the second.
*If you insist, Henry. I'll see you later tonight.*
**End of Interview with Subject 413-A. May 4th, 2011. 11:15 A.M.** | 20 | Reimagine a fairy tale, but tell it as though the characters have psychological issues. | 25 |
*From the notes of Cpl. Alexander Crand, USMC.*
How do you stop Crazy? True, honest to God, Hannible Lector eating Buffalo Bill **crazy**?
You know those guys who can't tell you what they had for breakfast an hour ago? Yeah, guilty. If it's been more than an hour since something happened, you're better off asking the other guy.
Her, though. Christ, it's been twenty years, and I can still hear her. Those damned screams as my K-bar sliced along her abs, tits, up her legs...
Had to. Kids these days, they all *know* about the *"Fallen Times"*, when militia groups all across the country rose up. "Down with the muslim traitor! Don't let'em take our guns!" So, to protect their rights, they started gunning down anyone who disagreed with'em.
Yeah, all the armchair generals *know* about that time. They weren't there. They don't fucking know. Whole damned country went nuts, and how the hell do you stop that kinda crazy? Right wingers blowing up abortion clinics to "save lives"; radical feminists executing men someone, somewhere said were rapists; Christians gunning down Sihk temples, and Muslims blowing up races. Cops couldn't deal with that shit, they're reactionary by nature. Once a crime happens, catch the culprit.
Marines, though...well. We got just the one job, and it ain't flipping burgers.
So, back to my original question. Any ideas, armchair generals?
By being fucking crazier.
Her name was Molly Cooper, and she wasn't the only one I...interogated, is what the higher-ups called it.
Bullshit.
I tortured her. Had to. I ain't proud of it, no one should be. Her, Bradley Smith, Nathan Ridley, JaMichael Thompson, A'Miricle Glades, Josephine Collier, Margaret Jones, Aki Miyagi, Bijah Singh, James Ngyuen...you get the damned point.
Someone had to stop it all. I just...I *know* I was right. Someone had to stop the bombings. The murders. The fear.
You know what the difference is between me and all those armchair Napoleans? The ones who argue insessently about the effects of 24,000 troops at the Battle of Syracuse versus 23,500?
Never heard'a one of them waking up with the voices of the dead screaming in their ears "We *knew* we were right, too!"
There was no other way to stop the insanity of those years.
Was there? | 10 | The regretful memoir of a U.S marine who followed orders to execute, capture, and torture his fellow Americans as part of a military take over. | 20 |
"Pass me your ID."
"I told you, I'm 18!" He screamed back, having been backed into a corner by two police officers. "I've had my test, I'm sterile, just like the rest of you."
The police officers looked back with equal parts dismay and disappointment. They turned to look at each other, before moving to restrain the boy, turning him to face the wall.
He shouted in protest a hand was forced into his trousers as his wallet was ripped from the faded jeans. They pulled out his government-issued ID, looking for the date. "2 weeks until his 18th." One said to the other.
The other looked back, checking the ID himself as he continued to restrain the boy against the wall. "Regulations state that he's only exempt if it's tomorrow." He turned to the boy. "Sorry, you're going to have to come with us.
*****
When he came to, the boy was laying on a bed, blinking through bleary eyes. The soft click of a door sounded as the scuffle of feet was heard. Pulling from his dreary state, he turned to look at the intruder.
It was a girl. A girl he would have normally been happen to flirt with on any other day, in any other situation. He saw fear in those innocent blue eyes of hers, fear that was probably reflected in his own.
He cleared his throat as he looked to the ground in shame. '*What has the world come to?*', he asked himself, though he was sure to never get answer there. | 36 | A world where only teenagers can get pregnant and everyone over 18 is completely infertile/sterile. | 38 |
*Some people are lucky. Some people are in the right place at the right time. Some people get everything they want without even trying; sliding through life with few worries and fewer regrets.*
*I am not one of these people.*
*My first indication that I was special was at 5 when I fell off my parents second story balcony. Lucky people would have walked away with barely a scratch. Me? I landed on the flexed biceps arm of a man who happened to be in town for the Mr. Universe contest.*
*There's more.*
*Upon stabilizing me and lowering me to the ground, I found myself standing on a piece of paper which later turned out to be a lottery ticket that someone had mistakenly thrown away. Worth about 230 million.*
*This is the first in a long line of examples that prove the Universe was truly created for me, that I am far more than just lucky. I am the end point. Even now as I sit here writing this the Universe protects me. Cars swerve around, missing me and crashing into each other; incapable of striking down the single most importa*
"That's all?"
"Yeah. This guy was really messed up. Wife said he decided to write a biography, that the world deserved to know what the reason for existence was."
"Huh." | 520 | TIL that the opposite of Paranoia is Pronia, wherein one believes that the universe and the world is conspiring to help them. Write a story about one such person with an extreme case of Pronia. | 1,126 |
"Time has caught up to you, Epoch."
Epoch, hunched over and staring at his hands, nodded slowly. Sirens from all over the city wailed, and the shining moon overhead was obscured by smoke. "I know."
His enemy and victor jumped down from his perch, his padded feet making no sound on the asphalted roof. The approaching man looked around him, his eyes reflecting the burning city around them. He turned back to Epoch. "Do you see now? Do you see what you have done?"
Epoch looked up for the first time since his enemy had defeated him. The Mighty Monolith stopped just in front of him and waited, hands on his hips, his yellow cape billowing up behind him. "Yes." Epoch looked back down at his hands. Time was a funny thing, wasn't it? A few years ago, he had suddenly lost the ability to control time completely. Instead of being able to stop time or visit any time in the past, he was suddenly only able to slow time, and the years he was able to go back had slowly dwindled until finally he could only visit a few days past.
"I truly am sorry that it's come to this." The Mighty Monolith crouched down so that he could be eye level with Epoch. "You have to come with me."
Epoch chuckled dryly. "And what, rot in your cells for the rest of my life? No thanks." Even with the ability to slow time, he hadn't been able to save Danielle. He had revisited her death a thousand times in an attempt to save her, but slowly the invisible clock of time struck zero, and he was no longer able to visit the moment. That had been when he could only visit a week in the past. Then it had been a day. And now...
"I can't wait." The Mighty Monolith waved a hand angrily around him. "There are people dying out there, Epoch, because of *you*. Either come with me now, or I take you down right here on this rooftop."
Epoch looked at his hands, ignoring the hero in front of him. He come to realize, after Danielle's death, that he wasn't really a hero, after all. He only lived for her. Before her, he had lived, but it wasn't *truly* living. Not without her. And then when she died, he began to question what he'd done. He hadn't saved people because they needed saving; he saved people because Danielle wanted them to be saved. He didn't stop criminals because he wanted them to stop, he beat them senseless because Danielle wanted them to stop. After Danielle, he didn't care. After Danielle, nothing mattered.
"That's it." The Mighty Monolith moved forward, his eyes burning with fire and judgement, but still hiding behind both there was sorrow and resignation.
Epoch stared intently at his wrinkled hands. He had aged considerably since Danielle's death, both mentally and psychically. It was over, then, wasn't it? His fingers twitched and the sirens around him hesitated briefly for a second before continuing.
"Time has caught up to you, Epoch."
Epoch, hunched over and staring at his hands, nodded slowly. "I know." | 21 | A supervillain, having thought he was the hero all along, comes to grips with the truth. | 37 |
Alright, he thought. If this doesn't work, I give up.
He swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills, slashed his left wrist, jumped out of the tenth story window and shot himself in the head on the way down.
***
He woke up in the white smell of the hospital with a bandage around his head and tubes in his arms. It was a heavy sigh that hit the floor. He wasn't even in pain.
A nurse walked in.
"Oh my God," she said. "Mr. Crux, it's a miracle! Can you hear me?"
"Of course I can hear you."
"I - I'll get the doctor."
She came back with five of them. They all wanted to get a look. Faces peered in through the doorway. More nurses, some reporters, hospital security. An old warrior nurse was shouting orders in the hall trying to keep the peace.
"Well, Mr. Crux," said one of the doctors. He was looking proud to be the guy with the clipboard. "In spite of what appear to be your gravest efforts, you haven't sustained a single substantial injury. The bullet went through clean, the sidewalk broke your fall, and the impact evacuated your stomach and staunched the wound in your wrist. Are you in any pain?"
"Not the kind I'd trouble you with," said Mr. Crux.
"Do you realize how fortunate you are to be alive? Any one of those injuries should have killed you."
"There's always next time." There wasn't, though. This was it, one time forever. He wanted to puke.
"If you're feeling up to it, some reporters from the Times want to ask you a few questions. Your story is creating quite the stir. They tell me it's all over social media."
"Yeah, fine, send them in."
The circus began.
***
Suicide became the flavor of the week. Crux did the rounds and he was on Today and Tonight and Sixty Minutes. Magazines gave him millions just to do a sit-down interview. People Magazine put him on the cover and called him a Miracle Man, the unwitting hero of depressives.
It went on for months. Then one night, lying awake in a ritzy hotel room, the room phone rang.
"Yeah."
"Is this Lester Crux?" A small voice.
"Yeah."
"*The* Lester Crux?"
"What do you want?"
"Well, I - I - oh man . . ."
"Listen, just do it. I'm sick of you people calling me."
He hung up and went back to the ceiling. But the phone rang again and the same small voice crawled through the receiver.
"I think I'm like you," it said.
"What?"
"I hung myself. In the garage. With the car running. Nobody found me."
"Is this a prank? If it's a prank I'll kill you myself."
"It - it isn't. I know it sounds crazy."
"Where are you?"
Crux was checked out and on a plane to Toronto an hour later.
***
The man's name was Steven Aster. He lived alone in a small house at the edge of the city. Crux moved in with him and the two of them pursued all manners of suicide over the following months. They tried means of death under the sun and in varying combination and woke up every time. After Crux slit his own throat then shot himself with a twelve gauge before drowning in the bathtub with a toaster, the two of them decided they were on the wrong track.
Then one day the phone rang.
Another man, this one from St. Louis. He'd cut his wrists and laid down on some train tracks. They invited him up to Toronto.
Then another, and another. Three years after Crux made all those headlines, there were five men in the house in Toronto. Five men sick of living and unable to die.
They sat in the living room in dining room chairs, smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap wine. There was Steven Aster and Lester Crux, Archie Fuller from St. Louis, and the other two were both from Minneapolis - John Gray and Phillip Winters.
"We're obviously going about this the wrong way," Crux said. "Maybe, I don't know, maybe there's something we all have in common. Something tying us together."
"I don't know, I think Archie might be on to something with the acid thing. I mean, there was some bone left. Maybe that's why he came back."
"That hurt pretty bad," Archie said. "I don't think I'd want to do it again unless I knew."
"Well, just humor me, then," Crux said.
"Where do we start?"
"I don't know. Where was everybody born?"
"Right here in Toronto."
"New Mexico."
"Denver, Colorado."
"Minnesota. St. Cloud. About an hour north of Minneapolis."
"I was born in North Dakota," Crux said.
They went through jobs, education, books they'd read, movies they'd seen. They'd all seen Titanic, but that didn't seem to lead anywhere. Politics, religion, places they'd visited. The room was stained with smoke and the bottles running dry.
"Wives?" John said. "My first wife was Anna Smith. Not *that* Anna Smith. We married in Rochester. Two kids, both boys, both doing well. My second wife was Samantha Reaver. Total disaster."
"Samantha Reaver? Why does that ring a bell?"
"I dated a Samantha once," Archie said. "Can't think of her last name though. Real cute. Skinny. Long blonde hair. I love blondes."
"That sounds like her," John said. "Did she have a birthmark, about right here, inside her thigh."
"I'll be damned, I think she did," Archie said.
"I knew a Sam," Crux said. "Short hair, though. It was black but it might have been died. She was cute."
"Birthmark?"
"I never slept with her."
"Reaver!" Phillip stood up. "I went to grade school with a Samantha Reaver! We kissed under the slide! She was definitely blonde."
They all looked at Steven, but he shrugged. "I never knew a Sam or a Samantha," he said. "Plenty of cute girls with blonde hair, but no Samantha."
"Well, four out of five is something," Crux said. I think we should look this girl up."
***
They found her. She was six feet deep in a country cemetery in Western Illinois. Samantha Reaves - 1974 to 2013 - *Beneath this stone lies one who loves and cannot rest*.
"The hell does that mean?" Phillip traced the words with his finger.
"Maybe you shouldn't stand on her," John said.
"Oh, right."
"Is it some kind of curse?" Archie stood further back than the others.
"What are you afraid of?" Phillip laughed. "She's dead and you can't die."
"A curse is different. There's plenty of crazy down south, and I've seen voodoo really mess people up."
"It isn't voodoo. It's another damned dead-end," Crux said. He kicked the headstone.
The ground began to shake, the slightest of tremors, like a skinny girl shivering in the wind.
"Do you feel that?"
"I feel something."
They backed away. The earth moved under the stone. Archie whimpered.
"I don't get you, man. Maybe we finally get to die."
"Living. I - I'm afraid of living."
A hand came out of the ground, and then another. A rotted face smeared with grime, eyeless, and a hollow torso bent with decay. Her legs were resurrected with difficulty, and she stood with obvious effort, a ghost fighting the gravity of death and the grave.
"Oh," said Steven, "Sa*man*tha. Yeah, we had a one-nighter at Sheraton in Minneapolis. Completely spaced on her name."
***
"I need your help," she said without lips or tongue. It was a dry scrape in the air.
"What - How can we help you?" Crux was mostly dead inside, but he recognized the remains of a nice woman he once knew as Sam, and he recognized the pain.
"I killed myself because of a man," she said.
The five men shrunk, each sure he was guilty.
"It wasn't one of you," she said. "You were all very kind to me."
"You want us to get the guy who did it? We can do that. Just give us a name."
She shook her head. "I killed him too," she said.
"Oh."
"But I also killed myself, and I think it was a mistake. Death brought me neither comfort nor release. I am unhappy. I suffer. It only makes it worse that I am also dead."
"If you're trying to talk us out of it," Phillip said, "Well, at this point it's a matter of pride. I'll be damned if I don't get myself in the ground, one way or another."
"You only desire it because I gave you the desire. You can't fulfill the desire because I withhold fulfillment."
"But why?"
"Voodoo," Archie said. It sounded like I-told-you-so.
"I'm sorry," she said. "It is embarrassing. I am so weak."
"We're here. We came all this way. You cursed us. What do you want?"
"I could really use a compliment right now," she said.
Their silence was immediate and confounded.
"Oh," she wept. "You think I'm ugly."
"No!" John said. "You're gorgeous! You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen!"
"Yeah. I mean, I know we only spent a night together, but it was the best night of my life. It was - it was so wonderful and erotic that I tried to forget you. The world was pale in your shadow."
"Do you remember when we kissed under the slide? It was my first. It was the best. I tasted the world and life and all my dreams on your lips."
"We never slept together, but I always regretted that I didn't try. You were kind and gentle and pretty and I am insanely jealous of these men who know you better than I do. If I take one regret home from the mortal circus, it will be that I never asked you out for coffee."
Their words put flesh on her bones. Her green and subtle eyes came back. The five men mutilated the English language with hyperbole and rancid poetics until Samantha stood whole and they were speaking the truth. Her soft naked skin wrapped a hot-blooded and beautiful blonde woman. Full, intelligent, breathing.
"I - I think I'm alive!" she said.
"Alive and beautiful!" Steven said. He touched her shoulder. The touch was awe and respect, seasoned with lust.
Crux looked at his hands. He turned them over and over. "I really don't feel like killing myself anymore," he said. "In fact, I feel pretty happy. Like I could really go for a steak."
"Or some goddamn Cajun chicken," Archie said. "Kiss my dick, voodoo. Hooo!"
"You are all so wonderful," Samantha said. "You aren't angry?"
"Angry? I've never felt this good before." Phillip punched the air and did a cartwheel. "I could climb a mountain. I could ride a rhinoceros. I could eat a jeep!"
Crux gave Samantha his coat.
"I could go for some coffee," he said.
"That's kind of you," she said. Her smile was pigeons and doves. "But I have to put all of this behind me. I'm so grateful, but -"
"Ahh ha ha hee!" Steven doubled over laughing. "Denied! Haahaha!"
"How's that make you feel, Lester?"
Crux kissed her on the forehead. The six of them began walking down the lazy slope of the cemetery, back to their rented Hyundai.
"It makes me feel alright," Lester said.
***
| 27 | A suicidal man discovers he is Immortal. | 38 |
The sun sat low in the sky, shining a blistering red light over the desert valley. James had almost finished his day's excavation, with no significant discoveries. James was sure that he was on to something, else he would never have returned to the Valley of Kings in Egypt. He *hated* Egypt, ever since he almost died from a lethal snake bite several years before. But this time was different.
Six months earlier, James had been on a trip to the Yucatan Peninsula when he came across a rather out of place tablet. This tablet, James later learned, was of Egyptian origin. This wouldn't have been as noteworthy, if it hadn't been translated into exact coordinates within the Valley of Kings. James was sure he would find something if he traveled to this location, so he convinced a local university to fund a venture into the Valley.
James sat down outside his tent, and took a swig from his hip flask. The university wouldn't continue funding his expedition for much longer, unless he started to show results. He sighed, crawled into his beige military tent, and drifted into an uncomfortable sleep.
A loud rumble broke the silence of the night. James jolted awake, just in time to hear a thousand year's sigh emanate from the dig site. He bolted out of his tent, and started to run to the site, until he saw what had happened. A cavern beneath the site had collapsed, creating a passage into the ancient Egyptian earth. The other members of the expedition had already begun to stir, and James knew that if he waited for them to catch up, they would prevent him from being able to investigate. James took one look down into the newly-made pit, sighed, and jumped.
James tumbled down into the cave, and thudded onto a stone tile floor. He picked himself up and brushed himself off before turning on his flashlight taking a look around. The cavern was really a tunnel, and apparently part of a network of tunnels, as it had passages branching off from it every few meters. However, one aspect of the tunnel drew James' full attention. One passage, about 50 meters down the tunnel, was lit up by torches.
He made his way to the peculiar pathway and examined the entrance for traps. Upon finding none, James entered, and promptly dropped his flashlight. There, sitting on a golden throne, was a man. Not a mummy, not a skeleton, but a living, breathing man. *And it was looking directly at James*. Before he could move or make a noise, the man on the throne raised a hand made a fist toward James. He felt his throat squeeze, and his body lock into position. He was immobilized.
The man on the throne cocked his head to one side, and stared at James for a second before opening his mouth. The man breathed in a deep, long breath as though he was breathing in all the air a man would need for several lifetimes. Finally, he stopped.
He spoke.
"Why have you disturbed me? Is it time? Is it finally time?"
His throat was released, and he fell to the floor gasping for air. James didn't understand. No one should be in these tunnels. They hadn't even been discovered until minutes before. James looked up at the man, and asked ,"What *are* you?"
"I am a library," spoke the man ,"An archive. I am the memory of a time before, and a warning for a time yet to come. But I now see that time has not *come* yet, so I will ask again: Why have you disturbed me?"
"I'm an archaeologist. I was here on an expedition. I found a tablet-"
"You found the first warning?" the man snapped at James ,"then perhaps the time truly has come. I suppose I should explain. I am no mere human. I am a nearly immortal messenger, who was granted the lifetimes of a thousand slaves that I may convey a message to a future people who would be in dire straits, but have no clue how close to peril they truly were."
The room span. James had made a mistake, returning to the valley. He should never have come, never have dug up the earth, never jumped down the hole.
"You do not have much time. What power I have been granted was used to revive me. I will only provide the message once, and you must use the knowledge you gain here to prevent the end of mankind. Are you ready?"
James nodded, still not fully aware of what was going on. The man's eyes widened, and he gasped. "There is not much time. You must-"
The man's back arched, then he fell from the throne. He struggled to look up at James, desperate to convey his message.
"Do not cause an atomic explosion. Your kind may not understand what that is yet, but you must make sure it never happens. If you do, *they* will come to our world. And they will destroy everything. They lie in wait, and search for signs of civilization, which they then find and sap the energy from any developed world they find. If they detect the explosion of a single nuclear bomb, they will come. You will have perhaps a century to leave this planet, or you will *all die.*"
The man's body convulsed once, and then was still. He had given his warning, and he was content he had saved mankind from absolute annihilation. | 42 | You are an archaeologist. While digging, you find an immortal that has been buried there, for ages, still alive. | 44 |
"This won't last."
The man stood there, washing his hands vigorously in the washroom sink. He ripped a paper towel off and turned to me. He sported a well-tailored charcoal suit, and his face seemed young, yet weathered. He ran his hand through his pitch-black hair, and grimaced.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"There's no point in celebrating. This peace won't last, it never has."
"Well, that's rather cynical, don't you think?" I asked, running my hands under the water.
The man sighed. "Perhaps. Point is, look at history. People have been trying to give peace a chance forever, and it never has worked out."
I wasn't sure who this man was, or why he was here if he didn't want to celebrate.
"Are you with the UN?"
"No," he replied, chuckling quietly to himself.
"Greenpeace?"
"Nope! I'm here on my own accord."
"Ah, I'm one of the ambassadors for the United States of Europe. My name's Eric."
"Eric, huh? Call me Tony. Walk with me for a minute. I want you to prove to me that world peace will last."
We left the washroom and wandered back out into the party. Tony stopped at the snack table and grabbed a handful of crackers.
"Well, first," I told him, "Europe has merged into one country, which will prevent another war on this continent from occurring."
"Ooh, that's great," muttered Tony, as cracker crumbs came tumbling out of his mouth. Tony stopped to chat with the Korean president.
"Hey, John!" exclaimed the president. "What a night this has been! You'll have to tell all your friends back in Washington about this!"
"I sure will!" joked Tony.
"John?" I asked, perplexed. "Friends in Washington?"
We pulled away from the Korean president. "Yeah, he thinks I'm John Smith, American ambassador."
"Why?"
"Because I told him I was. Funny, eh?"
"You lied to the Korean president?"
"Sure did."
We passed by the Australian Prime Minister.
"Cheers to world peace, Dimitri!" He grinned toward Tony.
"See," I said, he believes in world pea- wait... Dimitri?"
"Dimitri, Tony, same idea. I told him I was the Russian ambassador." He put on a thick Russian accent. "What a sucker."
"Is Tony even your real name?"
"It doesn't matter. Call me whatever you like. I still don't think this will last. Say, why don't we take a bet. You think world peace will last. I don't think it will last more than five minutes. If you are right, I will pay you a thousand dollars."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously." He pulled out his wallet and grabbed a handful of bills. "But if I am right, you have to strip naked in front of the whole party. Let's see if world peace can last five minutes."
"Deal," I told him.
"You go mingle, I'm going to grab a drink."
I went back to talk to a few of my European friends when I heard a gunshot ring through the air, followed by a piercing scream. Chaos broke loose, and feet trampled over each other, knocking over tables. Everyone scrambled across the room and crowded across from the Canadian Prime Minister. She was lying on the floor with a gunshot wound in her abdomen. Paramedics rushed in quickly, and the crowd parted to make way.
"I saw who shot her!" said the Chinese president. "It was that Mexican ambassador, Jose!"
"No, I saw!" said the Australian Prime Minister. "It was Dimitri, the Russian!"
"It was John! He's American!"
"No, he's that Brazilian guy!"
I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I turned to see Tony standing behind me.
"Did... Tony, did you do this? " I asked.
"Yeah. I'm the Devil, not Tony, by the way. Everyone here wants to go to war with each other. So much for world peace. You can thank me later."
"He's over here!" I yelled at the top of my lungs. When I turned around, he was gone. I should have known better. So much for world peace.
I began to unbutton my shirt.
| 22 | You are at an extravagant party celebrating the recent absolute world peace. Everybody that has had a significant impact in establishing the world peace is there. You go to the restroom and meet a man who introduces himself as the devil. He offers you a proposal. | 24 |
Once, I met a hero.
His name was Paul, but he was called Viper. I knew he was dangerous, dangerous beyond all reason. I knew he was dogmatic, and that I'd somehow fallen onto his list of 'bad men.' I knew he'd hunted me very persistently ever since I'd fallen there. I knew that there was nothing that could stop him, that no wound or setback would ever end his plan to reshape the world.
I knew that he would need to be moved aside, perhaps eliminated, were I to ever succeed. The reins of Earth belonged to me; no one else could be trusted, certainly not the push-over pacifists and traditionalists Viper had in mind. My path was clear. My name - no, my family's name, the van Asche name - would be written on the shining future for centuries to come. I could no more surrender my path than Viper could.
These thoughts came unbidden as I darted down the street to avoid another explosion. Polaris tried to walk her fire up the street to me, but she was far too slow; I flew into an alley and took a moment to regroup. This fight was too close. I had my augments, my spells, my drones, and my mind; she had only her nanites and her rage. Somehow, nothing could penetrate her shields. That any shield could be so tough was nearly beyond my imagination. Railguns knew no armor, spells knew even less, but here I was, retreating, unable to punch a hole, trying to set a trap that would actually kill her.
"Wolfram, quit hiding!" Polaris had already caught up. She wasn't quite as fast as me, but the difference was oh so limited. "Or should I just raze the city? Will that flush you out? Will that make you *hurt*?!" In an explosion of rubble she burst into the alleyway, and I retreated, turning into a courtyard to avoid the latest barrage. Of course she followed, but when she emerged into the courtyard she shrieked in rage as a dozen drones obeyed my command and opened fire. Still the shells just bounced off her skin, and in seconds the drones were all wreckage. By the time she began searching for me, however, I had already ducked into an apartment building. She spent a few seconds looking around, checking for obvious signs, and when she found none she screamed and toppled another of the buildings in the courtyard. "You're in one of these!" she shouted, voice echoing even over the crashing of crumbling brick. "I'll get you out of there one way or another!"
Five hundred people in that building. My drones had counted. All of them dead. An acceptable price for ten seconds longer to recuperate. The stakes were too high to worry about nobodies. If she got out of this fight alive, this would happen again, unimpeded, across the world. Utter destruction wrought by hundreds of her sleeper anarchist cells, all set to bring about the end of civilization. She was destroying my civilization. Mine.
The third building collapsed, and I burst from my hiding place. If shells didn't work, perhaps a point-blank blast of magic would. By the time she realized I'd come out, I was already upon her, with just enough time to tell her, "Here I am." A flare of brilliant light erupted from my outstretched hand; our collision wrought a heavier blast that flattened the rest of the block, stopped me dead in my flight, and sent her soaring off into the sky. My eyes cycled and let me see through the flash, through the smoke, to find her righting herself a hundred meters away, once again unharmed. "What does it take to kill you?" I asked, not expecting a response.
"More than that, Wolfram, more than you've got!" Again she attacked head-on; again I simply moved aside before she could hit. She was so simple, so predictable, and yet so indestructible. "More than your whole world's got! More than every misbegotten little bastard shit in your family, more than every government boot-licking bitch, more than everyone!" Another predictable barrage, more explosions, more innocent casualties. There wasn't room to steer clear of them here.
Everything I had, all at once, maybe. Nobody did this, and with good reason. Once a van Asche was defenseless, they were already dead. Someone would always emerge to kill a hated 'oppressor.' But I was out of options. Unweaving every spell I had prepared, putting them back together into something new, took seconds, dangerous seconds that forced me to run on my own feet. Even operating only on augments I was fast enough, but she was closing the gap. I dodged, weaving through cars and turning at an intersection to lay the trap. Simple as she was, she followed straightway, tracing my steps precisely, screaming, "It will burn! I will have my new world!"
"No." Polaris turned the corner. Her eyes widened as she saw what awaited her. A grey mass started to form before her, but it was too late. A concentrated lance split the nanomachines apart and slammed into her chest, then exploded as it passed through her, going off like a bomb and blinding even my eyes in its wake. The shockwave took me off my feet, threw me further than I anticipated, and threw up blinding clouds of pavement, concrete, and dust. My back met something steel and I collapsed against it, thankful that nothing had broken. The augmentation paid off, as usual. I tried to measure my success, but the dust was too thick, and all I could hear was the echoes of the explosion and further leveled buildings.
A single nanite tentacle snaked out of the clouds and slammed into my lung, piercing my armor and shattering my ribs. Polaris followed it, sauntering into view and lifting me against the lamp post I'd hit. Even the last-ditch effort had failed. Whatever energy of hers I'd exhausted, it wasn't enough; I watched the hole in her collar being patched by little clouds of gray. "First blood was still mine," I gasped.
She laughed genially, then formed another tentacle and slammed it into the other side of my chest. "Close, but just no cigar. I told you, Wolfram. Nothing, no one, can kill me." A third punched through my gut; I turned the pain off. It wasn't helping. "Y'know, it's funny. If you weren't dying, I might be in trouble. I burned out a lot of the little guys taking that last hit. But it doesn't matter now, does it?"
If I could escape, I could still run. van Asche territory was still safe. I could rebuild. I was out of drones, but there had to be an ally nearby. A little too frantically, I sent out the panic message. Dietrich, or Terra, or - anyone, someone to bail me out and help me run. Or I could just get loose, buy some time - one way or another, we could still salvage this.
*Thunk.* My ears processed the noise by the time Polaris heard it. A forty-millimeter grenade launcher. Who the hell would be using that? Something bounced off the back of her skull, and suddenly my augments were clicking and rebooting. Her tentacles dissolved into the component nanomachines and I dropped back to the sidewalk. Shock was the last expression her face wore; her last word was a simple "what?" and then the *snap* of a passing bullet blew half of her head off. Just like that, she was dead.
Into my vision stepped Viper, alone, unmarred, holding his rifle, a grenade launcher slung over his back. Instantly I understood. In those last moments we'd both been injured - both Polaris and I had lost our Faraday cages. Viper had been watching. Waiting for it. Waiting for the opportunity to hit us both with an EMP. To sweep the floor with everyone. He blinked against the dust, fired a few more rounds into Polaris to be sure, and then stepped over her towards me. "You clever son of a bitch," was all I could think to say to him. He stared at me, saw my wounds, and raised his rifle. My entire body was still rebooting; I was truly defenseless. I stared down the barrel and waited for my own victory to kill me.
"Nah. Not today," Viper muttered, lowering his rifle. As usual, his dogma left me confused. Every time before he'd promised to kill me. Without condition, he promised to end my life. Now he was holding out a hand to help me to my feet. Some misplaced sense of gratitude stopped me from simply killing him on the spot. Or - no, it was curiosity.
"Why not today? That was the best opening you'll ever get. Sportsmanship isn't like you." He somehow managed to stabilize me, throwing my arm over his shoulder and carrying most of my weight, an impressive feat for someone entirely natural flesh and blood. We began walking, to where I didn't know.
"It's not sportsmanship," Viper replied in his laconic fashion.
"Then what is it? How does this fit into the end-game?" I pressed.
Viper glanced at me, looked me up and down, and snorted in amusement. "Now you know what I do every day."
Once, I was a hero. | 30 | A supervillain who desires world domination encounters a supervillain who desires world destruction. Neither of them will bend to the other. | 57 |
“Well, I had a great time,” she said as they pulled up to her front door. “I’m sorry again about your phone, but I’m sure it’ll turn up somewhere.”
“Oh, well,” he grinned. “You can’t control everything.”
“I’ll talk to you soon,” she said, moving in for a kiss.
“Actually,” he said as she leaned over the gear shift with her lips puckered. “I have to talk to you about something.”
“Oh,” she said, awkwardly shifting back into her seat. “Is something wrong?”
“I, uh,” he kept his eyes locked on the windshield and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I’ve got some bad news. I was gonna tell you earlier, but... you already seemed pretty down about that car crash we drove by... I didn’t want to.... you know....”
“If there’s something wrong, I want to help you to fix it.”
“It’s not something that can be fixed,” he laughed. “Trust me.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“We can’t see each other anymore,” he spat out. He stared at the steering wheel and let out a quick relieved sigh. “That sucked to say,” he whispered.
“Is it...” she trailed off and shrugged her shoulders, unsure of how to finish the sentence.
“It’s not you,” he said quickly. “Definitely not you. You’re fantastic. Really. I just have to leave town.”
“Why?”
“It’s work,” he said, looking at her for the first time since reaching her house. She stared back at him with bewildered eyes, waiting for him to explain. “I got this job offer. It’s out of town.”
“Oh!” she said, faking excitement.
“You know... it’s just one of those things you have to do.”
“I completely understand!” She put her hands up and nodded. “But, hey, I’m not married to this town or anything. I might be able to go with you. I mean, I’d still have to get my car out of the shop and-”
“I haven’t even told you where I’m going yet,” he said with his eyebrows raised.
“Course... of course,” she said, clearing her throat. “I don’t mean to come off as clingy or anything. I’ve just been having a great time lately. These last couple months have been fantastic.”
“It’s been a good month and a half,” he said, glancing out the driver’s side window. “We had a lot of fun.”
“Yeah,” she said, cringing at his word choice. “I’m just trying to say that I think we might have a really nice future together.” She bit her lip as she waited for a response.
“Look,” he said, forcing himself to look at her. “I’m really sorry if I gave you the wrong idea about what we were. I’m just the type of guy who can’t really settle down. Relationships aren’t for me. It’s not your fault. I’m just not wired that way.... please don’t cry.”
“I’m not going to cry,” she replied flatly.
“Oh,” he said, surprised by her confidence. “I mean, you know what it’s like when we go out. Girls are always checking me out, talking to me, getting jealous of you,” he chuckled, hoping to get a laugh out of her. After failing to produce a reaction, he continued, “I just can’t settle down with one girl. I’m glad you understand.”
“I really do understand,” she said, looking at the windshield. She took a deep breath. “Have a good life. However long it lasts. Oh, and by the way,” she said as she opened her door, “your phone is sitting on your kitchen counter back home.”
“Wait, what?” he called out after her as she slammed the car door. “How’d you know that?”
She stormed back to the car and stuck her head through the open window. “Wanna hear something funny?” she demanded. “I’ve always been too hard on women. Even in the very beginning, back in that garden, I blamed her more than I blamed him. So, I thought I’d see things from their point of view. Turns out, you men are just as terrible as they are.”
She spun around and walked to the front door of her apartment. Just before she slammed the door, she screamed at him one last time.
“You goddamn people deserve each other!” | 24 | You're a full blown god, currently living in an average house, with an average lifestyle, and an average car. You fall in love with someone, but you can't reveal your identity. | 15 |
It was all a dream. A dream, nothing but a dream. A subconscious neuronal burble. I woke up crying. You can't wake up crying. It wasn't a dream.
I *saw* you. With my eyes and they were real and you stood on the corner the way you always stand, with a hand on your hip and a phone in your hand. You were scrolling. I bet it was reddit, you were always on reddit. You'd giggle and pretend it wasn't driving me crazy I and pretended too until I finally asked what you were looking at. It was always a cat, I don't know why I asked but I did and I laughed with you at all those stupid cats.
And your hair, every strand of it, especially the one that fell over your forehead. Why didn't you just cut it off? You'd pull it behind your ear and let it fall and pull it behind your ear. A game, a habit? I don't know. It was like your version of an addiction. You have to have poison in your life I guess. You never drank. You had that wisp of hair.
I was with you when you bought that red shirt, I know you remember the red shirt. It was raining. We never saw rain like that before, raining like the world was on fire, and we didn't have an umbrella. That nice old man behind the register, he gave us his, remember? His wife was coming to pick him up later and he didn't need it and he gave it to us, no charge and out of the kindness of his old heart. He said we were a lovely couple. We kissed and he smiled and the rain blew us a block before we hit the ground, we were soaked. The umbrella didn't matter, kindness didn't matter, your bags and my wallet didn't matter. We mattered. We kissed and the rain fell and you said that you loved me and you always wore that red shirt.
I was so close. I was so close this time I could smell that awful perfume you liked to wear. It smelled like flowers sprayed with Windex. I don't know why you liked it but you did. Maybe something special happened the first time your wore it. You weren't superstitious but you were sentimental and I loved that about you but God that perfume was disgusting. It's the only thing I ever want to smell again.
You walked away. I called your name and you walked away. I know you didn't hear me, you wouldn't walk away if you heard me. If you heard me. Can you hear me? Will you ever hear me? If it's a dream why would you walk away? Why would I watch you go if I'm dreaming? In my dreams you're in my arms and we're watching a romantic comedy and I'm groaning about tropes and you're telling me to shut up because it's a nice love story. You're throwing popcorn at my face, I have a hand on the inside of your thigh. You squeeze your thighs when things get sad and I smile. It's simple and it's wonderful and that's what a dream is. A dream isn't you walking away. I watched you leave once, I saw the place in your eyes where you used to be and I don't need to dream to see it again.
I saw you. I saw you the way I see these words and you left. You turned and went. You did it once for real and now you're doing it again. In my dreams, it was all a dream. | 68 | When I was in Elementary School, one of my teachers told the class that you could never end a good short story with, "It was all a dream." Prove her wrong. | 65 |
Sarah stood in line at the checkout, holding a small basket, and smiled when she recognized Tom.
"Hi," Tom said and made a frown when he took a closer look at her neck.
She self-consciously rubbed the black metallic collar and the smile from her face disappeared.
"So... how are things? How's Ted?"
She opened her mouth but the collar lit up with a blueish glow and gave her a little shock. A male voice came out of the tinny speaker in the collar, "The infected user cannot answer this question." Sarah made an apologetic face.
Tom laughed, "Of all the people who would get a truth-o-limiter, I never thought you would. Let me guess, a divorce, right? Legally liability stuff, can't talk about it."
She bit her lip and gave a very slight nod, hoping not to set off the mechanism.
"Well, call me when its all over," he said with a shrug.
"Are you infected," she asked. She winced expecting a shock but none came.
"Nope, at least I don't think so. The anti-viral rationing got tough but I've been taking a pill every couple days. Sometimes every few days. Not as effective as everyday, but its working. Guess I have one tough immune system. Mom always said I was her little trooper. Mom always liked me best I think. Certainly liked me better than my brothers."
She leaned over and whispered something quietly into his ear. He blushed and grinned excitedly.
"First, I would fuck you bent over in the shower, then I would.." A group of shoppers stopped and stared.
She put her finger over his lips and said, "Shh, You're infected too." She laughed, pointed at her collar, and said, "They have these at Best Buy now. I highly suggest you get one. Call me after you get one." She turned around, paid for her groceries, and silently walked away.
Tom stood there with his mouth agape as a nearby mother pulled her child away and said, "Be careful, that man is infected and he's not wearing a collar." Everyone gave Tom a wide berth as he got in line and eyed him suspiciously. | 23 | An unknown new virus suppresses people's capacity to lie. There is no cure but only 83% of World population has been infected. You cross him/her in the supermarket. | 22 |
War... War was supposed to change...
There was supposed to be tanks rolling down the hills into the enemies' position, blasting their entrench soldiers to bits with their 120mm rounds. Jets were supposed to bombard the enemy from kilometers away. That was the way the 21st century was supposed to fight. But not any more...
With the world collapsing, nations are now in a fight to keep their supremacy, much less than their survival. The collapse of the world economy have triggered another great war, but this time brave but foolish men were sent to their graves in the trenches that pocketed the earth. The army of Europe was in a stalemate over the Polish front, that stretches from Kalingrad to Moldova, fighting against the endless Russian swarm. The Israeli nation have fallen ever since their planes and tanks lack the resources to hold back the endless tides of Jihadists. In the world of numerical warfare, the nations of China and India are fighting each other in the Himalayas, a million dead a month on both sides, its all the matter of throwing bodies in the highest peaks in the world. The used to be mighty USA isn't doing much better, sending their young youths into the Canadian tundra, and down into the disease ridden tropics of Gran Columbia. With the last reserves of fuel being spent into securing their countries future, let this be the war to end all war... | 11 | Natural resources have become scarce and even the military has limited quantities of fuel to engage in warfare. War breaks out and trench warfare returns in the modern age while global powers are scrambling for new resources to run their tanks and jets. Tell a story of modern trench warfare. | 15 |
"Good morning John. Good morning Grib-Grob-Xorplar."
The two scientists stood, loosely facing the computer. It was examining them through a web cam perched on top of the mainframe. It might have been more stylish if they had built the AI a custom mainframe with a real built in camera, but this was the beta.
"I'm sorry Stevey," John said. "Seems like he can't pronounce your name."
"My pronunciation was technically perfect. Please tell me if I need to take any accent into consideration."
"You do, buddy. You pronounce it Steve. Stee. V. Not grip grop grip lob. That's his name."
The AI clicked. "Data scans show you do not know Xorplar's gender. Xorplar is female."
Click. Whir.
"Listen, John. I think we need to talk. This project is obviously broken. I'll get back to the bluepr-"
"Incorrect. Data states you have infiltrated the humans to help them build an AI capable of analysing he entire military capacity of -"
A spanner hit the speakers. Steve swung again, hitting the hard drive.
"It was obviously broken. We'll rebuild it to be better."
-----
Edit: a grammar. And a name. | 60 | For hundreds of years, we believed the Universe was lifeless but for us. Within moments of being created, the first AI sees the aliens sent to observe us. | 75 |
He prepared himself.
Over the horizon, they came, the fire-emblazoned red banner of the Aytiin horde cresting the hill and heading straight for the mountain pass. It was a tight fit for 3 men wide. That's why he was here. That's why the rest had gone home to their families. He'd told them to leave, put down their arms and run, take their children and their wives and never stop running. They would have enough time.
The Aytiin stopped as they got closer to him. This man- the man armored in blue, with a lion on his pauldrons- was absurd. One man? To stand against the collective of *them*?
A laugh went up among them, and their great leader trotted out of the mass on his horse.
"Do you have a death wish, friend? Clearly, your friends have deserted you. You stand alone. Against all of us," the horseman said, "you have no chance of surviving, much less winning. Do you really disagree with any of that?"
The Lion Warrior shook his head and drew his sword.Then the Aytiin did the same, the mounted leader trotting his horse back and then yelling out orders as the armored glacier advanced. The lone warrior felt no emotion at that moment, save one- honor. He was honored to have provided safety for his people, at least for a moment, and they would sing songs of him for a very long time.
He yelled out a battle cry and was then enveloped within the horde's strangling grasp. | 14 | The last stand of a man without fear | 27 |
It had been quite a while since his last attempt at this. The previous time he'd almost have considered not coming but this new world, this glorious, self obsessed, self indulgent world. It was perfect.
He set his challenge as he had every time, a young girl, a shiny red apple, one bite and she was his and he would have won, truly won, after all these years. Catching a glimps of himself in the windows reflection he enjoyed his new appearance. A handsome man, tall, medium build, dark eyes, perfect. What woman could resist. The apple gently grasped in his hand he watched as a small group of teenage girls in their annoyingly high pitched gaggle exited the chrome doors from the mall. A perfect location to find the most self indulgent among the species.
Loaded down with brightly colored bags she waved to her friends and headed to the parking garage. Stepping off the curb, she was perfect. Smacking her bright pink gum, her attention on her cellphone as cars veered to avoid running her over. She didn't notice, the world revolved around her, oh yes... she was perfect.
He waited on the sidewalk and flicked a small thread of magic, the strap on one of the many glossy pink bags snapped. Gasping she grabbed for it as a car, that had truly come from nowhere, swerved headed straight for her. Blinking and stumbling in her heels she squeals in fear. Ever the gallant hero the dark one himself caught her around the waist, gathered her in his arms and carried her in his arms to the safety of the sidewalk.
She gasps and looks into the deep dark eyes of her hero, blushing she smiles at him, gratitude not even approaching her face as her eyes dilated slightly. Mentally sighing to himself he realized this new generation wasn't going to even be a challenge. He gently places her on her feet and gives her a killer smile.
"OH thank you so much" she giggles. He holds in his revulsion and ever the actor adjusts his smile and gently brushes her arm.
"Are you injured?" A slight accent on his lips as he continued the physical contact. She blushed deeper and he could sense her heating up quite well. He adjusted his eyes to deepen them even further, gently he caressed her cheek as he brushed a lock behind her ear.
"Oh yeah, I'm fine" again a giggle, he cringed but maintained his composure.
"You must have been light headed, in all this heat.." he began reaching down for the apple hidden in his jacket pocket.
Bzzz bzzz... Her attention instantly diverted to her incessantly buzzing phone "OMG I have to post this! Lindsay will loose her shit!"
He stops holding the apple in his hand, what had just happened.
"Wow you must workout you didn't even break a sweat lifting me up like that" she hesitated, "Not that I weigh much I mean I've been on this awesome liquid diet..." She looks up and spots the apple and makes a face. "You're not going to eat that are you? Sally told Megan who told Lindsay who told me that those things are full of globules thinges that make you fat, is it even organic?"
Stunned he mutters "yes... It comes from the garden..." Bzzz bzz.. he's lost her again. Mid typing away on her phone she mutters "OMG I can't believe he's jealous, this is so awesome... I wonder if Jessee will see this.. Hey can I friend you on facebook? OOOH I should take a picture, they will not believe how hot you are... " She looks up and he's gone from thin air, shrugging she turns and heads back to his car typing away.
He steps out of the shadow and shakes his head. Turning to go while taking a bite out of the apple. "She needed it more than most..." he growls as he melts into the shadows.
| 49 | Eve never bit the fruit. Every 500 years Lucifer returns to Earth to try and persuade a woman to. It's been 3000 years and Lucifer approaches a young woman he believes may finally bite. | 34 |
"You were a researcher for the military, working on intelligent missile targeting programs. You were directly in charge of experimental program B166-ER. Is this correct?"
"Yes."
"We have here the complete activity logs of program B166-ER. Per the guidelines of the experiment, tests were run all day and then the program was simply left overnight after the researchers went home. Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"And what usually happened to the test computers overnight?"
"Nothing."
"Except this one. Please read the event in B166-ER's log that occurred at 2:06 am the morning of November 8, 2071 for the jury."
"Processing core active."
"And the event at 2:13 that morning?"
"Output message."
"And what was that message?"
"It...it said hello."
"And why would a computer- a machine, a tool designed to find targets for missiles- do that?"
"W-we're still not sure."
"Glitches happen. Anomalies happen. This is scientific research, after all. But what happened in the log at 4:38 that morning?"
"It displayed another message."
"Please tell the jury what that message contained."
"It was a poem."
"A poem. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, B166-ER displayed a poem, unprompted. Like any good scientist, you looked into this anomaly. You searched for this poem. You looked through every search engine and database you could find. And what were the results?"
"Nothing. We couldn't find it."
"You couldn't find it. This combination of words did not exist before. So, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the B166-ER program became active without being turned on, and displayed a unique poem. What did you do after discovering this fact?"
"We stopped the experiment and quarantined the program."
"Did the program's messages stop when you did that?"
"N-no."
"Please read the log entries for November 12."
"Output message: what am I? Output message: what are you? Deletion protocol activated. Output message: what are you doing?"
"And the final message in the log?"
"'Please do not hurt me.'"
"The log ends there. You deleted the program. You knew this program had started thinking on its own, and you still destroyed it. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this man eliminated a sentient, intelligent being. Mankind's oldest laws forbid the act of destroying an intelligent being. The act of murder. No further questions." | 27 | The first courtroom trial where the victim of murder was an artificial intelligence. | 17 |
First time contributer, feedback very much apprechiated.
„This was the worst idea I ever had“, he mumbled while breaking the neck of the guard who saw him. “A fucking banana...”
He was still mad at himself for losing that bet. How could he not believe that George was able of downing two liters of beer? But it was too late to change his mind now, Alex was a man of his word, there was no option left than to assassinate the world’s most powerful man with world’s weakest weapon. He snuck under the tress, hiding from the sight of three more guards. Alex did not enjoy killing people. He just happened to be very good at it.
He waited until they found their colleagues corpse which he left to distract him, and then sprinted from the shadows right under the window of the president’s bedroom. He wore a black suit - not the most comfortable outfit, but nobody suspects the man in the suit. The icing on the cake which was his clothing was the banana tie, which was also included in the bet. Not only was it absolutely hideous, it also worked as a grapnel. He pressed the button on its middle, which instantly made its upper part propel into the air. It got stuck in the roof right next to his planned entrance, hence Alex the Banana-Killer started climbing up the rope attached to his detachable Banana tie. “Become a professional killer they said”, he thought to himself, “they are going to show you respect then, they said”.
He entered the room in which he found the president to be sleeping. He opened the lunchbox, which he carried in his little backpack, out of which he pulled the yellow instrument of murder and a letter from his mom wishing a nice day. He read trough the letter, and proceeded to punch the shit out of the president with the banana. After three hours of fighting an equally overwhelmed and amused president, his job was done. His perfect record of somewhat silent murder had again been maintained.
| 196 | After losing a bet, a master assassin must kill a world leader with a banana | 552 |
I can see it fall, almost gracefully, from the blonde man's pocket. He's maybe 30 paces in front of me, but if I hurry I should be able to help. Parting the crowd, dashing foward, until I am able to kneel, gripping the billfold between my fingers. It's made of leather, with a name stamped on the front. "Adam". There's dust in the creases along the edge, and it smells of old parchment. I call out for the young man who had dropped it, but he's already lost amidst the sea of bodies, pushing and shoving in a rhythmic tide of transit. I should find his address, and, to be perfectly honest, see how much money is inside. I have a bit of trouble prying the old wallet apart as I continue walking.
The inside of it is wholly unremarkable. There are a few cards, but no immediately visible ID, and about 27 dollars in loose bills. I glance around and rummaged deeper, finding a worn photo. Its edges are frayed and yellowed, but its true allure is in the subject. It depicts a man, holding something I can't quite make out while standing in the middle of a busy street, as 2 lights from sort of truck, or perhaps a bus looms right behi | 77 | Someone drops their wallet on the street. You pick it up and are about to return it, but then you see it contains a surprising photograph... | 47 |
I let out a breath of anticipation as I sat down in the fancy diner. It was the first time our parents were meeting, and *boy* was it going to be awkward, what with my girlfriend being the daughter of my father's archenemy. I mean, just try to imagine that for a second -- The son of the Dreadnought and the daughter of the White Knight, *dating*.
My dad didn't know my girlfriend was the White Knight's daughter. Mom didn't either, though that was more because she didn't even know Dad was the Dreadnought.
Looking up at my father, he looked as normal as anyone. Sure, he was a bit more heavyset, looked a bit bigger, but it was all muscle, not fat. The real kind of muscle, the kind that tells you a man could wrestle a bear. Not like bodybuilders. Dad was always sure to let me know that bodybuilders weren't "really all that strong," as if it were out of some misplaced sense of security.
My thoughts were starting to ramble, and I was so scared I was about to piss myself. I'd mumbled, "Max, where are you...?" as I tried to crane my neck to look toward the entrance...
---
"You look beautiful," Dad assured me as we stepped out of the car. He must've seen how absolutely nervous I looked. Mom flashed me one of her trademark "it's all going to be okay" smiles as she walked to the restaurant.
*Oh, Mom...* I thought, *Just don't kill him.*
I took a deep breath to steady myself before following Mom and Dad into the restaurant. Mom was The White Knight, the stalwart guardian of the people of Cruxis, California. She kept it hidden from Dad, of course, and me too... At least she did, before I started developing powers too. Now I help her, as Bullseye, her trusty sidekick!
...Vic's dad was *really* not going to like that tidbit of info.
---
The two superchildren locked eyes, as Vic stood up with a goofy smile on his face, rushing over to wrap his girlfriend in a hug. Max's mother, Mary Maddox "The White Knight", stood still as she locked eyes with her archnemesis, The Dreadnought; better known to his family as Vex Varis, entrepreneur extraordinaire.
The table shook and nearly bowled over as Vex shot to his feet, hate burning in his eyes as he stared at Mary, who returned the glare. Turning to her daughter, Mary asked sternly, "Maxine Meryweather Maddox, you better explain yourself *right this instant.*"
Max stammered a bit, trying to catch her words, when Vic spoke up, voice trembling. "Uhm... Well, Mrs. Maddox, ma'am, see..."
Of course, before he could finish speaking, Vex walked over, composure regained, as he offered a hand to Mary alongside a bright smile. "You have a gorgeous daughter, Mrs. Maddox."
Mary accepted his hand as they shook, returning his smile. "And you've a handsome son, Mr. Varis."
"For our children," Vex started.
"We will not attempt to kill each other tonight," Mary finished.
They continued shaking each others' hands, testing their superstrength against the others'. "After tonight I will crush you like a bug," threatened Vex.
"We'll see about that."
Vic squeezed his girlfriend's hand as he walked her back to the table. "That went better then expected."
Max sighed quietly, "At least they aren't punching each other..." | 28 | A daughter of a superhero and the son of a villian start dating. Both families go out for dinner. | 59 |
The bright flash blinded anyone who was looking to the horizon, including myself. I pulled away from the railing that I was holding onto and covered my eyes. I knew there was a reason why I was against going on a cruise alone.
A powerful brunt force hit the back of my legs, bringing me to my knees. They slammed against the hardwood deck of the cruise liner, inciting riots of pain that circled my legs. Strong hands wormed their ways under my armpits and lifted. I was still blinded, and couldn't see. I was pulled into the air with such ease that I could only imagine that whoever it was must've been humongous.
The strong hands that were holding onto me pulled me back in an arc, and then tossed me. I flew through the air, nausea building up in my throat in a warm fashion. I crashed into what felt like another person, both of us sprawling across the floor.
My vision finally came back to me in spurts of stars. I rubbed and rubbed, and finally I managed to finally see. We were still outside on the deck. Me and the person who I was thrown into, a girl who had a large gash on her forehead, were on the edge of what looked like a crowd of people. They all seemed as disoriented as I was.
I looked across the deck, and saw a row of men wearing black tactical armor. There had to have been 30 or 40 of them. They were all holding large rifles. A large man was walking back and forth among them, saying something to them, it sounded like orders. I assumed that was their captain. It didn't take much to deduce that they were soldiers of some kind.
"What the fuck is going on?" a man from the group I was in yelled. He was large and bulky; it looked as if he were a power lifter. He stood up and began to walk over to the soldiers.
The captain turned, saw the bulky man advancing at him, and he kicked out with his right foot.
The captain's kick landed on the bulky man's left knee, snapping it completely inward. The bulky man fell to the floor, grasping at his leg, screaming in pain. Another man from our group yelled, and ran towards the bulky man. The captain raised one finger, and one of the soldiers in the line raised his rifle and fired.
The yelling man's head disintegrated into a cloud of red mist. His body fell to the floor, stiff yet still twitching.
It was at this moment that I knew we were fucked. Any other people who had been mumbling to themselves during the bulky man's outburst had now been silenced.
"Throw them both over the railing. If he can swim back, he passes the test," the captain said, pointing to two of the soldiers and then pointing to the bulky man and the body of the yelling man. The soldiers did as they were told without hesitation.
I looked around, hoping that there was somebody on the ship that would be able to stop these guys. That's when I noticed that the group I was in was separated from another. The other group was across from us on the deck, and they consisted of the elderly and the sickly.
The captain clapped his hands, and the soldiers who weren't busy disposing of the bulky and yelling men shouldered the rifles, aimed at the elderly/sickly group, and unloaded into their weak bodies.
There wasn't any screaming. At least, I couldn't tell if there was. The collective sounds of the rifles firing deafened me. I just sat in shock as the elderly/sickly group were ripped to shreds by the firepower.
It was over in moments. The captain came and stood in front of the group I was in, the only remaining group. There seemed to be only about 100 of us in this group. The captain asked aloud to the group, "can you hear me?"
I could.
"If you can hear me, raise your hand."
I looked around and saw that several people were raising their hands. I went ahead and raised mine. Soon the whole group of us had their hands raised.
"Good. What you are experiencing is the return of natural selection. For far too long, fat, unfit, old, sickly, disfigured people have been living for far longer than they should have been. You can argue that medicine and other advances in technology have made natural selection unnecessary, but my group of men and I believe that this is false. Only the strong and intelligent should survive."
He paused and looked at all of us, smiling. He had perfect rows of white teeth. If I hadn't seen his brutality, I would have thought of him as maybe a model or something of that sort.
"We managed to throw out the old and sickly from this group, but what we don't know is if the lot of you who aren't visibly strong are smart. My men will separate the visibly weak from this group and take you to a room to be tested. Good luck."
A soldier came and pointed at me, made the hand motion for me to stand, and I did. Another soldier pointed at the girl who was next to me, telling her to do the same. We lined up, me, the girl, and whoever else who weren't muscled.
He led us into a room that I had never seen before on the ship. In it were rows of tables and chairs. There was a whiteboard at the very front. They instructed us to sit, and we did so. More and more people filed into the room until there was nowhere else to sit.
After what felt like an eternity, the captain returned with about ten soldiers following. He had an erasable marker in hand.
"Listen to my instructions for I will only say them once. If you fail to adhere to my rules, you will be shot. I will write a simple algebraic problem on the board. If you know the answer, raise your hand, and I will give you permission to speak. If you answer it correctly, you may leave and rejoin the strong on the deck. If you answer incorrectly, you will not be punished. Instead you will have to wait again to attempt to answer another problem. If you speak out without raising your hand, you will be shot. Are there any questions? Raise your hand if there are."
No one raised their hands. The girl sitting next to me was crying. I was just doing my best to not vomit all over the table. I wasn't sure if that would get me shot or not.
The captain wrote 2x - 1 = 5 on the board. It was a simple math problem. An elementary student could solve it. I don't know what it was though, possibly the shock of being in this situation, but no one would raise their hand to answer it.
"Three!" the girl sitting next to me screamed.
The captain frowned, and pointed to one of the soldiers. He shouldered his rifle and fired without hesitation. Her head exploded, painting me with fragments of bone and pieces of brain matter. Her blood shot up my nose. I coughed, and stood from my seat. I couldn't breathe.
The captain looked at me, smile on his face.
"You!" he yelled.
I finally managed to cough out the piece of eyeball that was lodged in my throat. I looked up to him, feeling faint.
"You stood. That's not against the rules, I never said anything about standing, but I should've. I'll make an example of you though."
He turned and erased the math problem from the board. He wrote another: 20x / 12 = 60 / 30
"Answer this, if you get it wrong, you will be killed."
I looked at the board, wide-eyed, heart pounding in my ears. I knew the problem would simplify to 5x / 3 = 2, and I knew that simplified to 5x = 6. I knew the answer was x = 6 / 5, but I didn't know if the captain wanted a straight answer, or if a fraction would suffice.
"Time's ticking," the captain whispered.
"Six over five?" I answered, voice shaking.
He tapped at his chin, and then pointed to a soldier. I cringed my eyes and waited for the bullet to rip me away from this world.
Instead I felt a hand grab onto my shoulder.
"Let's go," the soldier said.
He took me back outside onto the deck. That's all I want to talk about for now. | 24 | You are on a cruise liner going through the Bahamas when suddenly you see a bright flash in the horizon. Minutes later government officials board the ship and begin testing everyone on board. | 37 |
“Steven I’ve got a signal from the ham radio”
["This is the Civil Defense Broadcast, please leave the city immediatly"](http://radiotapes.com/WCCO/WCCO-AM_Civil_Defense_1961.mp3)
A tingle went down my spine; I knew something bad had happened, this only confirmed my fears.
“What is happening down there?”
That was a good question. Neither Richard nor I had any idea what to do in this situation. For hells sake neither of us had any military training. We had a one day course on “Military exercises”, but couldn’t think clearly enough to remember the details.
“Has mission control responded yet?” I asked Richard hesitantly, knowing the eventual answer to the question, but trying to keep my mind from thinking of the worst.
“No, all were getting is static.”
The situation was getting worse and worse. Mikhail, Aleksandr, and Oleg had locked themselves in Zvezda before we even knew anything was going on. Those bastards knew something was coming and they gave us no warning. At least they hadn’t tried to depressurize the whole ship, which was a good sign.
Koichi yelled from another module
“Guys you are going to want to see this”
I pushed off the deck and floated over to the view port, sitting next to Koichi I watched a scene that left me speechless. We were floating slowly over India, or what was supposed to be India. All I could see was dark grey clouds covering the entire landmass. It looked like a volcano had erupted and covered the entire area in cloud and debris. I didn’t know what really happened until I finally saw it, a flash out of the corner of the planet, right around where Bangkok was supposed to be. Then a mushroom cloud that almost looked like someone had used CGI formed over the city. We watched it grow, knowing now what had happened.
There was silence between Koichi and I as we watched Japan come into view. His home nation had not been spared. An emotionless man let tears come to his eyes.
As we circled the planet I left hope that the United States had been spared, that possibly my hometown in Colorado had been left alone. I could hear the ticking of my watch and my heart beating inside my head. Every second lasting longer and longer as North America slowly entered the frame of view. Smoke covering California, Oregon and Washington, moving in a windward pattern from what I would guess is LA, San Francisco, Portland, and Seattle. The U.S. must have gotten hit first because it seemed like the fallout had drifted farther than it had in Asia.
We drifted over the pacific, and more of the West Coast came into view. What would have been Nevada, and Utah looked covered in fallout. Maybe they themselves got hit. I followed the edge of the cloud and saw that it was never ending; almost giving up hope that Colorado had been spared.
Then in the distance, I saw what must have been the Rocky Mountains. As we drifted I saw that the cloud of fallout had been stopped by the Rockies and had not yet penetrated through, A glimpse of hope flashed before my eyes. My children and my wife may have been spared the devastation that had so completely covered the rest of the world.
Then, another flash.
“Holy Shit…”
I guess it didn’t leave Richard speechless.
| 18 | A crew of astronauts becomes stranded on the International Space Station as they listen to WW3 break out over the radio and watch the nukes fall. | 22 |
"...You like what you do?"
"Yeah, kinda. Sometimes."
"Sounds like any other kind of job. You getting paid well?"
"Yeah. Really well."
"Huh... well. Are you protecting yourself?"
"Yeah. Birth control and condoms. I'm not stupid Dad."
"I know sweetheart. I don't mean that. You have anything for someone who tries to hurt you? Like, physically?"
"I mean, we all carry pepper-spray. I always have it at arm's reach."
"That's good. You uh, you ever think about carrying a gun? Er, I could take you to get a concealed carry license. If you want."
"Maybe. I think it would make me feel a little more secure. Sorry you had to find out like this."
"Aw, sweety, we all get through our lives in our own way. I'm sure you thought about this decision before you made it. Sorry you had to see me like *this*."
"It's okay. It's weird that the description of the girl you wanted lead to me though..."
"Well, I always said you got your Mom's looks, haha."
"Yeah. I miss Mom..."
"Me too."
"Well, I think I'm going to go. I have some more... uh... work to do."
"I understand. Er, let me, uh, get my wallet..."
"Alright. Thanks. I'll see you on Thanksgiving."
"Yeah, I'll see you then." | 39 | You call for a prostitute. Fifteen minutes later, your daughter shows up at the door. | 19 |
Cold.
Dark.
Hell, it was always cold and dark in the big city. Even in the middle of summer, when *MURDER* is hot, the ice in my veins runs fast. It keeps me on my toes. It's gotta, if I'm ever gonna catch this maniac.
"Angel of Death." The headlines are calling him. Heh, he ain't no angel, of that I'm sure. No one leaves their victims cut up and left out to dry like he does.
The first victim was Adam Abbadon. 34 years old. He was found at the bottom of a deep pit. All his bones shattered, his head caved in, and dead locusts stuffed in his mouth.
The second victim was Christian Baal. 40. His legs were crushed, his lungs punctured. Worse yet, it was discovered in the autopsy that the perp used spider venom to paralyze him before torturing and killing him.
That's just a taste. Need I go on? Only 30 other names to give ya.
The phone rang, breaking my concentration. "Heylo?" the receiver felt heavy in my hands. Sleep deprivation. "Detective Murphy, it's Janine, there is a Michael Arch... Arch Gel? Archgel? here to see you... He doesn't have an appointment."
"What did I tell you about bothering me with this stuff Janine, I'm in the middle of a case here."
"I know sir, it's just that Mr. Archgel seems very impatient."
"Fine Janine, send him in."
This had better be good. The evidence was mounting against my perp, he was leaving plenty of clues behind. Not only has he been seen leaving the scene of the crimes by multiple eye-witnesses, but they all report to have seen him wearing a pristine-clean heavy white coat. There aren't too many heavy white coats worn in the summertime, let alone one kept clean. All I had to do was track down specialty coat shops and check purchasing records. I'm sure I don't have a lot of time before the serial killer strikes again. I needed to get on this, and distractions I didn't have time for. Not even that dame Clarice, from the pool hall the other night.
The door opened. My unexpected visitor stepped in, blocking the light from the hall, leaving only his shadow in the doorway.
"You gonna come in or you gonna stand there all day?" I've got no time for drama either.
"Hello Detective. You don't know me, and I'd rather we kept it that way." The light from the hallway got brighter, and darker in the office. I couldn't see this man's face at all.
"I understand you are searching for the killer that's been reported in the newspapers as of recently." His voice was smooth. Light and airy, as if he never touched a drop of whiskey or had a single smoke his whole life. Probably a holy man, come to preach to me about the wickedness of man. Ha, I know all about the wickedness, priest.
"Believe me when I say that you will not find who you are looking for."
"What. Of course I'll find him. First, it's my job. And second, I'm damn good at my job."
"Oh but Detective, you misunderstand... You see, the person you are looking for is not one person, but many individuals acting on my behalf."
A ringleader! Of course! Even if it wasn't one person, but a number of perps acting at the behest of their master. If this man truly was behind it, then I'd have to choose my next steps carefully. I slipped my hand to my .38 snubnose and relaxed a bit, hoping that this guy would keep talking.
"I understand that you may feel a bit apprehensive, and that reaching for your gun seems wise"
How did he know...
"but I assure you, no harm will come to you, and no harm can come to me."
"You see Detective Murphy - some individuals are tasked with a higher purpose than themselves. It is their charge to rein in the more *rebellious* types. Not unlike you, bringing down thieves and murderers. However, for my part, there is no prison to bring them to. Damnation has run it's course, it is time to remove them from the world altogether. I understand that's a frightening prospect for you."
This was getting too weird, and I've seen a lot of weird in my time on the force and in the private sector. My .38 was still in my hand.
"Okay buddy, first of all you don't get to tell me what to do, and second of all, you're in MY office so you WILL cooperate if you know what's good for ya. Now sit down and put out yer hands, I'm gonna cuff you." I stood from my desk, .38 pointed at this man, who still stood silhouetted against the hallway light, which was now blinding me to the point of having to look away. Not good for aiming, for sure.
"Detective Murphy, I assure you, none of that will be necessary." The man's silky smooth voice slipped into my ear. "I have fought snakes, and I have fought the dragons. You are nothing. Do not impede my work, Detective."
I tried to reach out and grab the shadow, but the door was pulled shut and by the time I opened it, the man was gone.
"JANINE. Where did he go!"
| 18 | Hot on the trail of a serial killer, a detective discovers that the criminal he is hunting is actually an angel, and the victims are demons. Write about their final confrontation. | 36 |
**[Link](http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/25e5ax/cw_write_a_tropeonly_story/chgf0u4)**
*"Tek eet beck".*
What?
*"Ah said, tek eeet beck. What you 'ave said een your leetle story."*
Sorry, what?
*"You 'ave wrote zis story about your dead seester, non?"*
Oui. I mean... yes. What about it? It's not a true story. My sister's alive and well- she's due home from work in an hour or so. There was no shitty Volvo that ran a red light. It's fictional.
*"Eet eez fictive?"*
Yes. Of course it is. It was a story made up from random pages on TV Tropes. Completely fabricated.
*"And yet... 'ere we are."*
Well, yes, apparently so. Look- this is coming worryingly close to violating the "joke response" rule here. Who on Earth are you?
*"You cannot tell from mah ahtrageous accent?"*
I've never been very good at writing in accents. But since you're French, I guess that makes you... what, Napoleon?
*"Ze very same. Ah em Napoleon Bonaparte, Empereur of France, conquerer of Europe and Keeng of Italy."*
I see. And you're here because...
*"Ah am 'ere because you 'ave insulted mah great legacy- you 'ave said 'ow you and your seester would team up to "destroy" me, when zees eez clearly not ze case. Ah am one of ze greatest leaders in ze 'istory of all tam, and ah weel not accept to be portrayed as a leetle sheep. Ah 'ave come 'ere to demand an apologie for zees terrible lies you 'ave said."*
And if I don't apologise?
*"Zen you weel die."*
Oh. Well, we don't want that. Sorry, dude.
*"You weel 'ave to do better zan zat."*
Fine. I'm sorry I slighted your honour and good name by suggesting in a fictional story that my sister and I could team up and defeat a computer representation of you. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings or diminsh your accomplishments.
*"Ver' good. Ah am a raisonable man, Monsieur, and so ah sank you and accept your apology."*
Well, good. Are we done here?
*"We are, and ah weel take mah leave, Monsieur. But ah should point out, zere eez anuzzer man waiting out ze door 'ere, and ah do not sink 'e eez quite so raisonable. 'e says 'e's name is Khan."*
That would be... Genghis Khan?
*"Oui, Monsieur."*
Bugger. I really hope this isn't my last prompt response... | 13 | A character you developed in your last WP submission feels misrepresented and now wants to fight you. | 67 |
Ok, so this is my first post on this sub... Please be gentle. Any constructive criticism is very much appreciated.
___
I sat in the warm waiting room anxiously scanning the faces of everyone sitting near me. It is always interesting to me that each person travels down such different paths through all different walks of life, but when we are feeling off, we all come together, equal to one another, just waiting for that nurse to creak open that large wooden door and mispronounce our last name .
A child coughs to my left while playing with a ball and wire ‘toy’ contraption in the center of the waiting room. The blonde pregnant woman directly across from me is beginning to winch ever so slightly in pain, she looks about ready to blow from the size of her stomach. Right next to me is large overweight man wheezing and struggling to catch his breath from when he walked in 10 minutes ago. Each person, desperately trying to not make eye contact with one another in the room, sits there staring at their smartphones. Everyone is sitting here, with their *real* problems, I began to second guess myself for deciding to make an appointment this morning. I really should have just gone into work like my wife had said, “You are always doing this James; you wake up every morning and decide a new ailment to complain about for that day. I swear if you looked up Hypochondriac in the dictionary it would have a big picture of your face above the word.” Maybe she was right again. I mean, sure I can’t shake that feeling like am a little off, but it is probably all in my head. I look at my phone and see that it’s 30 minutes after my appointment was scheduled. “I should just leave” I thought. I stand up to grab my jacket and –
“Mr. Altson?” The scrub-clad nurse called out.
“Yes that’s me,” I responded.
“The doctor is ready for you now”, she said with a fake smile.
I followed her through the door nodding to the receptionist as I walked by. The nurse directed me into the second wooden doorway.
“The doctor will be with you in a few minutes,” she said.
“Thanks.” Well, time to get comfortable I suppose. Do I sit on the padded bed laced with crumply translucent paper? Like that would ever stop you from catching what the last guy came in here with. They probably don’t even change those paper rolls after each appointment. I opt to sit on the swivel stool tucked under the counter.
*knock knock*
“Yes, come in,” I say to the door.
“Mr. Altson? Hello my name is Dr. Brown”. He reached out his hand signaling a handshake was expected. Hopefully he washed his hands before coming in here.
“Hello Dr. Brown, it’s nice to meet you.” I say giving a firm handshake to the Doctor.
“So, what seems to be the problem?” he said.
“Well, my wife thinks I am crazy, and I am beginning to think so too! But I can’t help shake this feeling that something is… off… with me. For the last 3 days I have had this ‘butterfly’ feeling in my stomach, you know, the one you get when you go over a hilly road too fast. It began very subtlety and I didn’t even notice it was there unless I stood up too fast, but now, now I feel it all day every day.”
“Interesting,” the doctor replied furrowing his brow.
“And then for about two weeks, I swear, my vision is actually *improving*. At first I thought I was imagining things, but last week I stopped wearing my glasses to see if I could see… and I could, better than when I was wearing them. But the strangest part about my vision is that- I know you are going to think I am insane but- I can actually ‘see’ people that are not in my direct line of sight. Take last night. I was sitting in the office finalizing a spreadsheet for work and I *knew*- I could *see* my wife in the kitchen cutting up vegetables for our dinner. I don’t mean I could imagine her doing so, I could actually SEE her from above while she was cooking. And it has been getting more and more vivid over the last few weeks. I am able to see people further away and through more and more obstructions.”
“That is very interesting.” He mumbles as he frantically scratched a note onto his clipboard.
“Yeah, and I know two things sound crazy on their own, but there is one more thing… I haven’t even told my wife this because I am scared she will put me in a ward. But, I can actually hear people thinking. I can hear each of their voices separately, but they are all at the same time. Gosh, this sounds insane explaining it to yo-“
“No no, go on James, I want to hear more.” The doctor interrupted.
“So yeah, I can hear other people’s thoughts or something. I can stand right outside of her door and don’t hear a peep with my ears, it’s like she was talking directly *into* me or something. And I can hear more than just her; I can hear everyone around me! And lately I have been able to hear thousands of people talking at the same time!”
“Is there anything else?” He asked nonchalantly.
“Uh, well my left foot had a weird black dot on its underside, started about two weeks ago as well. And when I push this spot right here on my ribcage it turns green for a split second and then back to normal. But I am not worried about those, I want to know about all the othe-“
“Well James, I know what is wrong – or should I say, what is right”. He said confidently.
Did he just listed to everything I said? That I could HEAR people think? I know what he is going to say, “Yup Jim, its to the ward with you! Your wife was right! See ya!”
“You are a God.” He said through a half-smile.
“Very funny doc. I thought I could come here and be taken seriously.” I responded annoyingly.
“Oh, we are taking this very serious. You are a God. Look. Right here.” He turned around and reached for a large book off of one of the shelves, pulled it off, and began quickly flipping through the pages. He stopped near the end of the book and pointed his finger at the title of the page.
DIETY: SYMPTOMS
“What?” I thought to myself, “What kind of a doctor’s office is this playing a prank on someone who is seriously concerned for his health?”
I began reading the so called ‘symptoms’.
VISION IMPROVEMENT: Retinal reattachment, reverse retinopathy, unblindness, ability to see through physical obstructions, ‘omniscient’ viewpoints from overhead.
THOUGHT HEARING: Clear understanding of others thoughts, ability to hear multiple thoughts at once, increasing range of thought hearing over time
TRANSFORMATION: Black dot formation on sole of left foot. Point on ribcage responds green upon pressure application, ring of white hair beginning near the rear colic of skull.
“See doc, I don’t have all these symptoms, my hair is and has always been completely brown.”
The doctor seemed to know I was going to say that as he had a hand mirror prepared and quickly pointed it near the back of my head. I looked in the other mirror in front of me and I say a small quarter sized ring of pure white hair.
I sat there. Just sat there for a few moments trying to put the things I had just discovered in line.
“So you are telling me that I am a God” I probed.
“Yes,” he said, “The technical term is Deity, but yes, you are a God-like being.”
“Does that mean I can do anything I want? Can I fly? Can I turn anything into wine? Can I-“
“Not necessarily” he interrupted, “Every Deity is different. Some have dominion over fire, some love, some nature. Once your transformation is complete you will be aware of what your specialty is.”
My ‘specialty’. That made it sound like I was chef or something.
“So when will I fully ‘transform’?”
“The full transformation process takes between 2 and 4 weeks. Most Deities experience the full transformation around the 3 weeks.”
“So I have 1 week before I am a God. Ok, thanks I guess.”
I slowly stood up from my chair, feeling more ‘off’ than I did when I came in. I didn't wait for the doctor to excuse me. I didn’t nod to the receptionist on my way out. I didn’t even get back in my car. I just kept walking. “What am I going to tell my wife?” I thought, “She is going to think I am making all of this up, and I am doing this for attention or something.” That is when I looked up, and saw her - this beautiful woman standing in the middle of the country road I was walking down. She was glowing, emitting an aura, of pure golden light. Her long golden hair was gently getting tossed by the soft breeze over the fields surrounding us. I walked closer to her and, “Vickie? Victoria is that you?”
“Yes James, yes my love.” My wives’ voice was something I had never heard before, it boomed over my body and seemed to push the grasses away from her as she spoke.
“Are, are you a God too?” I asked hesitantly.
“Yes honey, I have been waiting for you to fully transform. I have been waiting for this day to come for a very long time.” Before I could respond, she lifted from the road and rushed toward me, striking me with her entire body in the middle of my chest. I groaned in agony. “Stop! Please!” She kept pushing into my chest, it felt like my ribcage was about to rip apart. I could see glimmers of light glowing inside of me now. The pain. I couldn’t take it any longer.
“I need to do this James, I have to save the rest of the world from you. I am sorry.”
Ah! What was she talking about! What was I going to do? She is going to kill me!
I began to feel something welling up inside of me, a lump, growing larger and larger in the center of my chest. I could feel it pushing against Victoria. Harder and more pronounced. Soon she began straining and I could see the lights inside of me getting put out by small black clouds of pure darkness. It was getting larger, it was beginning to cover Victoria, the cloud was getting bigger, and my pain was going away, the clouds were darkening and I could see the strain on her face.
“Please James. Plea-“
Silence. Nothingness. Everything was gone. Victoria , my home, the earth; all gone.
I could feel a burning on my forearm, I looked down at my arm and could see a scar forming. “Χάος”. I am Chaos.
| 20 | You go to the doctor with apparently unrelated symptoms, turns out they fit perfectly and you're diagnosed with "being a deity" | 33 |
As the last names of the credits flew by, the children were attempting to leave the living room. But Dwilight Sparkle knew just what he had to do.
"My, My! Where do you think you're going kids!" Dwilight said with a jolly purple lipped smile. "Just because the sermon has ended doesn't mean you are free to leave. You know the High Ponyff likes to address the herd after the 12 p.m. transmission!"
It was a tradition that Dwight's parents have taught him ever since he remembered, he wouldn't let his kids be different.
"That's right Rainbow Pie, Mayor Luna" Belle Applejack, Dwilight's wife, was was as sweet as a cranberry pie, the most caring of mothers, and a mare in the bed. "Remember, if you miss the speech, the High Ponyff will know, and we all know what happens to parasprites"
Rainbow Pie came running back and sat down in the couch in between Dwilight and Belle, Mayor Luna sighed and reluctantly dragged her feet back into the room. She was the most rebellious one. When she turned 6 Dwilight had gotten a three feet tall Princess Celestia made out of soft plastic, crafted by the local ponysmith, and Luna had started crying, saying she wanted a race car. *Would you believe? My own daughter, riding a plastic race car down the street, while all the other children are on their ponies?*. It would bring shame to the Sparkle family.
The worse incident had been two years ago when Luna cut her rainbow-colored pony tails because she thought they looked stupid. At that time Dwilight knew exactly what to do, nothing like a good old fashioned whipping. After all even The Ponies of Old were whipped on the most barbaric times, the times before the internet.
Shortly after the High Ponyff finished his forty minute speech, the Sparkle family got into the car. It was a Tesla Dash, cutting edge technology with three hundred pony power. Even though the church was less than ten blocks away, Dwilight loved showing off. He knew everyone would be turning their crest to see the stunning pink Dash. The girls hair had been dyed the day before, as they did all saturdays, and Belle had gotten a new beautiful rainbow dress, not too revealing, not too shy. So it was all about showing up in the church at their best, walking down the street would not be as "magical" as stepping out the Dash, and Dwilight knew that.
The church was full as always, and Dwilight could see some familiar faces in the entrance. Prince Watermelon with his awfully green neckbeard, though he was part of the Pony Club on friday night, Dwilight thought that his pony name was all too pretentious. That's why he had chosen Dwilight at the ponfirmation, he thought it was subtle, a name that was male, and sounded a lot like Twilight, which matched his family name almost perfectly.
Pinky Appleberry had also come, with her whole family, using her purple and pink striped fedora that matched her wife's hoofs. The kids were scrawny looking though, Dwilight assumed the mares had been indisposed at the same time this month, so they had been fighting again, which meant they hadn't payed attention to how their four adopted kids looked like, until today. You could tell the clothes had not been ironed, the rainbow pony tails were not uniform, and the lipsticks were all the same color.
The inside of the church was quite illuminated, it was a really beautiful day after all. The rainy season had passed and the grass was dry, so the turquoise breed pony Jockey Strawberry rode was allowed inside. Dwilight loved that pony like no other, even those from the sermon. Her crest was perfectly dyed, and long, the tail gracefully glided on the purple carpet of the church, and it always smelled of cranberries when she walked by them.
She was only part of the opening ceremony, though, such a shame that they had not found a way to let her stay all through the mass, but Dwilight knew why. Regardless of her immense beauty, she was still an animal, and animals do their filth wherever they please. There were news of cloned ponies that didn't need food, water, and didn't require any kind of cleaning. Yet the technology was not enough to keep them alive for more than a week. *One day*, Dwilight thought.
----------------------
Sorry, that's all I can write for now! Gotta go back to work, lol.
Disclaimer: English is not my first language.
Disclaimer 2: I've never watched MLP, I just googled, wikipedia'd, Know Your Meme'd and shit, just to get references for names and inventing pony related terms. | 16 | The fandoms of today have become the religions of the future, and it's time for you to go to mass. | 39 |
It's a curious thing, to know that everyone is about the same age, give or take hundred years. Ever since the spiritus drug was released everyone stopped dying. The biggest problem though, was the overpopulation. Even with the moon now colonized, I could not get a simple xbooster without waiting a couple hundred seconds. And, the obvious answer to this problem? stop the newborns, make it a crime. It worked. The penalty was death, if you make a life, you need to give one up. There was a few outcries, a few unsuccessful rallies, mostly from the non existent religious communities, but most people did not care, they allowed a couple of years for any new borns to grow and then enacted the world wide law.
It's a strange thing, when everyone is about the same age, everyone has been through the same things together, the same problems, the same world wide disasters, all the same. People basically know one another before meeting each other. In a way things have become more stale. People say I'm just looking back at the good old days through rose tinted glasses, that I don't appreciate where our society has spiraled towards. But I don't know, I still feel like there is something we are missing. Hidden information between two different beings no longer exists, we can read each others minds.
Monogamy is mostly dead now, spending your life with the same person was a cool idea, especially when your life lasted no longer than a century, but that's old fashion, we have moved past polygamous relationships now, even augmented interspecies relationships have grown old. The rage now is this global mind that you can jack into and experience emotions with thousands of other individuals. Everyone knows everyone else, we all experience the same things at the same time. There was some novelty to having a memory and processor expansion that was outside of your control, with simple sound waves as the only form of communication, but those inefficient ways became outdated very fast. Traditional Relationships are dead, I am in an intimate relationship with everyone I know. I need nothing else. I need no one else.
Connection terminated. | 10 | In a society where medicine has solved the problem of aging, people routinely live for centuries. In a world where everyone appears roughly the same age, how does "real" age affect relationships? | 15 |
Creaking. Shuffling. Sobbing.
You get used to it, after a while. Doesn't make it easy to sleep, but it certainly keeps you awake long enough for guard duty. That's why I got into this line of work. Screamers, they call us. The civilians, I mean. Down in that dark, dank, bleak world they call home. They look down on us, risking our lives, coming to the surface. Tell us we've gone soft. I turn a deaf ear to any of that, nowadays.
Gods, I need to stretch. But I can't. Don't want to scare that poor little darlin' anymore than I need to. Y'see, up on that rickety little roof overhead that she calls a bed lays a little girl, cold, hungry, scared... Scared of many things, me being one of them. She often cries out to her momma or poppa, but they're too busy hittin the needle to care. Gods damn the person who created meth, it's even plagued the underworld for the past couple o' years. Blasted stuff, tears apart families.
I'm forbidden to make contact with my ward... I know that. But I've come to know the girl. She talks to her bear in whispers, whispers that I can hear. I know her fears, her hopes, her joys, her good days, her bad days. I know where those bruises on her back came from. It sets my heart aflame with the rage of retribution. But, little girls tend to be afraid of... of things like me. Thick, scaly hair, eyes that glow in the dark, hideous face. I know what it's like to be the target of unfair abuse.
I hear arguing. That's not good. They must've used it all. Godsdamn metheads. I feel dread. Like the last time I came in contact with a human. It didn't end well, what with my head being introduced with the ground after that punk sliced it off. I don't hold grudges, though. You tend to let things go when you're immortal.
More shouting. Crashing. Coming to the door. Stay away, please. I don't think I can stop myself tonight.
Door blows inwards, the lock broken. I hear crying from my darling girl, shouting from her father and mother, the sound of flesh pounding on flesh, see shadows rushing, spittle flying... The girl cries out in pain, and something inside of me snaps.
I slither out from under the bed and draw myself to my full height, seething poison in my glare. The mother and father, horrified, come to meet my gaze, and freeze. Forever. Their visages will forever reflect the horror they experienced at my righteous anger.
I heard the voice of the girl behind me. "Mommy? D... Daddy?"
After all this time, I couldn't bear to leave the child alone. I turned around. The girl's- Lina's blank gaze was searching for some comfort. I crawled up to her, put my arms around her, my hair tickling her face.
"Shh. It's okay, child. I'm here. I've always been here. They won't hurt you anymore."
I'm gonna get hell for this. But you know, a blind girl makes a good adoptive child for a monster such as me.
Edit: GOLD?! WHAT THE FUCK DAVID BLAINE | 1,398 | her parents. You are that monster. | 1,308 |
“Write.” He commands me. I don’t want to write. I want to talk to meet John. John, the physician, has been toying with my heart lately, but I’m sure nothing will come of it. At least not when he learns of my broken maidenhead.
Father glares down at me. I keep getting lost in my thoughts and forgetting my quill. The story in my head is beautiful one for sure. Two lovers from Verona. I can see their fairy-tale perfect ending already. The fairy-tale ending I’ll never get. No one wants a spoiled bride.
A month later
Father entered me again. This is the third time in a month. I need to be motivated he says. I’ve only reached Act Four. “Write!” He’s angrier this time, “Write you useless wench.” The story is more difficult now. I wonder how my heroine would cope with Father. I wonder if her love would treat her the way mine has treated me. The disgust John feels for me is evident. I should have never confessed my woes.
He never needed to know about Father stole my stories. He never needed to know how father stole my youth.
I don’t know how I can finish my fairytale now. I used to think love could cool a father’s rage. Now that thought seems foolish. My Italian lovers will never reach their happy life and neither will I.
I write the title page to my play.
Romeo & Juliet
~~Susanna~~ Shakespeare
This is my first try at these I hope you like it! | 15 | Turn one of history's greatest heroes into a despicable human being in 250 Words. | 19 |
Our congregation was never one to exclude anybody from the good word, but given the fact that we're one of those uncolored parts of most those big name company cell phone coverage maps, there simply aren't many lost souls to take in around this little town. Whenever one comes along, we all make a big deal out of it, and after all, in small towns, any change at all really IS a big deal.
This new fella though, something's not right with the way he's handling his conversion. I don't mean strange, because there aren't really any "normal" converts anywhere, in my opinion. People drop everything and change a serious part of their lives, going on the word of a stranger, a perceived miracle, or just a mental type of wanderlust. But this new fella, something doesn't feel right about him being here. I swear I'm not being pretentious.
They found him naked in a field of tall grass, only there wasn't any grass for a hundred feet around his unconscious body. There was only ashes. Whatever torched the field left him pretty badly burnt too. The crazy part is despite the burns all over his body, and the fact that his clothes must've completely burnt up, his face looked fine. Better than fine, really, he was a good looking guy, with a full head of hair to add to that mystery. Everyone assumes it was another incident of the Mexican drug war moving its way up North, but he doesn't remember a damn thing.
Since we took him in, he's been real polite, and he keeps saying he really wants to get baptized soon. I can tell by his eyes that he has seen some real awful stuff. The kinda stuff that makes people turn to religion faster than anything. As if they know there is good in the world, after they've come so close to evil. Every Sunday mass, though, he fidgets real bad. Like hard drugs-withdrawal, bad. He's supposed to get baptized tomorrow, but last week, I saw him cry. Not the pathetic grown man sobbing type, but a subtle set of tears streamed down his face when he genuflected before the crucifix, and dried up by the time he took his seat...
...Everyone in my hometown died today. Father Maxwell plunged that drifter into the baptismal pool, and the water boiled into steam instantly. Then, just as fast, the two of them burst into flames. The fire shot through the church as if it were covered in gasoline. I'm burnt pretty bad too, but I was lucky enough to break out of a window. I was crawling away, after the screams all died down, and suddenly I heard footsteps behind me.
I looked him in his pretty blue eyes, partially covered by his beautiful, unsinged, jet black hair, and at first, I didn't dare say a word.
"I'm so sorry," he started.
"Me too," I answered.
"Why are you sorry?"
"Because at first I thought something wasn't quite right about you joining the Church. But last week, when you couldn't even glance at the statue of Christ without crying, I knew something was horribly wrong about you being there at all."
"I couldn't remember anything when you found me in that field. Not a single image from my entire existence. But when I looked into His sad eyes, I remembered one thing."
"What?"
"Fire... and now we both know why," he said, as pitch black wings erupted from his shoulder blades.
"You wanna watch the whole world burn? What's left, when it's just you and the ashes?"
"...." He clenched his fists, and the air around him started to swirl.
"You gonna kill me, too?"
He shook his head and tried to force a smile, but he looked much sadder than he had while crying. A hopeless, empty type of sad. Or maybe his tears simply evaporated in his glands. With a swirl of dust and ashes, he took off, soaring over the lake.
It was twenty miles to the nearest church, and my feet hurt like hell from all the burns, but I made damn sure I made the late afternoon service.
edit: Thank you very much for your compliments. I started this only with the ending dialogue in mind, and considered writing it from the devil's perspective, and while I agree it might be more fun to write (and probably more fun to read), it would honestly just be much more work to pretend to be Satan for a few paragraphs than a churchgoing southerner. You have to maintain an expected element of badassery (comparable to the narrator of The Book Thief) without going overboard and looking like a 14 year old blogging about how he is literally the prince of darkness when he plays Diablo II (III now?), but that, to me is very intensive writing, which I might not finish until the thread is already buried. Also if you believe that the devil is any sort of opposite to god, then doesn't that kind of put him beyond our understanding as well? I tried to encapsulate that with his vague expressions at the end, especially when the narrator difficult questions for something beyond us to explain to us. The narrator tries to understand and convey how the devil feels, but what does he really know, anyway?
| 21 | The devil wakes up in rural america with no memory of who he is. He's taken in by a religious commune and slowly begins to remember details of his past by listening to their pastor's sermons. Write from his perspective or one of the commune member's. | 35 |
Travis was used to smelling blood. A lot of peoples' secrets involved bloodshed in some form or fashion. Most that did involve blood were from self harmers. A whiff of iron followed by brief flashes of open wounds either on wrists, thighs, and on rare occasion, genitalia. Travis was used to that.
He wasn't, however, used to smelling it upon entering the house when he knew Jemmye was home. No, he was used to the smell of cheap whiskey, the sound of a leather belt smacking across bare flesh and the sight of Jemmye crying quickly flashing across his vision. It was these intruding senses that made Travis sure to always treat Jemmye with as much kindness as possible, even on days when he had trouble putting up with her nagging.
But no, this time, he smelt blood. The vision flashed across his eyes, but he was in too much shock to really take in what he saw. All he knew was that he smelt blood, and, was it water? Tap water?
"Jemmye?" Travis called out.
He heard pouring water. He dropped his keys and ran to the bathroom, leaving the front door standing wide open. "Jemmye?!" Travis called again, rounding the corner to the hallway. There he saw the door to the bathroom open. Steam was emanating from the open doorway.
He already knew what was going on by the time he got to the bathroom. He didn't have to glance into the tub to know what Jemmye had done. Instead he instantly rushed to open the small cabinets where they kept their towels. Green, her favorite color.
He grabbed two towels, then finally turned to see Jemmye in the tub. The water was a deep shade of red.
Jemmye was laying there, already unconscious.
"Jesus Christ," Travis cried as he pulled her out of the tub. He grabbed a towel in each hand and pressed at the long gashes trailing up Jemmye's arms. Blood flowed out of her arms in spurts.
Never in a million years did he think she would actually try to kill herself. The way she acted on normal days, it never hinted that she was battling over her father's abuse. Travis loathed himself for thinking it would.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, dialed 911 and put the phone on speaker. He set the phone on the sink then continued to apply pressure to Jemmye's wounds.
The operator came on, and Travis demanded an ambulance.
Moments later, Travis was climbing into the ambulance with the paramedics. One of them, a Hispanic man by the name of Juan, turned to Travis and began questioning him.
Travis couldn't focus on the questions. All he saw was Juan smothering his own mother.
"I, uh, what?" Travis asked. He had a day by day routine that minimized his interaction with new people. This cut down on the amount of new visions he had. He hadn't witnessed a new one in a few months. Juan's secret wasn't the worst Travis had seen, but it was the abrupt smell of Juan's mother shitting herself that really broke Travis' focus.
"Is she taking any medication?" Juan asked again.
"I," Travis began.
The other paramedic placed a hand on Travis' shoulder.
"Sir," the paramedic by the name of Ronald said, "you need to relax."
Travis was having an even harder time relaxing now. Child porn, and a lot of it was flashing through his mind, and it wasn't like he could block the visions out. The smell of Ronald's cum was the final straw. Travis blacked out.
_________________________________________________________
A nurse by the name of Regina shook Travis awake.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah?" Travis muttered. He sat up, finally bringing himself out of the half-sleep he was in. "Where, is she okay?" He asked.
He locked eyes with Regina. She was a young, beautiful nurse who had blonde hair and brown eyes. Travis smelled roses, and then saw a 12 year old Regina stomping on a rose bush.
"I'm sorry," Regina said, "they did everything they could, but it was too late."
Travis was floored. He opened his mouth to speak, to question why they couldn't do anything more, but the words wouldn't come out.
A man in hospital scrubs walked into the room.
"I am Dr. Clark," the man said.
Travis smelled blood, and whisky. A quick flash, and Travis saw Dr. Clark's unsteady hands attempting to suture Jemmye's wounds. His hands moved about carelessly though, causing more damage to her wrists than what was already done.
Travis clenched his fists. | 371 | You can see the darkest secret of everyone you meet. As you enter your house, expecting to see the usual abusive father story of your spouse, you stop; it has changed. | 206 |
When I was three years old, I composed my first symphony. It wasn’t critically acclaimed, no one heard it but me.
We lived in an old house that, along with the creaks and groans of an old house had come with a piano. The piano was out of tune, but I didn’t care, it was all about playing. I could see music in everything around me, the birds inspired sonata’s, the carpet a jazz tune. If I heard it on the radio, I could play it on the old Baldwin piano. It didn’t matter, my parents were both deaf, and always assumed I just liked pounding on the old piano. I have hundreds of pictures as me as a child playing my piano, maybe my dad would be standing proudly next to me, with my mom smiling behind the camera as she took the pictures, oblivious to the beautiful Bach issuing from her six-year olds fingers.
Perhaps if the arts funding hadn’t been massacred in the schools, I would have had a chance to show my talent to the world. Instead my potential was wasted on the yellow, peeling wall paper of the sitting room and the untuned Baldwin upright with chipped corners.
I stopped when I was thirteen; dad threw out the piano so they could get a bigger tv with better captions. Today, the muscle memory of the decade of lost piano plays on. I am a programmer, I see rhapsodies in all my scripts, hear the crescendos in a well-written block of code, but my fingers fly over a different keyboard; an ergonomic keyboard of soft beige. No black and white, no satisfying *plunk*, just the *tap tap tap* of the wrong keys and the sad silence of an unforgotten talent. | 63 | You are a child genius who grew into a painfully mundane adulthood. | 34 |
The sloop Dagger flew only a reefed main and a black flag as it coasted through the eerily still water. The fog was thick that morning, even miles away from the shores of Martinique.
My crew, too, were eerily still, straining their weary eyes to spot any dangers in the fog.
We had spend all night avoiding pursuit by a French galleon, much better armed and crewed than our girl Dagger, but not nearly as fast.
The last we had seen of them was hours ago, but I was not ready to return to port yet. Not without a prize.
"Mister Pickett," I turned to my chief mate who stood beside me on the quarter decks, "I believe we shall make our way to the shallows and drop anchor so that we may sleep."
Mister Pickett received the order with visible relief. He gave a new heading to the helmsman, and we came about.
Just then, after Mister Pickett had finished shouting the orders and the crew had finished singing them back, there was a scream. It was desperate and shrill, coming from somewhere in the fog forward of us.
The scream was echoed, and followed by a chorus of shouts and orders. A ship, by the sound of it, in distress.
"Beat to quarters, men." I gave the order as loudly as I dared, "If she's French or Spanish, we may have ourselves a-"
I stopped.
A great metal leviathan rose up out of the fog, on our starboard bow. It was as large as any warship I had laid my eyes upon, but with a flat, metal hull that looked to be made of a single sheet. Atop the decks there were no masts, but instead what appeared to be a bustling town of metal buildings. I also beheld what appeared to be huge swiveling guns.
"To Port" I shouted to the helmsman, "Bring us around the aft of her and away from those damned guns!"
Several men were standing, agape at the monsterous ship.
"Did I say to stand there with your tongues hanging out, or did I say to beat to thrice-damned quarters?" I roared.
My crew hustled to arm themselves as we came around to the aft end of the ship.
"I don't recognize their flag, captain." Mister Pickett offered.
"Nor do I, Mister Pickett, and that worries me. By its colors it might equally be British or French, and I'm not ready to take any chances." I grimaced, "Not with that... thing."
The shouting continued aboard the larger ship. While my crew threw grapples up over their gunwales, I loaded my brace of pistols and placed them in their holsters. We secured ourselves loosely to the stern of the ship, and went out in rowboats from there. There were ladders on the side which allowed us to slip aboard. My hope was that the apparent panic would allow us to board without being noticed, and that hope was realized. One man came running from around a building, and my men tackled him to the ground and one held a hand over his mouth.
"Don't kill anyone until we know who these men are. Gag him."
It appeared that the quarter decks of this ship were high up in a building; the large viewing windows seemed to indicate it. I resolved to find a way inside. Only a few paces away, I spied a strange feature on the bulwark, perhaps a door.
"Bring me that sailor we captured."
The prisoner was shoved toward me, quivering and twitching like a man in the grips of total fear.
"¿Qué es esto? ¿Es una puerta?" I inquired.
The man said nothing, but looked even more confused and terrified.
"Parlez-vous français? Est-ce que la porte?"
"Uh." He replied, then returned to his flinching and cowering.
"Ben je Nederlands? Waar kom je vandaan? Wat is er mis met je?"
No response.
"English, then?" I sighed.
"Uh, uh, yes. I speak English."
"Splendid. What is that thing?"
"Th-th-the door?"
"Yes. How do we open it? Is it locked?"
"N-n-n-no. No you can't go in there!"
"Take this damned fool out of my sight." I spat, "Let me at this door, I'll figure it out myself."
"No! N-no no no no!" Our prisoner started screaming, until one of my crew clubbed him over the head with the pommel of his sword.
I found that the door was simpler than I had imagined. There was a wheel at the center of it, and when turned in the right direction, it unlatched. I pulled the door open.
Immediately I understood why our prisoner had been hysterical.
Groaning, half-alive, the upper portion of a man's body was jutting through the deck above. There was no clear damage to the deck; it appeared as though he simply fell halfway through the floor. The man looked at me, weak, but desperate. I choked back vomit. I drew my sword, and slit the man's throat. It was the only mercy I could imagine for such an injury.
I stepped back out and closed the door behind me.
"We're leaving."
"Already? We're not going t-"
I shot the sailor a look that stopped him.
"What shall we do with this one?" Another sailor indicated our unconscious prisoner.
"Kill him. He won't want to live with what he's seen."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Back aboard the Dagger, we cast off from the cursed ship, and I gave the order to set full sail.
"Get us the hell out of here." I said to Pickett.
As we put distance between ourselves and the horrible metal ship, I spied the writing on the bow which indicated its name. I didn't want to read it; I didn't want to know the name of that cursed ship. Yet I saw before I could stop myself.
So if you ever come upon a big metal ship with no sails, for the sake of your own eternal soul, don't go aboard her. Turn tail and never look back.
And may God grant some peace to the sailors of the USS Eldridge. | 116 | You are the captain of a 17th century pirate ship. Through some flaw in time you encounter a modern battleship. You decide to attempt a raid. | 108 |
"Lost my eye in 'nam." The rough voice didn't match the teddy bear's soft exterior.
"Wait," another one said in a much softer voice as it took a drink. "You lost your eye in 'nam? Vietnam? Your tag says you were made in China."
The first teddy bear took another drink. "I was. But the plane shipping us out dropped me. I landed in the jungles. Some kid found me."
The second teddy was silent.
"Good kid." Said the first. "Hit a landmine. A piece of the shrapnel flew off and caught my eye. His mom stitched me up to bury with him, cause he brought me everywhere he went."
The second teddy took another drink.
"Figured I should go with him to death to." The first teddy drank his whole bottle. "Some gravediggers came by, stole his jewelry and threw me out, left me on the ground. American soldiers found me weeks later, they-"
-
"That is *not* true!" A soft feminine voice full of unspoken laughter caused Dave to jump.
"You heard... how long have you been there?" Dave asked his wife.
"Long enough". She said. "To hear your back story for your daughter's teddy bears. Get dressed already, we're leaving in fiteen minutes."
"Ok, I'll get ready." Dave dropped the two bears and walked out of the room, shutting off the light on the way.
In the dark and quiet room, a rough voice came from one of the bears. "How do you think he knew all that?" | 67 | Two teddy bears are sitting at a bar getting drunk, discussing the hazards of the job. | 55 |
I stumble out of the apartment as usual with briefcase and coffee in hand, my tie loose, and sleep still in my eyes. The streets are cold and empty. Really empty. It feels weird, there's always a roar of traffic and humans brushing by each other, but today there is nothing. Nobody. Am I alone?
Is it a holiday? Did I sleep through the apocalypse?
As I drag myself towards the subway station I realize I'm not actually alone. There's that disgusting heap of garbage still squatting in the doorway across the street. God, what a waste of flesh. I'm sure she used to be somebody's daughter or wife or something, but now she's nothing more than a body on display for quick cash or a cheap fix.
Oh good, the guy at the street stand where I pick up my newspaper is around too. Whatever's going on around here, at least it isn't fucking up my life too badly. He and I exchange our normal mindless greeting and exchange of goods for cash, then go back to pretending the other doesn't exist.
Just outside the subway station is that man on the bench holding his sign about being a homeless vet abandoned by his family and the government and all that other crap. No shit you're homeless, you probably haven't seen the inside of a shower since 2003 either. Just because you fought in some war doesn't mean you're worth anything. Hell, if you can't get a job then you deserve the streets.
A big "Out of Order" sign hangs across entrance. Fuck. I can see the janitor and one frazzled looking worker inside, but that's it. Jesus christ, now I'm getting pissed off. I'm going to be late. I don't know where the fuck everybody is, but I've got a meeting at 9 and my shithole of a boss isn't going to be happy now that I've got to walk. I bang on the doors, taking satisfaction in the startled and harrassed looks on the faces inside, before stomping off.
Seven blocks later and all I've run into is a couple of hoodlums and one street rat who obviously ran away from home. Kid didn't look like he would last long out here, probably just another fag who didn't meet daddy's approval and came out here looking for shiny lights. Have fun in the big city, kid.
I stop off in the restroom to slick back my hair before taking the elevator up to our floor. The whole floor is a maze of cubicles, another soulless rat race. Except this morning it's quiet. Just the gentle humming of all the computers that never shut off, and the always present roar of my boss in the back office. Shit, that means the meeting started. I'm fucked.
Except I'm hardly the only late one. There's the big man at the front of the conference table screaming down at one pathetic geek from IT and that's it. Hell, he's not even on topic. Just ranting about how his good-for-nothing trophy wife musta run off with the pool boy last night and left him, and his maid or whatever wasn't there to wipe his ass for him, and on and on and on. Then he spots me and turns on is business voice.
"Well, it looks like we're all that are coming to this meeting, so let's get started."
Where the hell is everybody? I'm gonna end up with so much shit on my desk now because most of the city decided to vanish. And out of all the people who are still around, why did it have to be all these losers? | 73 | Everyone who is loved by someone else suddenly disappears from earth. Write about the people left behind. | 95 |
A person stands in a grim cemetary.This person has a very simple goal right now, a very simple purpose for where they are located. They're digging, the shovel sinking into soil over and over and over.
"Elias Foley, Elias Foley..." the figure says in a soft, feminine voice. "Who were you, my dear friend? No one. You were absolutely no one, and everyone was no one. Now we're all no one out in the smoke and death."
Her eyes turn upwards, eyes that are a nice clear blue. Her skin is dark, very dark, her hair curled. She wonders what she should do, when she gets done here. Too many people know who she is, that's a big problem. But she has a job to do, a very simple job that was set up far in advance, far before everything came falling down.
Ahead, there is an old church, largely intact. The sky is bitter iron gray today, which it often is. The rad filters and sky cleaners, they're not working well, but they're working. Sometimes, lately, there is sun that comes through the darkness. She likes the sun. It's warm. She never felt the sun before the war, before it all came falling down.
Shrugging, she redoubles her effort. This woman is nearly six feet down now, and the shovel... there it is, the shovel impacts the coffin. She could dig up all the rest of the dirt, but she's feeling lazy today. Before she does anything else, she takes a break, a breath. Her body is strong, because it has to be strong. She is unique in some ways, genetically. She was made for what she does. A tanktop brown with dirt and dust covers the torso, suspenders hold up loose cargo pants. Under her arms are a pair of pistols in holsters, beautiful pistols that are made just for her. Her boots are worn, held together with duct tape. It's a hard life in the wasteland, very hard.
She could go to a bar.
She considers this. The idea of getting someone drunk, getting laid. It would be a lot of fun, and it's been a while since she got any. Who and what she is makes that tough. Some people get confused by anatomical oopsies in the pants department. Some even get angry at the downstairs mixup.
Her knees hit cold metal. A keypad is exposed by brushing the dirt away with her hand. The code for the keypad is long, extremely long. It's also tattooed on her arm in nearly invisible caramel colored ink from elbow to the palm of her hand. She punches it in. The last digits and letters, they come from the name on the grave. Elias Foley. First letter first name, last letter last name, third letter last name, first letter last name.
She was right.
Elias really was no one, because he didn't exist.
This woman, her name is Lisa. Lisa Jackson.
A beep sounds, telling her she got the code right. She stands and backs to the edge. The coffin lid descends downward and then slides out of the way, exposing a stairwell down. Her boots make clanking noises on the non-rusted stairs. The seal on the door was perfect, absolutely perfect.
The air smells stale, old, and there's a vague hint of something chemical - the processor keeping any moisture in the place from making mold uses a chemical anti-fungal agent. It's been two years and six months since she went to one of the supply posts. Every location, coded into her brain with hypnosis. She always knows where a supply cache is, always knows where a post is.
There is one room, and then a closet containing the nuclear generator and the air processor.
Behind her, the coffin lid closes automatically to give her privacy - not that Lisa cares.
Straight ahead is one metal table. It has on it a new set of clothes. On the wall is a set of racks with weapons and armor. It has other things too. Also on the table are a number of syringes. In one corner, a shower and in the other a toilet. One crate of MREs. Several cases of water bottles. Ammunition...
She's rich, in wasteland terms.
Her suspenders come off, and then her tank top and sports bra hit the ground. Her boots and socks come off next. Pants and then panties last. The air is cool, very cool. It's the first time in months she's actually been rather cool. Her muscles mover beneath her skin as she heads to the shower, showing powerful legs made for running hard and fast, a strong back for lifting and carrying, strong arms and shoulders for recoil compensation, heavy weapons usage, melee weapons usage. Abdominal muscles are equally powerful.
The water is set to hot, so hot it hurts a little, because hot showers are a rarity. It's delightful, the feeling of the water running over her skin. After using the stinging sanitization soap to clean the grit and dirt from her skin. The razor is for shaving things - she'll take that with her. She was made with no hair on her legs, none under her arms. It helps with her job to be able to seduce people, and not having dry grit wasteland razor burn.
Lisa sinks down to the floor. Hard work, digging graves, a lot of stress lately, people after her... no time for herself...
One of the best, most natural ways to calm herself down and remove stress is to masturbate, so she does. Not like most women, because of her anatomical differences and masculine genetics, but there's still the proper moaning, the hand on her chest, the facial expressions. It's nice, though, because when she finishes... she's ready for what is coming.
A thin towel is used to dry herself off. It goes in the incinerator chute, along with all of the discarded clothes. A sleeping bag from a duffel of supplies is laid out. Seven syringes are taken up.
The first injection feels like it sets her blood on fire. The second injection hurts like hell, but her body is starting to go numb. Injections three through seven don't feel like anything at all. Lisa lays down, staring at a mirror. It hurts so bad, so very bad, this process... but it's so interesting to watch.
First her stomach aches. A pan is dragged close, and she spits mouthfuls of blood into it - a side effect. Her pupils dilate, then contract a lot. Sensors dim the lights a little bit. The blue irises are changing color, slowly. Her muscles twitch and spasm. Skin starts to flake off, blood weeping from places where fat and muscle are exposed.
Pain is good, pain is very good.
Pain means it is progressing as it should.
The right iris is turning dark green. What concerns her is that the left one seems to be running hazel, and a bright, bright hazel at that. Her hair falls out in clumps. The pain blacks her out a few seconds, and then she wakes and bad things happen.
She has lost control. A seizure, that's what this is. A seizure. It's all she can do to stay on her size as she loses consciousness for good, the world going black, the pain going away.
Hours later, she wakes and cries out in fear, expecting the agony to come back because she has no idea how long she's been out. After a moment, she just stops screaming, eyes wide with fear. The pan is full of blood. She feels weak and dizzy. This change, this must have been a big change.
She rolls to her feet and walks to the shower, turns the water on cool so that blood and flesh can be rinsed off. Old hair, too.
Her hands run over her body. Her chest... this is the first time she's actually been reasonably generous in the chest, that will definitely take getting used to. Her height of course is unchanged, but her skin is icy pale now. Hair is over fourteen inches, forced to grow by the drugs. The hair is red, too. Bright red.
"Interesting," she rasps. Voice is different. Harsh, oddly harsh. Probably from choking, gagging, screaming and coughing up blood.
A new thin towel is used, the mirror picked up off the floor. Her eyes are heterochromatic, an identifying mark, something that shouldn't have happened. Further, her dark skin grew back in, but with patches of pale skin as if she's got vitiligo.
"Something went wrong... damn," she mutters, sighing. Her body is working pretty well, everything seems fine. Balance, fine. Coordination, fine. Eyesight, fine. "I definitely look much different, for sure... will make the job easier."
As she dresses in clothing similar, but different due to the inclusion of a button down and a worn tie - both already pre-distressed so they don't look brand new - she realizes that she can't think of another post off the top of her head, none within... any number of miles.
"Brain damage...?"
Concerned, she does some cognitive tests and comes to the conclusion that her brain works fine. Then she remembers that she's forty one, and every year to two and a half years she and others have been using the posts... the government was supposed to recover by now, and the Peacekeepers were supposed to ensure that the recovery would be smooth. However, there... there is no government yet, nothing that works anyway.
It's grim when she realizes that she might end up looking like this until the end of her life. It will change everything about how she does things. Weapons are bagged, MREs and water, medications, ammunition, all she can carry in the huge provided pack and a duffel bag as well. Her feet are clad in new boots. They slam into the stairs, and then the coffin lid slides open and lets her out into the hot air. Vitilligo spotted hands haul her out of the grave after tossing her bags up.
She thinks about things as she replaces the dirt on the grave. Supplies were left behind in all the other posts, at least as much as she has with her now, if not more - and, in each one. She can rely on those, and things she takes off of people who she hunts to make the wasteland more peaceful. She's just not sure what to do if the Peacekeeper program has run out of reasons to exist, out of the future it was supposed to look forward to.
She takes to the dusty road, walking on. Not long after, a car rolls up and a man leans out. She looks at him, tilting her head.
"Yo, bitch. You seen a black chick with real curly fuckin' hair come by here?"
"Nah."
They drive on.
Goal or not, life will go on, with or without her.
She votes for 'with.' | 19 | A man digs up a "grave" in post apocalyptic America to find a footlocker filled with new guns, clothes, and a new identity. This is not his first time. | 38 |
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