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It wasn’t the first time I had hallucinations from exhaustion. Usually they started around 60 hours, but there it was. Usually they were blurred shadows, slinking from my field of vision whenever I moved my head. It’s lines were all solid, the figure in the corner met my gaze with one of acknowledgment.
“You’re real, aren’t you?”
*“Of course”*, the voice rasped with age and weariness, but spoke gently. *“You see me everywhere.”*
“I’m certain I would recognize you.” In some ways, I did. The sunken face, partially shielded by a draped hood, created an image exactly like those seen in illustrations and described in myths.
*“You do not look closely enough. You concern yourself with maintaining the living, rightly so. But I work in a different area. It is good that you do not see me, I take no pleasure in being seen often.”* The face turned up, skin sagging. Though the expression remained stoney, some semblance of mourning could be seen.
“There’s no satisfaction in it?” Death had never been described as a creature of emotion, yet I had always assumed there was a sick interest driving the force which took us all. This being only looked tired.
*“My job is to provide a transition. That is the best light it can be seen in. Yet I also tear away loved ones, and those desperately clinging to the earth. They often beg me for a minute, a second more. The woman tonight tore at my face as I held her, promising to bring me along. She left alone. It is most often not enjoyable.”* It turned it’s head back down, the cloak shrouding the face in darkness.
The small room we were in beeped and a glowing number seven came up on the screen. This was not my floor. This was the maternity ward.
“Wait! You said transition. Transition to what? What is next?”
The figure was already shuffling down the hallway, as nurses passed without acknowledging. I watched it open a door, and briefly heard a child’s cry and a father’s scream before the elevator doors closed again.
| 45 | You're an exhausted paramedic. You just finished a 48 hour shift and you stumble into the hospital elevator to head home. You hit the button to head to the first floor and as you turn, you see death standing in the corner. What do you talk about during the elevator ride? | 43 |
As the first rays of the morning sun danced over my bawling, mucous-dribbled face, I awoke into first consciousness. The new warmth calmed me, and I gazed up into my mother's face. I was ravenous; filled with a need to grow, and grow *fast*. As I began to nurse, I saw her smile down at me, sweaty and triumphant... but as her grin faded to a contented smile, it left new wrinkles behind in the corners of her eyes.
By eight in the morning, I had a little sister, and we were leaving the hospital to go home. I knew how to walk, how to speak, how to read (the eye charts on the hospital walls helped a bit) and a fair bit about how the world worked––the TVs were playing educational videos. I still didn't know how to dress myself; I was wearing a baggy hospital gown, and Dad said they'd only give me proper clothes when I stopped growing so fast. Oh well; there would be time enough for that later. As we drove home, I told my sister (who was just beginning to understand speech) all about the documentary I'd seen, with all the different jobs people could take. "This afternoon," I told her, "I wanna be an animal trainer at the zoo!"
At 10:14 exactly, I developed my first crush. I went outside to get the newspaper... and caught a glimpse of the neighbor girl, who watering the daffodils in their front yard. Her hazel hair glistened in the spring sunlight, and her willowy body was strangely alluring. She must have been born less than fifteen minutes after me. I thought about going to say hello, but then a black truck pulled up in front of her house. Her face furrowed with worry, and as the truck disgorged several black-suited men, she began to quietly sob.
One of them approached her. "I'm sorry," he said, "Your father..." but she already knew. They carried out his body, shriveled and pallid, and placed it in the back of the truck. My mother came up behind me. "It's just not right to wait that long to have children," she sighed, "You need to stick around long enough to take care of them. Poor girl."
This, as it turned out, was reasonably good advice; my own mom stuck around long enough to administer my computerized job placement test, congratulate me on my scores (not great, but decent), pack my lunch, and give me the keys to her car.
At noon, I drove off to the zoo, thrilled to start work. The head keeper, who was sporting an impressively grizzled grey beard, handed me a shovel. "There are only three rules here: first, follow the feeding instructions exactly. Trained nutritionists have spent their entire lives figuring those out. Second: when you're cleaning, make sure you're never in the same cage as a dangerous animal; life's short enough as it is. Thirdly: pass on all the rules to the next guy who shows up. I'm outta here."
At 4:00 pm, I took my first break. I smelled like elephant shit, and knew as I entered the break room that I stood zero chance with any of the girls there. So much for having kids. A pity; the blonde one was downright attractive As I chewed contemplatively on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a dour-looking man holding a cell phone poked his head in. "Frederick Hendricks? I'm sorry, but your mom just passed away. What?" He held the phone to his ear again. "Oh, and your dad. Sorry about that too." The door slammed behind him.
I wept quietly onto my sandwich, until I felt a hand on my back. It was the blonde. "I just lost mine a few minutes ago," she whispered. I looked up. Though she had recently re-applied her mascara, her eyes were still shining with tears. "Wanna go hide in the broom closet and cry for a bit?"
"Sure," I said.
We talked for almost fifteen minutes before things started getting heated. Her name was Katherine, and she took care of the polar bears, and she was beautiful in a way that I hadn't thought possible––her spirit, as well as her body, was like a magnet to mine. We lost our mutual virginity there, clattering against mops and buckets in the dark. As I was getting dressed again in my stinking zoo uniform, Kate let out a sudden cry. "Look at my BELLY!" It was visibly swelling and expanding, like a balloon filling with helium, growing larger and larger by the second. We looked into each others' faces, afraid––and then I thought of my mother, and her advice. It wasn't too late for us; Kate and I were young, still. This baby would have a good life. "We need to get you to the hospital," I said, smiling, "We're going to be parents... that is," I felt a sudden stab of guilt, "assuming you want this baby."
She smiled back. "I definitely do!"
I had to get back to work right after the baby was born––couldn't let the animals get neglected––and I felt terrible that I'd miss my son's first few hours, but somebody had to support him and his wonderful mother. I shoveled and scrubbed the cages until the light vanished from the sky. My hands stank of nameless animal fluids... but it was a thrill nonetheless to get so close to such eternal creatures. What must it be like, I wondered, as I gazed up at the elephants, to live for hundreds upon hundreds, or even thousands, of days? I missed Kate––even more so as I realized that I would only get a few more hours with her. When my relief finally arrived, late, long after sunset, I couldn't shuck my uniform and tell him the rules fast enough. My hands ached as I collapsed back into my car; the knuckles were swollen and the veins stood out like hoses beneath the skin.
My son was tall and blonde, like Kate, but he had my nose. He had, Kate told me, done extremely well on his exams; since I had gotten overtime, and could pay for it, my son would get to move up in the world––he'd be an intellectual, with hours of higher education at Harvard, and (if he worked hard) a reputation that would last for weeks, or even months. I hadn't thought I could feel so proud as when I hugged him under the porch light, handed him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and the keys to my car, and waved him off.
Kate was plumper, now, and she wore glasses, but they suited her, and her face was warm with gratitude for the time I had given her with my son. As we closed the door behind him, she said sadly, "It's late... must we really sleep the last few hours away?"
"I hope not; I've barely gotten to know you," I said. "Carpe diem." We sat down on my parents' old loveseat in the living room, and I thought we might make love again... but instead, we just talked––about anything and everything, and it was *good*. As the hours sped by, her laughter grew hoarse and she developed a hacking cough, but that laugh was still as sweet to me as it had been that afternoon in the broom closet. I got up to make us a midnight––or, more accurately, a 4:00 am snack; I nearly stumbled on the way into the kitchen, but caught myself. My bones were on fire and the room was blurred and swimming, but when I finally made it back to the couch, the cheese and crackers were delicious.
In time, the conversation slowed into a comfortable silence. Kate laid her head––her hair bleached white now––on my shoulder. A robin chirped outside the window, and then another. The sky had faded from black to the pale purple of an impending sunrise. Kate sighed gently. "When were you born?"
"At dawn."
"Me too." She clasped my boney, shriveled hand in hers, and looked wistfully out the window. "It's almost time." A blue jay gave a raucous shriek, and Kate smiled a bit. "At least we'll go out together." She nestled closer to me, and closed her eyes. "Thank you." There was nothing more I could say.
As an orange dawn crept across the sky, I sank back into the couch cushions, clasped Kate to my chest, and kissed her one last time.
| 121 | Write as if humans have a one day life span. | 27 |
He laughed confidently. Too confidently. He tossed his head back, letting his eyes rove the ceiling briefly before they scanned the bar to either side, looking for admiring glances.
"So tell me, Christie, what's it like tossing guys around like that?" he said. "Stuff like that usually work?"
I took a swig of beer. He'd bought. "You asked. I answered."
"Okay, we'll play the game, then. Immortality. What's it like? Did aliens really build the pyramids?"
His unctuous smile irritated me. I wanted to punch it off his face. But the other seventeen patrons probably wouldn't appreciate that. Neither would the bartenders. "I wasn't around for that, so I can't tell you."
"Woah, woah, woah. What happened to immortality?"
"Immortality isn't the same thing as eternality, bud."
He held his bottle and free hand in the air. "My mistake. So, when were you, uh, *born*?"
"1880."
"So that makes you...134?"
I clucked, my face alight with sarcastic approval. "You *are* quite the brainiac, aren't you? But the birthday's in November, so 133."
Jake, as he'd introduced himself, flagged down a passing bartender. "Another two rounds, please. Same tab." Then he *winked* at her. I raised my eyebrows as her blue eyes met mine.
"As long as it's got a big ass, bouncy boobs, and a sweet smile, it's game, huh?"
Jake smiled at me. "Only you can deliver all that, babe. You seen *Stone to Stone*?"
I shook my head and accepted the proffered bottle. "Can't say I have."
"It's fantastic, really. Great documentary about Giza. Did you know they now think the spiral ramp theory is probably *not* correct?"
"You know, I truly didn't know that." I looked across the bar, watching the lone man bathe in grey tendrils swirling from the tip of his cigar. I ignored Jake's eyes as they settled on my chest.
"For an immortal, I expected a little better than that," he said. He paused before continuing. "So, what do you say, you up for learning something?"
"That *is* the way to get me to spread my legs. Talk to me sardonically, insinuate stupidity, then turn yourself into a savior offering salvation from ignorance."
He looked bewildered. "What?"
I handed him my empty beer bottle. "Here you go, big shot. Take this home with you. Maybe you can fuck yourself with it. Might as well, since you won't be getting any help from me." I hopped off my stool and walked toward the door, but not before I winked at the smiling bartender. I'd known she would hear. I also knew Jake would be following me.
He finally said something when we were alone in the alleyway. "Hey, bitch!"
I turned around, knowing my surprise seemed genuine. "What do you want?" My former confidence appeared to have evaporated.
"You think you can play me like that? Feed me that immortality bullshit, then belittle me in front of everyone?"
"Oh, it wasn't bullshit. November 11th, 1880. And you belittled yourself." When you have more than a century's worth of experience, it's quite easy to recognize a fight before it occurs. I knew what was coming.
His wild punches seemed slow, weak. The three men in 1980s Kabul had almost overcome me. But there were three of them. And they'd had knives. I ducked one blow, parried another, and evaded the third by yanking on the hem of his leather jacket.
"You can still turn around, Jake," I said seriously. "I'm not going to fuck you, and I don't have to fuck you up either. You really don't understand what you're dealing with right here." *A Guardian*.
Jake swayed drunkenly, reaching into his pocket. *Oh, hell no*. I leaped, twisting my hips and whipping my leg up. The spinning hook kick caught him in the jaw, and he crumpled. "Leggings do have their benefits."
I vaulted onto him, straddling his chest and pinning his arms to the pavement with my knees. I winked. "I guess I was wrong. I will spread my legs for you."
He groaned, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. "Let...me go."
I leaned forward, dragging myself over his battered face. "I think I'll fly to Argentina tomorrow. It's the only country I haven't visited yet. But, unfortunately, I have to leave now. That innocent old man, the one smoking at the bar? He hunts people like me. And unlike you, he's someone I actually have to worry about." | 14 | A woman who is immortal and forever young has been traveling the world ever since she could remember. | 19 |
The book, he finally found himself in possession of the book he'd searched his entire life for. The book of hopes, dreams, and whatever wish he desired. This book could make it come true. He couldn't believe it. He stared at the cover. Flipped through the book, never had a blank book read so well. How could it be that a book with no words could bring about such passion! Such joy!
The man had been searching for the book for over fifty years, since he was a teenage boy. He was an old man now, tired from the chase. That didn't mean it was too late, he could write in the book whatever wish he desired, and it would come true. Heck, even if he wanted, he could wish for his youth again!
His whole life had been leading up to this moment, where he grasped the book in his dirty, shaky hands. He was so excited, he could barely contain himself. His only concern in the world was that his hands would be shaking too much to write neatly. He'd long ago forgotten about all other worldly cares.
All that mattered was the book! The book! Which he now held!
The price of finding the book had been steep. The man had forgone love, children, even his career. He gave it all up on the quest for the book. Nobody could ever understand that he could give it all up for this book. Heck, the old man even spent his life savings to acquire the book from the jaded shop keep.
*Foolish* he’d been called.
*Naïve* others had warned.
He ignored them all because he knew! He knew!
The man wasn't from around here, the Far East they called it. Wrought with tales of deception and deceit, one had to be wary in these parts for a scam. He wasn't putting up just a paltry sum either; this was all the money he had! Not even enough for a train ticket home; he spent it all on this book.
But no, the man knew better. He *felt* it was the book. He *knew* it was the book he second he saw it. Whereas countless others came through the door and detected a scam, the man saw opportunity! How could others be so foolish he thought! To forgo any wish you desired! Money comes and goes, he thought, but the book could grant *anything* he wished for!
He was ready for his wish. The man pulled out his pen from his shirt pocket. He licked the tip of the pen as he had envisioned so many times before. He began to write, right there in the shop! He couldn't wait, no, his wish couldn't wait! He'd waited long enough, after all.
*I want to experience true happiness for the rest of my life* the man wrote.
After he wrote, he couldn't believe it! His whole body was shaking, he was elated! He had never felt so happy in his entire life.
The old man's body couldn't handle the joy it was experiencing; his heart began to beat too fast. The man didn't notice though, he was too excited. As quickly as his heart began to rapidly beat, it stopped.
The shop keep also couldn't believe it. He shuffled around the counter to check on the old man who now lied on his shop floor.
As the shop keep tried to figure out what to do with the body, he wondered how one could be so naive to pay their life savings for a blank book. | 66 | A man finds a blank book. Whatever he writes in it becomes true, but not quite how he expects. | 92 |
First contact was an exciting time. We had been aware of earth #8750 for several hundred years, but our species, a peaceful one, chose to only watch. For centuries I watched their technological development with rapture.
When they found us I was ecstatic. They sent signals of greeting, and we responding in kind. We exchanged languages and information. We told them about our histories, about all the other thriving planets we had discovered. It had been a mistake.
It had started with the dignitaries. They visited under the guise of friendship, whilst carefully transmitting intelligence to their superiors.
Then the colonization. We were a careful and small people. Their planet was overpopulated. We accommodated all we could. They bred so quickly. A mere two generations passed and they had tripled in number.
The weapons they carried unnerved us. Soon, our people began to die. Angrily claiming self defense, we said nothing to the indignant humans, but mourned our loss. These actions grew and the reasoning dwindled. We hid underground as they took our wealth and land, killing our young.
I had studied them so extensively, it should have been obvious. This was not a species capable of peace. | 54 | An invasive alien species is taking over the planet. They are human. You are not. | 102 |
"Mr. Jones. Thank you for talking with me."
I nodded once, eyes trailing to the floor. The light at the top of the room was perfectly positioned so as not to reveal her shadow. Most rooms in this day and age were designed this way. People didn't like having their shadows revealed to the public.
The interviewer kept her back straight, clicking her pen. I adjusted my microphone slightly, feeling uncomfortable. Maybe this was a mistake. "Let's start with the basics," she said, quizzing me and my age and childhood. I didn't have much to say- I was fifty-four, and I had lived in Oregon all my life.
Finally, she finished writing, looking up. Her grey eyes bored into mine, and I could feel her searching for answers. "You don't have a shadow."
"I don't," I said.
"Why not?"
"Because I have no regrets."
"Nothing? Nothing at all? Surely after fifty-four years there has to be something you regret."
I sighed, sitting back. There was silence as I thought of what to say.
"There's this thing about regrets," I finally said. "Two things, actually. They are personal and they are purely manmade. There is no outside phenomenon, no external locus that causes regret. It is personal. You make your regrets. Humans are like little regret factories, constantly churning out guilt over things beyond our control. It's the only way we can really bring order to ourselves; we want to be in control, so we regret things. Even if we didn't have any control, by giving ourselves guilt, we can imagine that we did have control and we failed to take advantage of that. A poor substitute, but still effective." I took a slow breath. "We all want control, so we all manufacture and package our little regrets. Bows on boxes filled with the darkness of our pasts."
There was silence.
"So what about your regrets?" my interviewer finally said. I took another second to think.
"Remember what I said about all humans being regret factories? Well, my factory is broken down. It used to work, but one day one of the employees set down his tools and walked away. He realized that his job was useless; he had better things to do with his time. Others followed suit. So my regret factory fell into disrepair. It's still down there, yes, but there's no one home."
"Why?" she said quietly.
"Because the factory was useless. Sure, it's shipping out all these regrets, but for what? So I can fool myself into believing I have control? It's not worth it. I realized that my past is my past, and I can't change that or anything about it. So what's the point of wasting time and energy on regrets?"
"You mean there's nothing you regret? Nothing at all?"
"Nope."
"No lost loves?"
"There was one girl that I fell in love with in college. She moved away, we stopped talking. I can't change that. Why regret it?"
The interviewer blinked. "There has to be something. Family members?"
"I had good relations with all of them."
"Something in school?"
"I had friends and good grades."
"What about those friends?"
"The ones I still have are in good standing, the others have moved on."
I could see the interviewer getting irritated. It saddened me slightly.
She finished writing again, then tapped her pen for a moment. Finally, she reached over and shut off the recording device. "There. It's not recording. Tell me what you regret."
"Nothing."
She threw her hands up in frustration. "There has to be something!"
"There isn't."
She stood up, running her hand through her hair. "Why talk to me?" she finally said. "Why not any other interviewer? Why not talk to anyone at all?"
I stood up. "I spent a long time wondering who needed to learn the lessons I learned. Everyone I talked to, I judged. Finally, I found the one person who needed it most."
She stopped and dropped her hands. "... Thanks for your time," she whispered. I nodded once, turning around and opening the door. Light from the hallway poured in, illuminating the interviewer.
Her shadow was very, very long. | 67 | Shadows represent all of the regrets people have. One man has no shadow and is in an interview with a the only reporter whom he agreed to talk to. | 48 |
A thousand arrows fell. Hostile rain. The tears of Hell.
The savages around him squabbling in babbling tongues.
Arrows and arrows and arrows. So swift on horseback.
A dull twang as the fifth arrow finds it's home. The base of his spine. He fell. Musket abandoned. So heavy. So useless. Wet powder in the slick rain. Peppered with bolts. Red feathers littering the ground. Pain. Sadness. Fear. Then....
He was leaning against a tree. Snow fell gently, tiny white flakes evaporating in front of him. A vast fire before him. Warm. Calm. You could almost hear the comfort of a thousand warm embraces in the cool silence.
The aroma of food, warm and inviting caused him to rise.
He was is some sort of savage camp. Tents and cooking pits arranged in neat little circles. Red faces smiling at him. No one was armed. A child ran forward and thrust a bowl of venison and maize into his hands. He smiled.
Why had they mended him? He savored the possibilities as he ate. Strength filled him. Maybe they had won. Maybe he had been sleeping in a conquered village.
He looked around, calmly assessing.
All red.
He was dressed warmly.
He-
He wasn't wounded. In all reasoning, he felt as he had when he was young. Before two tours had stooped his back and cricked his leg. Before the stress made his cock flaccid. Before he started coughing blood.
He sat at the fire. Pagans in Heaven. Impossible.
Yet here they were. Smiling. Serving him food and water.
Smiling.
He lost track of time. Eventually when he focused again, he found he was accompanied by a young man dressed in skins. He was writing words in the sand. English words. He looked closer.
It was his name.
"Expecting your sins, child?"
He wasn't surprised the man spoke English. But his tone was shocking. Calm. Direct.
"You died. We left you by the fire to come back to yourself. Welcome to our Hunting Grounds. The game is excellent. The women are friendly. There is wine and song and tales of warriors you have never met. A thousand lifetimes of knowledge and pleasure to be had. Welcome."
"Why?"
"You are a great warrior. You died last. We honor you. That floating castle where we sent the coward brave is no place for the likes of you. We traded."
The pale man closes his eyes.
"I'll stay." | 28 | In the midst of a battle, a Pagan and a Christian kill each other, and are accidentally sent to each other's expected afterlife. | 61 |
"Let me get this straight." The demonic circle that Ted drew out with chalk lost its flames as the demon gave up on the visual effect. "You want to trade your soul for the ability to kill a demon?"
"Yes." Ted nodded.
"Just one demon?" It asked.
"Yes." Ted nodded again.
"Well..." the demon paced back and forth as much as it could within the confined circle. "Which one?"
Ted shrugged.
"You don't know which one?" The demon asked in amazement.
Ted shook his head.
"How do I know you won't just go and kill me as soon I make the deal? You know my kind are immortal, but if I allow you to kill one of us, we don't have an afterlife. This is all we got."
Ted nodded. "I know."
"How about I give you the power to kill an angel?"
Ted pondered for a moment. "No thanks, I'll take the demon one."
The demon scratched his head.
"You are either the smartest or the stupidest man I have met." The flames and smell of sulfur were completely gone now. The demon's amazing fiery entrance to the mortal plane was all but forgotten. "I'll do it on the condition that you promise you won't kill me."
Ted thought for a second. "No. You might do some loophole. All demons were created at once so all demons are you or something."
The demon threw his eight hands up in frustration. "The risk of death is not worth a Soul, even one in your shape."
"Oh." Ted looked disappointed.
The demon raised a hand to say something, but stopped. "I'll get going then."
"Can I offer you some tea?" Ted asked before it left.
"Tea? You have got a lot to learn about demons."
"Oh good," Ted said. "I don't have any tea, I was hoping you'd say no."
The demon blinked, but slowly descended back to Hell. "I'll see you again someday. Either wiping the blood and piss off Hell's floor or ruling it as the Underlord."
Ted waved goodbye. | 480 | A man wants to sell his soul to a demon but the thing he wants in return is so dubious the demon is thrown for a loop. | 268 |
"Rise my pretties, rise and do my will!" Gorzul the Great laughed maniacally as skeletal hands broke through the ground and pulled their bony bodies out of the ground. "Yes! I have done it!"
"Hey thanks dude."
Gorzul the Great jumped up and spun around. Since he was so tactically skilled, he screamed a roar of primal fury to send the voice scurrying away. The high pitch was explained by evolution. It totally wasn't out of fear.
"Woah, calm down bro, no need to be scared, you just brought me back to life man! Far out."
Gorzul scowled. "You can speak? And you're a hippie? Two reasons you should die."
As the short and stocky amateur magician prepared an inefficient and weak fireball to destroy his newest project, another voice came from behind him again.
"Uh, are you gonna kill us? Again."
Gorzul the Great jumped and spun, letting out another primal roar. "Can all of you speak?"
The other skeletons pulled themselves out of the ground and were standing. They grouped up, like people would do in a cold graveyard at midnight, if they weren't lonely old magicians. Or if they weren't too Great for other people, as Gorzul obviously was.
"Yeah dude, we can like, talk and stuff." The first skeleton spoke again.
"Even your skeletal shape makes me hate you." Gorzul said. "So, are you all still going to be doing my bidding?"
The skeletons all turned and looked at one another with empty eye sockets.
Gorzul sighed. "Should we take a vote? All for following me? Remember I brought you back from the dead."
"They took my baby!" A possibly female skeleton cried out. "My Babeh! They took-"
She was cut off by a fireball hitting her skull and destroying the bones in the process. Gorzul the Great held out his hand.
"I'm sorry, didn't realize they buried the crazies with the normal people." He stood tall and proud. All five feet and six inches. "So, who votes that you all follow me?"
No hands went up.
"And against?"
No hands went up.
"Seriously? Communist bastards, all of you. You can't even vote?"
"Dude, we like, can't move our arms. Out joints are messed up man." The hippie skeleton said. "Maybe we need some medicinal mariju-"
Gorzul the Great rubbed his chin in thought before interrupting hippie skeleton. "Surely you have no free will. I raised you from the dead and as such, my will is yours."
The hippie nodded along with the words. The other skeletons looked unsure. They didn't have faces for Gorzul to read, but he wasn't the Great for no reason.
Gorzul the Great turned around and began walking. "So, follow me to my lair and we- Ow!"
Gorzul turned and looked down at the pebble that hit his head.
"We have free will or I could not have hit you in the head with that pebble." One of the taller skeletons said.
Gorzul the Great opened his mouth to speak, but closed it. He couldn't think of anything to respond to that with. "I wish I joined my debate team."
"So what now?" A skeleton that Gorzul thought may have been a transvestite asked.
"Now, you shemaled bonebag, I kill you all for defying me."
"What makes you think I'm a shemale?"
"Something about your posture." Gorzul put his hands out in front of him in a picture frame shape. "Very gender ambiguous."
"Dang, I was just getting used to being reincarnated man."
"Sorry, hippie skeleton. I'll miss you the most if its any conciliation."
Hippie skeleton nodded solemnly.
Gorzul the Great began summoning a wave of immense fire. The hottest, most brilliant blaze man had ever seen. He aimed the the grouped up skeletons and reales. A small puff of smoke came out.
"Get him!" The transvestite skeleton yelled out.
Gorzul the Great ran home, shrieking in primal fury the entire way. | 15 | A sorcerer has summoned a horde of undead to do his evil bidding, though to his annoyance and surprise they have free will. | 21 |
(I'll take the prompt literally)
The stories of El Plata were true, the glistening cities of glass and silver rose to scrape the heavens. Were, not anymore. We found the remains of these cities empty, overgrown and in the process of being dismantled by metal monsters, consuming the cities’ strange stone and glass and leaving strange twisted structures. The only remnant we found was a ghost, though it insisted it was not a ghost but a “hologram.” It told us that the tomes left to them by Columbus contained secrets of the world unknown to both themselves and us. With the knowledge in those books they built a civilization stretching from pole to pole.
They had decided early on in this process to leave us alone, reasoning that we would only come to pillage their new-found wealth, and that it was better to leave us in our ignorance. I asked what had happened to destroy so great an empire. The ghost responded saying that the empire hadn’t died, that it had transcended the body and had found a new and better life in “simulation,” that they had liberated their spirits of the flesh to live in the earth and the heavens. These people are nobler than I can describe, when I asked about the monsters consuming the abandoned cities and the strange structures they left the ghost laughed. “They are art! Out of the scars we left in our mother we express our love for her.”
When I asked about whether we would be allowed to build settlements in this new land the ghost frowned replying, “No, your expedition has been allowed here for three purposes, to allow you to see what is possible with..” The ghost gestured towards a stone, and out of it was birthed a blinking white cube. “A gift, just as you brought us new knowledge, though you were ignorant of its contents, we give you our knowledge. And a warning.” With a snap of the ghost’s finger, the sea rose to a boil and lightning arced across the sky. “If you come here again, still bound to flesh, you will be seared. Any castaways from your ships will be immediately moved to their place of origin. Our gardens are not for you to ravage, as we know you would in time. Leave within 3 days, ask the cube any question and it will give the appropriate answer, though not always the one you want. Use your time wisely.” The ghost winked out of existence and my men prepared for departure.
As I sat on the beach, playing with the white cube, I took note of the sky's clear blue, unmarred by smoke. Wondering aloud I said, “Why is the sky blue?” And the cube spoke with a smooth voice, “Blue light scatters more in the air than other colors causing the sky's blue color, suggested topics are: Rayleigh Scattering, Rainbows, and Refractive Indices”
| 131 | Instead of colonizing the New World in 1492, Europeans gave Native Americans modern knowledge and sailed away. They return 200 years later. | 255 |
What happened? One minute, you were listening to some music at home, and now...you were speeding down the freeway in a..Bugatti? Wait...That was the song you were listening to!
You look at the radio and wonder...
You turn the radio on. You love this song!
You sing along, "Shots, shots shots shots!" And then...
You are in a loud, dark nightclub! All around you are shot glasses full of Patron! You take as many as you can down in one go, and then notice that the DJ is changing up the beat.
Wait! It can't be! It's that Rihanna song from a few years ago! You sing along, "S S S S and M M"
And then...
Ouch! You are tied up in some gothic nightclub. A dominatrix with a huge paddle is right next to you, screaming at you, calling you a pig. This is no good! And it's only the beginning of the song!
After three excruciating minutes, the song finally changes. What is it? You know that song! Desperately, you sing through the gag that they've put on you, "Aaaannd Uhhhhm Phreeeeee! Phreee fulllinnnn!"
Thank God that's over! But wait, why is everything so blue? And then you realize...Free Falling. You turn your body around, and watch the ground approach you at a rate far too fast for your liking.
You look around. Is there something, anything that can play music? Maybe if you sing it yourself, it will work anyways?
In your terror, you can only think of one thing to sing, "A B C D E F G".
It worked! You're in...a crib, looking up at the letters painted on the walls of your old room! You look up at your hands. Your tiny, newborn hands. You try to sing, but it just comes out as a wail.
Oh well, could be worse. | 67 | You blink slowly having just woken up, your vision clears, and you realize you've awaken in a new Bugatti. | 67 |
"It's ironic, really." She said, her slender hands setting down a large mug which smelled strongly of hot apples, and cinnamon.
"We're a patient, hard-working bunch, but you tend to have to be when you're dealing with bureaucrats."
Her name was Senophostria, and a group of us sat captivated around her. A pretty face and long brown hair disguised her more than any long black cloak or skeleton's mask might, and to the side of her chair, leaned lazily against the fireplace, was a long, crooked scythe. The kind you'd see in your nightmares, when death came looking to take you away. She claimed to be a Reaper, and even if the fairy tales she spun were a lie, it was a lie that each of us was happy to believe.
"You'd think it a pennance, or even maybe a job for those who seek it, in the afterlife, but it's more of a joke, really, for how important a position it is." In her right hand, she held a large, green apple which she considered for a moment. All gazes fixated on it, waiting for a metaphor, or some wordplay that might be coming next. Instead, she took a large bite of the round fruit, and a smile came across her face that made her glow in the firelight.
"Well?" A man to my right insisted, leaning in more closely, that it might compel her to continue.
"You are familiar with the gods, yes? Arlianna, Ossidius, Tenvor, Elmao, all of the big ones, maybe some of the lesser gods, as well? Vor'ka? Naiil?" Her gaze roamed the faces that sat around the table where she sat, and she leaned in towards all of us, looking mischievous.
"They all have a stake in the souls of those who worship them, and those who've slighted them. Some of them are angry gods, some of them kind, and sentimental, but there is only one kind of person that a God really trusts to seek out the souls of the soon to be departed, or the long dead."
She paused, grinning, and let her words linger until the crowd seemed as though it would burst.
"The godless, of course." With her matter-of-fact tone, she sat back in her chair, looking smug. Those at the table seemed for a moment, perplexed, and then several incredulous voices sounded.
"Godless!?"
She nodded. "Godless."
"But.. the godless-- they are castouts! They have no faith, no allegiance! Why would the gods see fit to reward them so!?" asked a man who wore his faith on the sleeve of his shirt; the crest of Elmao, the Divine Sword.
"This cannot be! You are a liar!" Shouted another, "Tenvor teaches us that those who do not follow a god are left to wander the Misty River! Do you claim that his teachings are a lie!?"
Senophostria, however, did not pay any mind to those who protested around her. She had found my gaze, and watched me, as though she could see something that I could not. I swallowed an uncomfortable knot in my throat, and for just a moment, I was sure of what I saw.
It was only after the woman had demonstrated her patience that she spoke again, to a fuming crowd.
"What punishment more fitting?" She asked of them, "than to take the godless, and have them serve the very gods which they rejected for all of time?"
Finally, her gaze left me, and she waited for the faces of the incensed men to sink into slow, and sudden realization.
Laughter erupted at the table, and each of the confident men, with their gods on the shoulders and their arms, had been granted a reprieve from their disbelief.
"I see! I get it, hah! What a cruel joke indeed, how wise of Lord Atzim to go along with a punishment that fits the crime. The godless, in servitude to the gods. It is perfect!"
"It is divine retribution, then, to be a Reaper! You are not harvesters of souls, you are errand boys! Sent to recover what the Gods have already claimed as their own. You are nothing to fear!"
The laughter was not quick to die down, but when it did, the mood at the table was far more relaxed, and less guarded than it had been. Senophostria had retreated to the steamy mug of apple cider, and the men whom she had previously enthralled now sat with authority and confidence.
"So tell us little Reaper, how does it feel to know that you were so very mistaken about the gods? How does it feel to know that whoever cast you out from your own people, and whoever it was that killed you, were indeed favoured by the very beings you refused to believe in!" One large, and very loud voice asked. The man who had spoken was a foot short of a Dire Bear, and built like one as well, towering over the gathered crowd as he approached.
Senophostria looked up over the edge of her mug, which covered most of her face, but I could see from where I sat that her expression had changed from bemusement to controlled madness, in an instant. By the time her drink hit the table, she wore her disarming smile again, and laughed. It was a nice laugh, I found myself thinking, and then looked over to the giant.
"Yomi Mogu", she said, and his face was suddenly far less amused. "Son of Chag Mogu, follower of Trok, the Mountain King. Born under a half-moon, to the whore Jenn Mauk; your mother hid this shame, and it ate at her until she took her own life." The giant had been paralyzed by her words, his face flushed a deep red, and his muscles straining to hold back his rage. "Mori Mogu now wanders alone in the Green, she will never see battle, never known combat, never see glory, and will not be reunited with you in the afterlife. She was Godless."
As Senophostria spoke those final words, the beast snapped, and he threw aside the table which separated them as though it were a dinnerplate. Men immediately scattered, cheers and cries for blood rang out, and a sudden realization washed over me, something obvious, something so completely visible that nobody could see it.
There was a reason that a Reaper had come to this tavern. It was the only reason that a Reaper ever showed itself. A thrown mug blindsided me in my distraction, and darkness overtook me.
When I awoke, it was to the familiar crunch of a ripe apple, and the smell of blood. Instead of panic, I felt strangely relaxed; peaceful, even, and then I heard her voice.
"Good morning, Godless." She said to me.
I blinked a few times and slowly sat up, my vision still blurred. I was certain that we were still in the Goose's Gander, but the tavern was eerily silent. By the time my vision had returned, I had already guessed what had happened.
The bodies of the dead sat all around me, strung over chairs and impaled on wooden spikes; slashed, gashed, sliced, and one body even sat separated from its head, still seated in its chair.
"You killed them all. That's why you were here."
"No," she said, shaking her head.
"I came here for you. You are a patient, hard-working man, and in this city you are the sole Godless with the guile and the skill to stay hidden, and alive. Come along then."
Senophostria stood, and slung her crooked scythe over her shoulder, a bright green apple in the opposite hand. Despite the carnage that surrounded us, not a single drop of blood stained her blade.
"How did you do that?" I asked her without thinking. "Without even using your weapon."
"This old thing?" She looked up at the scythe, and then giggled to herself. "It's just for show." | 31 | A cloaked man in a tavern begins to tell a story about how humans become grim reapers. One of the patrons begins to quickly realize they fulfill the qualifications. | 28 |
Once every month, each person in the world is secured in a small room with one other person for 24 hours. People are paired randomly. At first, everyone was apprehensive, now we look forward to The Event. I’ve made dear friends and some have even found love. We go all out, get dressed up and enjoy the time meeting our ‘room’mate. Today was special as it was the two year anniversary of The Event. No expense was spared. What we did not know was how it would all end.
Life got busy and before The Event, we could go too long without seeing each other. The Event created a new tradition in our family. My family gathers chattering about who we hoped we would meet while getting ready. As we leave, we say I love you. It’s not the same I love you tossed over the shoulder on the way out the door. It’s the I love you that brings a serene calm to your heart. After, we gather again to share our experiences during the past 24 hours.
As I entered my room, I looked up to see my ‘room’mate lock eyes with me. I felt my skin go flush. We both felt the instant attraction. After the first hour of chatting; hobbies, family, favorite foods, we were pleased we had so much in common. The connection grew as we learned about each other’s hopes and fears. We were not going to be apart after that night, we had found happiness, we had found love.
As the hours came to an end, we gathered our things and planned on heading to my family home for the after party. The doors open and we head out ready to share our admiration with the world. We stroll down the streets near my family home and I point out childhood memories.
I bound through the door full of excitement. I called out and I see my family already getting food ready, all except one. As we laugh at the possibilities I introduced my new love. We started talking as we cooked and got the table set. I love watching the “After The Event” coverage so I reached over and turned on the news.
I dropped the plate I was holding and as if in slow motion it dropped to the floor shattering the laughter and replacing it with absolute silence. “And we repeat this, on this the second anniversary of The Event, there have been several fatalities. We are continuing to gather information and as it becomes available we will update you.” Confusion and dread filled our bodies as we remembered we were still missing a family member. Panic, denial, dread, we tried to reassure each other. A short time later, the reporter announces the king will make a statement shortly. I remember it taking forever and hearing too fast at the same time.
“The Event on this the second anniversary was used to rid you of the wrong in our world. All persons witnessed to be violent, dangerous, or otherwise harmful to the human race have been eliminated. Family members may go online to enter the name of a person into the database to see if they were eliminated. Once on the site, you may choose to view their transgressions. Thank you and good day.”
| 14 | You live in an alternate universe. Once every month, each person in the world is locked in a small room with one other person for 24 hours. People are paired randomly. | 17 |
Mid-way through wiping down the television set did Mikey finally notice the wooden door that was behind his bookcase. An edge barely poked out from behind the loaded bookcase, but he knew right away that it was a door; one that he had never seen before in his life. He dropped the rag he was using to clean with.
He put his shoulder into the bookcase, and surprisingly enough it slid with ease. Mikey knew he wasn't a large guy; he was actually on the short side, so it surprised him that he was able to slide the bookcase so easily.
The wooden door was now completely visible with the bookcase out of the way. Mikey heard noises coming from the other side of the door, it sounded like someone speaking.
"I can, I can still tend the rabbits, George?"
Mikey grabbed onto the doorknob and flung the door open. It slammed against the bookcase and in that instant, he was back on stage, back in the 10th grade. That years play chosen for One Act Play was an adaptation of Of Mice & Men by John Steinbeck. Mikey had tried out for Curly but had gotten George instead.
It was the night of the first big performance that was done for the small town. Kneeling in front of Mikey was Todd, a much larger boy who Mikey had been friends with throughout middle and high school.
Mikey was holding a revolver in his hand. He looked out to the crowd, forgetting what his line had been. Then he realized he didn't have any lines, it was time to pull the trigger and put Lenny in the dirt.
But the revolver felt and looked wrong. It was heavy; there was no way this was the same plastic gun that they had rehearsed with. No, this was a real gun. It would kill Todd if Mikey pulled the trigger.
Mikey looked to the crowd, trying to find his director. He spotted Mrs. Carson in the back of the auditorium. She was mouthing words "shoot him, shoot him." The entire crowd was waiting.
He turned to look offstage, and there he saw Madeline standing. She had played the role of Curly's wife, Mae. She too was mouthing, "pull the trigger."
But Mikey couldn't. He wanted to yell, "THIS IS A REAL FUCKING GUN!" Something inside him told him that it didn't matter. They knew it was a real gun. They wanted him to put Todd in the ground.
Mikey didn't pull the trigger, but the hammer fell either way. The blasting noise of the revolver filled the auditorium, and it popped Mikey's ears. He flinched, cringing his eyes, and dropping the cellphone.
"Are you calling the police?" Madeline asked.
Mikey looked down to the ground. The wood that was the auditorium floor had been replaced with the ugly red shag carpet that Madeline's apartment had. "What the fuck," Mikey whispered, wondering what the hell was going on. "Am I dreaming?" he asked.
He looked up and saw Madeline sitting on the couch, a revolver in her lap.
Then Mikey realized where he was. About thirty minutes ago, Madeline had sent him a text, thanking him for being such a wonderful boyfriend, but she had to leave. He had rushed to her apartment, worried that she was going to kill herself, and his fears were confirmed when he kicked in the door to find her sitting on the couch with the pistol in her lap.
Except, this time, the revolver that she had used to kill herself with eleven years ago had been replaced with the prop revolver that Mikey had used in the school play.
He stood there in the doorway, confused when he recognized the orange barrel of the gun that obviously showed that the gun was just a toy. And yet, his stomach still lurched when he saw Madeline raise it to her temple.
"Don't," he said.
She paused. She put the toy gun back down on her lap. Madeline turned to look at him, locking her blue eyes with his brown.
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't," she muttered, voice on the edge of cracking.
Mikey couldn't come up with a reason eleven years ago, and despite all the nights he spent awake thinking of a reason that he could've told her, he still drew a blank.
"*That's what I thought.*"
She pointed the toy revolver back to her temple and pulled the trigger. A large burst of confetti exploded out of the opposite side of her head. Her neck snapped as her head flung itself to the side. Her body went stiff, and fell to the side, landing softly onto the couch. The confetti slowly drifted down to the ground, and Mikey ran forward, trying his best to catch the confetti. He had to put it back in her head. Had to put it back to save her.
"Fuck!" Mikey screamed, voice drowning on the tears that were streaming down his face and into his mouth. He scrambled across the carpet, trying to pick the bits of confetti out from the shag carpet, but he knew it was too late.
The door that he kicked in slammed shut, causing Mikey to cringe again. He opened his eyes, only to find himself at the bedside of his best friend Todd.
Four years after Madeline's death, Todd had contracted an advanced form of cancer that quickly crippled the once sturdy man. The nurses had told Mikey that he didn't have much time left, so Mikey spent Todd's last remaining moments at his bedside.
Mikey looked around the room, wondering where Madeline had gone, only to have his attention brought to Todd who was trying to whisper something.
"Mike, man," Todd muttered.
Rage filled Mikey's chest like a ball of hot steam. It pressed its way into his throat, making his cheeks sore. He clenched his teeth together. He already knew what Todd was going to say. Mikey didn't have to hear him say it twice.
He knew what the words were. He wanted to strangle Todd the first time he said them to Mikey, but Mikey didn't then.
But now, he had the second chance.
Mikey wrapped his hands around Todd's throat and squeezed with all his might as the words Todd would've said rang in his ears.
"I need to confess to you before I go, I need to get right with God," Todd would've said, but his trachea was being crushed. "I took Maddy to a bar," he would've said, but now his eyes were turning bloodshot. "I drugged her," he would've said, but now his entire face was turning purple. "And I had sex with her," Todd's final words would've been, but now he lay dead in the hospital bed with Mikey screaming at his corpse.
"You're the fucking reason she's gone!" Mikey yelled. Nobody heard him. The nurses continued walking up and down the hallways. "She left me because of what you did!"
There was a knock on the door. The annoying sort of knock that Mikey's landlord always did when she was trying to pick up the rent. He had made sure to pay the rent though. She was more than likely checking in because of a noise complaint. A loud bang.
She continued knocking, and it annoyed Mikey. He wanted to sit up and answer the door, to tell her to fuck off, but he couldn't move. The bullet had done plenty of damage to his brain, but it failed to finish him off quickly like he wanted. The revolver was laying on his lap. The hot barrel was burning through his pants and searing the flesh on his thigh, but he couldn't move.
Instead, Mikey lay on the floor, blood slowly filling the narrow spaces between his damaged brain and skull. The fluid pressed against certain parts of his brain. It wasn't discernible if this was what was causing his last minute hallucinations, or if the simple act of dying was what caused him to dream.
The landlord's knocking continued.
| 20 | While cleaning your house one day you find an impossible door where there never was one before. | 21 |
"A wise king does not do this."
The royal advisor could feel his knees turning to stone as he knelt before his new king. His gout threatened agony at the slightest touch on a fair day, but he had been crouched for hours now in the same position. This simpleton before him never glanced in his direction. A thin strip of drool wavered from his thick bottom lip.
The advisor hadn't expected an answer from one such as this, but the pain wouldn't allow any more courtesy. "Sire, I beseech you again. This is not wise. Let me aid you."
King Lemmy sat high on his borrowed throne, silent.
"Sire, this is all new to you. I served the last royal highness for a generation. Please, let me help you reign, even for one day. I will show you how."
King Lemmy was unmoved. He made to stand, then paused mid-air. A sudden crack echoed through the cavernous throne room as his royal highness broke wind. He gave a gentle sigh and relaxed once more upon the gilded chair.
The royal advisor drew his lips together in a twisted grimace. By all that is holy, he thought, will the kingdom even survive this one day?
He turned his head to the eastern side of the throne room. Dozens of the royal court were lined against the tapestries, their knees also pressed deep into the marbled floor. They had been kneeling for much longer, these men and ladies who had all played a part in the ruling of the kingdom over the years.
There was Robert, the bard, who had composed a song for every deed the previous king had done. No matter the old king was drunk for most of Robert's performances, the advisor mused. He never realized the songs were a farce and the deeds were left undone.
Beside Robert was Geoff, the commander of the royal army. He once advised the king to lay down his arms against a neighboring province. It's people were gentle, he said; their king a benevolent one. It seemed everyone but the old king knew it was a lie. The royal grounds were invaded frequently by the neighboring province, which was no province at all but a den of thieves. It was common knowledge the royal commander was bribed by the thieves and received a portion of their plunder every moon's turn.
Also, there was Grette, the royal paramour. It was she would laid with the king near every night and soothed his drunken ravings with a soft touch and delicate kiss. She was a great comfort to the king, the advisor knew. Never mind she was a great comfort to many men within the court. The advisor knew from experience. Any man could take a gallop with Grette, as long as a man could gift her with good gold. For some trinket or whispered favor she could even be persuaded to tell of all the king's secrets he revealed after a long night's drinking.
Such was the royal advisor's company. He peered up at his new king, the idiot boy Lemmy. No, this is not my king, he thought. My king would not punish us so.
"Sire, I am begging you. Do not do this thing. This is not wise!"
Finally King Lemmy turned his head to the royal advisor and looked at him. The advisor stared back, uneasy. He sees me, he thought. Yes, he sees me very well.
"Do not do this thing?" Lemmy asked. The line of drool from his mouth broke off and splattered at the advisor's knees. "Do not punish you?
A wise king does not do this."
Edit: Sorry I don't know how to format! | 26 | The village Idiot becomes king for a day- it turns out he's a better ruler than the King! | 34 |
"Well, what are you waiting for?" Adam tapped his foot impatiently, arms folded, "Just try sticking it in."
Eve glared at him. "I *did*. It doesn't want to fit. This can't be the way."
Rolling his eyes, Adam unfolded his arms. "Look, there are a limited number of holes and things to put in them. That big wiggly thing on the end of one of my trunks looks like the best bet."
"What if it doesn't go in my face mountain? The holes are too small and not stretchy."
"Well, I'm not putting it near your sharp face eater things." Adam grunted, "I saw what they did to that apple."
Eve sighed. "For the last time, the Snake told me it would be tasty!" She glanced around, "Actually, the Snake might be able to help here." She cupped her hands to her mouth, "Hey! Snake!"
A hissing noise directly above caused them both to jump. "Yesssss? What isssss it?"
Adam looked up to see a large snake coiled around the branches of the massive that provided protection from the bright sunlight. "We're trying to make a small us. None of these things seem to fit in other things though."
The snake hissed and lowered its head down to the two. "Usssssee your ssssssnake, Adam, in Eve'ssssss cave."
"Which Cave?" Asked Eve, "I don't know why but I don't really want to mouth that thing."
Adam glanced at Eve's mouth, thinking hard. "I feel like It would fit well there. Maybe that's what it's for?" he asked, looking to the snake.
"Only on birthdaysssss."
"What?"
"Forget I ssssssaid that. The cave between her legssssss."
Eve shuddered. "No way! That's where the food leftovers come out, you're not putting that thing in there."
Adam's face fell as quickly as it had lit up. "Thinking about that is making my snake turn to stone! Is that a good thing?"
"Yesssss. Not the food leftoversssss hole though. The front ssssspaccce."
Eve's expression changed dramatically. "Y...yes, that could work. Let's try that."
The snake slid back up into the tree, sliding behind the foliage, but not so far that it couldn't still see. Both Adam and Eve seemed intent on their activities, not bothering with it. Head slowly swaying back and forth, the snake watched the tangle of limbs for a a few minutes before a booming voice exploded into its ear.
**WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?**
Cringing, the snake glanced over to see a point of pure light beside it from which the voice echoed.
"Jussssst helping them procreate."
**FOR MY SAKE LUCIFER, YOU WANT *MORE* OF THEM? IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO CONTROL TWO!**
"Well why did you give them the toolssssss required to make more then? They would of courssssse figure it out eventually."
**THEY WERE A SAFETY MEASURE; JUST IN CASE WE WANTED MORE. NOW THEY'LL BE ALL OVER THE PLACE.**
The snake made a valiant attempt at a shrug. "That'ssss your problem."
**I CAN FIX THIS.** A blinding flash consumed the garden. **THERE.**
Looking around for a few seconds, the snake narrowed its eyes and turned back to the point of light. "What isssss it that you have done?"
**THE FEMALE WILL NOW HAVE 9 MONTHS OF UNCONTROLLABLE EMOTIONS AND A USELESS MEMORY BEFORE EACH CHILD COMES OUT, A PROCESS WHICH WILL BE EXCRUCIATING.**
"What of the Male? How will he be controlled?"
**HE WILL HAVE THE URGE TO MATE WITH EVERYTHING FROM A YOUNG AGE.**
A moment of silence passed, broken only by the grunts and exclamations from below. "How doesssss that help? That just makesssss it worsssse!"
**HE WILL FEEL PAIN AFTER A FEW DAYS OF NOT SPILLING SEED. I SHALL ALSO, IN MY WORD TO HIM, FORBID HIM FROM MATING IN ANY WAY OTHER THAN TO REPRODUCE.**
Silence again reigned for a few moments before the snake looked back, awe on his face. "That'sssss the most impresssssssively created punisssssshment I've ever heard."
Grunts and moans echoed throughout the garden of Eden as the first two humans, blissfully oblivious made a concerted effort to get the human race started.
| 48 | Adam and Eve want to make children, but they have no idea how to get started. (NSFW) | 43 |
"You're a sexual what?" Barry rubbed the scar that ran through his short cropped black beard. The quartermaster was genuinely perplexed.
"No, I'm just asexual."
Barry had served with all sorts of crews. He had seen the crazy stuff that men do on the poop deck when the days at sea stretched long, but never had he heard of someone who just didn't do anything with anyone. Yet there before him stood Young Johnny, a new recruit from Roland island, claiming he didn't care for men, women, pigs, or hands. It didn't make sense.
"I guess you're the sort of man another man can trust at his back this far from shore and women Eh Johnny?" Barry tried to make light of the situation.
"It's not funny. It's just who I am." Johnny flicked his red bangs up in disapproval of the joke and pretended to be looking away towards the horizon.
"Well it certainly isn't funny, " Barry smirked making a feminine hand gesture towards three rowdy fellows behind him, "but it is worth a ha ha!" The burly laugh was joined by the other men.
Three days later the storm came. Lightening, rain, and swells played for the ship's fate. The next morning Barry found the topside crew water logged and beaten. Young Johnny was retching over the side of the ship while Bailey and Thomas laughed.
"Did you swallow some sea.. man?" Bailey chuckled as he hit young Johnny on the back, "Get it?
"Nah, he don't get it. The only peter he likes is the saltpeter. I hear he don't like the clams neither," Thomas chided, "It's going to make going to shore dull for you Johnny. How abouts I hook you up with three-nippled Sheila when we get to Landerspoint? I bet she could make you hum a new tune!" Thomas leaned towards Johnny's face.
Young Johnny replied with a mouth full of bile and last night's rations. Thomas boxed Johnny's ears hard. The quartermaster grabbed his arm before he could draw a black eye.
"That's enough of that swabbie! I don't see a dry deck." Barry pointed to the water still pooling in the morning sun.
The next day the ship sighted an island.
"I'm telling you that is Landerspoint," the boatswain was arguing with the sailing master near the bow of the ship.
"That's impossible! We are still three days out!"
"But that storm. I bet it picked us up like God's hand and set us down here. In any event, be it Landerspoint or Hellsmoth we need a place to dock and repair," the boatswain implored.
Barry walked into the conversation, "Aye master boatswain, the captain is keen on docking here. We'll do our best to get you close enough for lumber."
...
"My God she's beautiful! Just like my sweet lass at home."
"That friends is the sound of three-nippled Sheila if I've ever heard her coo," Thomas argued.
The whole crew was topside, even those not on duty. Bailey already had a hand down his pants.
Barry could hear the sound of Martha calling him. Dead three years now along with his only son Patrick. Yet here she was today, her voice clear without a hint of the pox. He could swear she was just 10 feet ahead in the fog.
"What fog?" Young Johnny questioned as he pushed through the crowd.
"The fog right in front of your limp pecker. But that's alright mate, more for us," Thomas stood seemingly mesmerized by the jagged rocks in front of the ship's path.
"Quartermaster, we're headed straight for the rocks!" Young Johnny shouted.
Barry gave Johnny a passing glance. He had red hair like young Patrick did just before he caught the pox from Martha. But Martha wasn't gone, she was just ahead. Was that Patrick or Johnny?
Johnny slapped the sailing master's hands off of the wheel and turned the ship hard to starboard. The motion was violent throwing most of the seasoned men to the deck.
"What are you doing you little stump!" Thomas was somehow still upright with a knife in his hand.
"Saving you!"
Within moments Thomas was on Johnny. The ship listed as the two scuffled. The younger man fought hard but was soon thrown to the deck and stabbed.
"I'm coming Patrick!" Barry screamed as he charged for Thomas, his rapier already out of the scabbard.
Young Johnny lay helpless, his back flat to the deck with the larger man straddling him. A knife rose from the red cavity it had made in the shoulder, readying itself to sink into a throat.
Just then the quartermaster stabbed hard with his rapier. It pierced Thomas' back and escaped through his chest. Thomas fell forward. Johnny barely managed to avoid the point of the blade as it thunk into to the deck next to his head. He struggled free from the corpse as it defecated one last time.
"It's sirens boys, they're calling us to rocks! To your stations!" Barry heaved for breath.
Slowly at first and then with a fevered pace each man regained his composure and set to the task of rescuing the ship from the rocks. Soon the sailing master was back at the helm and out of his daze.
Later that day the quartermaster stood in the center of a crowd of pirates. "I ain't going to be calling you Young Johnny no more. " Barry announced with a smile at Johnny, "I'm going to call you... Hung Johnny!"
That drew a few chuckles from the crowd.
"Why's that quartermaster?" an anonymous pirate responded to the expectant pause Barry had created.
"Because he showed more balls and fucked those siren bitches better than any man here could. Tonight we drink a full ration of rum to Hung Johnny!"
The crew cheered and chanted Johnny's new name. Johnny just looked down at his feet, a bit red in the cheeks from the attention.
------
**Edit**
Since originally posted I made some changes per the excellent feedback below. Thanks. | 197 | An asexual pirate is mocked by the rest of the crew until he saves them from sirens | 511 |
I hurried out of Walmart with another week's supply of canned foods. I threw my bag carelessly into the backseat and started driving away. This is already the 12th time I have done this yet my hands are still shivering from all the sweat. "I cannot be seen. I cannot be seen. I cannot be fucking seen goddamnit!" I swore as I drove my car violently into the wild, as far away as I can get from the main street. If I ever encounter a hitchhiker perchance, it's all over. After 30 minutes of driving or so, I have finally arrived back at my home, an abandoned RV really, but a place where I can be left alone from all the craziness. As soon as I got back I masturbated three times before I collapsed on the bed, completely exhausted with myself.
It all happened one day. Everyone started having sex, I mean literally, everyone was constantly having sex everywhere, with every opportunity they had. Hospitals, post offices, car-washes and schools became the meccas of unprotected orgies. Nobody was ever hardworking at work, but rather hard at work. Apparently a virus started spreading where it made a person's hormones malfunction and make the body produce mass amounts of pheromone, testosterone or whatever that made every single living person horny. It was a blink of an eye for all sorts of sexually transmitted diseases to take over the world, with hospitals barely functioning with nurses and doctors busy fucking their patients.
Luckily for me, I was a loner who was living alone in a single bedroom apartment when patient zero was on the news for trying to molest a police officer when he got pulled over for speeding. I tried to order pizza that day but the line was busy for every single pizza joints (thank god).
So I managed to run away from the city of sex and settle in this quiet RV surviving on canned food.
I laid back on my chair and glanced at the beautiful sunset over the prairie, very happy that I don't have to go back to that jungle for at least another week. Then I saw a figure in the distance collapsing onto the ground helplessly. I immediately ran over, thinking it might be a cow or a horse.
It was a woman, around my age. She looked really dehydrated and her legs were all scratched up from the tumble.
I wanted to run away, but I could not control my body but mutter: Looks like you need some help, why don't I bring you back to my place and make you feel more comfortable? | 13 | A world that revolves around the same logic of porn films | 15 |
Sir Horace, Guardian of the Demonic Portal, shrugged his shield onto his arm and unsheathed his sword. His trouble usually came from the portal, but this time a lone horseman was riding toward him. The rider looked small and skinny, like a farm-boy had decided to don his father's military suit.
"Halt!" Sir Horace knew how to boom his voice from his years as a Commander. "State your name and intention!"
A weak voice barely managed to carry back to him. "I am Hydor Thornroot! I intend to slay every demon on the Other Side!"
Sir Horace sighed in his helmet. This boy must have heard the tale of the King's offensive parties failing and wanted to prove himself. The burly knight waved the boy over.
Hydor had a bad riding stance. It was inefficient for his thighs and would tire him out quickly. When he got to within 20 yards of the Portal, Sir Horace walked towards him, taking off his helmet.
"Boy, the King sent his very best to the Other Side." Sir Horace looked into the boy's eyes. "You are what? A farmer? A merchant's son? You want to impress a girl?"
Hydor swallowed. "Commander Horace, I-"
"I'm no longer a Commander." The knight cut in with a hint of sadness. He was demoted many years ago.
"Of course, Sir." Hydor said. "I need to slay those demons. They killed my father."
Sir Horace squinted his eyes. "No demon has passed by on my watch in over 14 years."
"I know. My father led the offensive force before you were assigned."
Sir Horace straightened his back. "You're Lord Ashworth's son? I saw you when you were a baby..."
Hydor nodded. "I was adopted by Baron Thornroot after he... fell"
The two were silent. They both knew what happened. Hydor from the legends and Sir Horace from memory. The offensive force came back through the portal, headless and soulless, but somehow alive. Tortured and sent back as a message. The King had to order his own men, his most loyal men, to be executed. Only one man survived, sent back through to tell of the horrors he saw.
"I can't stop you if you decide to go, but you will die."
"No," Hydor said stubbornly. "I've been practicing, I can do it."
Sir Horace shook his head. "You have no clue what those things are, what they do. You can't even defeat me, what chance would you have against a demonic legion?"
Hydor nodded solemnly and looked down. Sir Horace bent lower to encourage the boy, but flinched back as the powder thrown from Hydor's hand stung his eyes. He heard the boy yelling as he ran towards the portal. "Sorry, Commander! Your eyes will be fine in a few minutes!"
Sir Horace ran forward and tried to grab Hydor, but he was essentially blinded. "Damn it, you'll die!"
The sound of the Portal opening cut off any more objections.
-
Sir Horace stood with his back to the Portal. It had been a week since the boy ran in and he still hadn't come back. The Guardian had wanted to run in after him, but was ordered not to. Stupid boy.
The first offensive force was sent back exactly one day after going in. They were covered in scars, tortured the entire time. Seven days. What in Damnation could those things do to the boy for seven days.
The sound of the Portal opening forced Sir Horace out of his thoughts and into battle stance. He shrugged his shield on his arm and pulled his sword from its sheath in mere moments. No demon has come from the Portal in months. Sir Horace held an arm in the air to alert the watchmen in the towers that he didn't see any demons yet. That way they wouldn't have to make the horn call sending the army for help. No massive attack has been planned, but only a fool wouldn't prepare for it.
A leg came through the portal. Human.
Another leg, the body, the arms, the head. It was Hydor Thornroot. Covered in scars and eyes closed in pure exhaustion. He was holding a deformed head. Could it be... the head of Dementius? Had he killed Him? It was impossible...
"You're back! Are you alright?" Sir Horace ran up to the boy. "What's in your hand?"
He grabbed the head and inspected it.
It was Lord Ashworth's head.
Sir Horace looked back to Hydor and saw tears coming from his closed eyes. They weren't closed out of exhaustion. They were stitched closed.
Nine more heads came rolling through the Portal. The heads of the rest of the offensive force.
Sir Horace saw the pain the boy was in. The same pain his father had been in, but worse. Seven days of torture...
The Guardian ran to the Portal with his sword brandished. For the first time in 14 years, a man returned into the Demonic Portal. Sir Horace pulled off his helmet as he ran in, revealing a row of scars on his face from what was once stitched on his eyelids. A primal yell sounded and he was gone. The last thing he heard was the war horns going off. | 15 | A knight, known for his legendary fighting skills, has been single-handedly guarding the pathway that descends into the Realm of Demons for decades. One day, a teenager approaches and tells the knight that he is relieved of his duty, as the teenager intends to slay all of the demons. | 16 |
The phone rings, once, twice- my impression was that they would pick up immediately.
"Hi caller, you're on the air, Are you calling about our rope offer?"
It's surreal, I'm not sure what they're talking about. I look down at the number on the card, and try to think about what I dialed. I'm pretty sure I got it right.
"Sorry?"
"We were just showcasing the Mighty Rope, capable of holding up to three hundred pounds without snapping!"
It must be a joke. I'm pretty sure it's a joke. I think David gave me his number, it's probably him fucking with me. Lightening the situation?
"Caller, you'll have to speak quick, every second of dead air is another unit sold!"
"I... The suicide hotline?"
The host tries to say it quietly, but there's an audible "shit!" on the phone.
"I- Sorry caller-"
There's a cut out and then the dial tone buzzes in my ear. I hang up and lean back, watching the wall, the window, the rain outside. Fucking David. I collect myself and pick the phone back up.
"Hi caller, you're on the air-"
"Yeah, I was looking to buy one of those Mighty Ropes? Is express shipping available?"
"Sure is! I'll patch you through to one of our representatives." | 20 | A person, male or female, has hit rock bottom and is on the verge of commuting suicide. Out of sheer desperation, they call the suicide hotline, but they accidentally dial the home shopping network and their call is answered on live television. | 27 |
Murders. So many murders.
There hadn't been lynchings in a hundred years, here, but suddenly everyone felt the burden of an unfolding future before them. It didn't matter when a politician protested no, he wouldn't do it again, or even when the light of real horror shone in his eyes. They killed him anyway. The memory was too fresh, the future too near at hand.
Some people reformed overnight. A glimpse of the future will do that to you, seeing your own mind turn to jello from repeated abuse, seeing your friends and family turn from you, seeing the crimes your hands would commit. Sometimes, their would-have-been victims came for them anyways.
Turns out it's harder to track down a murderer when the motive hasn't happened yet, and it's buried somewhere in ten years of not-history.
The zombies were the strangest. They were the ones who'd been alive at one end of the Break, but not the other. Their accounts of the missing time... differed. Some remembered a loose pole going through their windshield, and then waking up. Others insisted they'd been watching for years, with varying degrees of detail and accuracy. A lot of them are having trouble being among the living again. Jack was killed in a construction-site accident, and now he's so careful; he won't die the same way twice, he swears up and down. But his face is ashen every time he sees a crane lift a load, and he's never done anything but contract work. Rita knows her heart is brittle as glass three years earlier than she learned last time, but what can she do? And her Robby's heart was always weak in a different sense. He says he needs some time off.
Jen's mother died three months after the Break of an unexpected stroke. She's off work until then. We'll see. Two weeks left.
Little Jacob was born, again, just after the Break. His mom and pa are smart people, always were, and they'll know what to look out for this time. But his brother James, his sister Ellie, they weren't conceived yet when the Break happened. So his parents sit there, nursing a newborn, mourning children that never will be born. There will be more children, but they know those kids won't be their James and their Ellie.
Rick, or Rico, he's dying of frustration. From twenty-five to fifteen, can you imagine? All those memories of accomplishment, of going away to college, of building a whole new person for him to be, and now he's back in the hormone-ridden body he thought he'd shed along with a no-good family. He remembers in vivid detail the long hours drawing plans, building models; he could go out and build a skyscraper right now, if he had a degree. If he had the patience and concentration he developed over ten years of hard work. If he had enough money for bus fare to go find his old professors. If his vengeful, angry, zombie father wasn't more determined than ever to grind him into dust.
I don't expect his old man to live very long, somehow. I hope I don't catch whoever pulls the trigger.
Me, I'm busier than I've ever been. Never had two months with so many killings, so many obvious, undeniable murders. The brass is talking about hiring or promoting; they have their own ideas about who did well last time around. Lee says it colors their judgment, the future hasn't happened yet, yadda yadda. Greggs creeps around the department, ghastly afraid. He hasn't stolen yet, but half the district thinks he will. The other half are all eyeing me funny.
They remember how I died, but I don't. They saw me dead. I didn't. I just woke up here again.
It was murder, they tell me. Obvious, undeniable murder. | 24 | Time is rewound by ten years. Everybody over the age of 10 retains their memories of the "lost" time. | 16 |
David awoke with a start. The greyhound was dark and quiet, the dull thrum of the engines and the sound of road noise were all that he could hear. He checked his watch. It was 2:38 AM. Everyone on the bus was asleep.
Including himself and the bus driver “My name is Robert, I’ll be your driver for this trip” there were 5 people aboard. Everyone was traveling alone, and as soon as the passengers entered the bus they spread as far from each other as possible. No one had been in the mood for company, and that had suited David just fine.
He looked out the window into an inky blackness. Trees and road whizzed by outside, and nothing else. They were on some stretch of country road between Portland and Bend, but where exactly he had no idea. He stared into the darkness for a sign – anything – that would tell him where they were. After a few moments he saw one of those blue highway signs – Route 20 it read. If he remembered correctly, the 20 drove straight into Bend. Then he saw an exit sign ‘Indian Ford Road – 2 miles.’
He had no idea where they were.
Deciding that there was no chance he would get back to sleep, David made his way to talk to the bus driver – Robert. Robert would know how far away they were.
“Hey,” David said as he approached the front of the bus.
“You’re… uh… supposed to stay seated sir,” Robert replied never taking his eyes from the road. There was something off in the tone of his voice, but David chalked it up to the fact that the man seemed to take his job too seriously.
David sat down in one of the front seats nearest the bus driver. “I was just wondering how close we were? I thought we were supposed to get into Bend at 1 am. It’s past 2.”
David looked down at his phone to double check the time – 2:41.
“We… uh… we seem to be lost,” the bus driver responded warily.
“Lost!” David stopped short of yelling, he didn’t want to wake anyone else on the bus. “How can we be lost, doesn’t this thing have GPS?”
David pulled out his phone and tapped on Google maps – NO SERVICE. ‘Damn,’ he thought.
Robert looked over at the GPS unit attached to his dash, “It’s not working.”
David looked out the window. There were no lights, no signs of civilization – just the eerie glow of the buses headlamps shining on the road and the trees that sped by alongside them. It looked like every country road he had ever seen.
Then he saw it. A road sign zipped into view of their lights. ‘Indian Ford Road – 2 miles.’
‘Impossible,’ he thought.
“You’re driving in circles you idiot,” David half-yelled again. “We drove past that sign a few minutes back.”
“Well… um… actually. We’ve driven past that sign more than twice,” Robert said warily. “I lost count at 20.”
David stared at the side of Robert’s face. The man looked like a bus driver, drooping face, graying hair – a body shape that looked like all the weight in his body had pooled in his ass. 20 times? What was this idiot talking about?
“Are we there yet,” interrupted the voice of one of the other passengers. “We should have been there over an hour ago.”
The other passenger came and sat across the aisle from David. He was in his early 40’s, short, slightly balding – the man reminded David of a friend of his back home, only more nerdy. He pushed up his glasses as he eased into his seat.
“This idiot is lost,” David said.
“Sir… uh… I told you I’m not lost, sir. I’ve been driving East on the 20 for a few hours now, and I… uh… well, I haven’t turned around.” Robert seemed more nervous than annoyed.
The newcomer looked out the window. “There,” he said pointing. “Why don’t you get off on Indian Ford road, we can ask for directions.”
David looked out the window. The sign flew past them just as he looked, but not before he saw what was written on it - ‘Indian Ford Road – 2 miles.’
That was impossible. The bus hadn’t stopped, it hadn’t turned around. David was pretty sure that Robert’s iron grip hadn’t so much as turned the wheel by one degree. Yet there it was - Indian Ford road – the same sign he had seen 2 times before.
Robert began to sob. The man was losing it. “I did get off on Indian Ford road, about an hour ago. We’re ON Indian Ford Road.”
The newcomer looked out the window as the Route 20 sign sped by. “Are you alright?” he asked as he glanced at Robert. “Maybe you should stop the bus. You don’t seem well.”
“Sir, “Robert stammered. “I… uh… what’s your name sir?”
The newcomer looked at me then back at Robert, “my name’s Calvin.”
“Well… uh… Calvin. You see… I can’t,” Robert said no longer sobbing.
“What do you mean you can’t,” said Calvin.
“You were asleep. I… uh… I got off on Indian Ford road. It wasn’t easy - had to take the whole exit at 45 MPH. Luckily the off lane was a gradual curve, or I would have flipped the bus for sure,” Robert spoke uneasily, still keeping his eyes locked on the road.
“What the hell are you talking about,” Calvin said increasingly agitated. At this point the other passengers were waking, roused by the commotion at the front of the bus. “Are you on drugs? Stop this bus this instant.”
“Well… uh… I can’t,” Robert stammered again. “You see… it doesn’t work.” And with that Robert finally took his eyes off the road, looking down at his feet. He pumped his legs up and down, and you could hear the mechanical creaking of the foot pedals. “No gas, no breaks, Nothing,” he said as he put his attention back on the road.
“What did he say,” a woman’s voice interjected. The blond woman braced herself between two seats waiting for an answer.
“Uh… I can’t stop the bus ma’am,” Robert said. “45 MPH, no more no less – and we been driving this same stretch of road for at least 2 hours.”
The woman looked confused, Calvin looked angry – and David, well David was staring out the window - ‘Indian Ford Road – 2 miles.’
| 11 | You are driving along a desert highway when you notice you are passing the same exit every few miles. | 21 |
"A burrito supreme, two soft tacos and a large Mountain Dew with a biscuit on the side!" The woman announced the order out loud even though there were only two customers at the Taco Bell. Not many people order at 3 AM.
Both of the men stood up.
Dave looked at the other man and pointed to the bags with a quizzical look. "You ordered that?"
The other man paused.
"A burrito supreme, two soft tacos and a large Mountain Dew with a biscuit on the side..." The woman looked up at the two confused men. "Real funny guys. Two separate orders?"
Laughing it off, the two went to the counter and grabbed a bag, both heading to the same table. They looked at each other and laughed again.
"What are you, my long lost twin?" Dave asked as he sat down.
The other man sat down at the same table and shrugged. "Seems like."
Dave made a puzzled sound. "Huh."
"What?"
"I had a friend... well, an imaginary friend, when I was 4. I was so sure he was real, I saw him and spoke to him, didn't pretend, but one day he disappeared, my mom told me he was never real." Dave opened his burrito and took a bite, same as the other man. "Anyway, he always said 'seems like.'"
"What was his name?" The other man asked.
"Uh..." Dave thought for a second and sipped at his Mountain Dew. "John... James... something like that."
The other man put down his burrito and looked at Dave. "My names Jim."
Dave dropped his burrito and held up a finger. "Jim! That was it. He said he always wanted to be-"
"A race-car driver." Jim finished the sentence.
Dave's jaw dropped. "How did you..."
The sound of the Taco Bell's doors opening filled the gap in conversation, but neither man looked at the entrance.
"I don't remember much, but I know that around 4, I was taken somewhere with my dad, he moved away from my mom." Jim said. "He said my friend was imaginary, but I remember seeing him and talking to him."
Dave couldn't chew the food in his mouth anymore. "Your dad and my mom... we're brothers..."
"Twins, maybe." Jim said. Neither of the men were eating. "I think my dad... our dad, took me away from you guys."
The conversation hit a standstill while the two sat quietly.
"Is mom..."
Dave shook his head. "She died, liver failure. It was in 2004. I think it was-"
"May 17th?"
Dave nodded dumbly. "Did your dad take you to visit her? Maybe said she was a family friend?"
"No," Jim said. "Our dad died of liver failure on May 17th, 2004."
The two men were quiet again.
Jim eventually took the plastic knife that came with his biscuit and managed to make a small cut on his palm. Dave flipped his hand over and looked.
His palm had a cut growing in as Jim slashed himself.
A silence filled the air. The two brothers looked at each other with concern and surprise. Jim and Dave both raised their sleeves at the same time to reveal identical scars.
"Got it when I was 15." Dave said.
Jim didn't reply. He didn't need to.
The silence was interrupted by a female voice yelling out an order. "A burrito supreme, two soft tacos, a Mountain Dew... oh come on guys, you have got to stop doing this, just order together!" | 163 | You meet someone who is exactly like your childhood imaginary friend. You discover they had an imaginary friend that is eerily similar to you. | 326 |
My father was standing on the balcony when I found him, silhouetted by the setting sun. His vestments were strewn across a chair and he had a drink in his hand. He sipped thoughtfully as he looked down across the bay where the fleet lay at anchor, the royal crest flapping in the breeze.
“Father?” I ventured, quietly. He never was a particularly sociable man, and I hated interrupting him when he was in one of his moods. To my surprise I was met with a silence that stretched out between us instead of the usual bitter recriminations or cutting remarks.
“Yes, son?” He asked after a while, not turning to look back at me. His shadow stretched across the floor, a silent affirmation of the presence of the man who held the lives of millions in his hands. I was still trying to sort out what I was going to say when he continued, “Your brother is dead. His party was ambushed on their way to the front. They delivered his head to me in a box.” Anything else that I had thought to say slipped out of my head immediately.
“He…”
“Is dead, yes, please listen when I am speaking.” My father sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I apologize, I am… distraught.” I must admit I was rather taken aback, my father had never once apologized to me in the twenty or so odd years I had known him. As he turned to me I was suddenly struck by how old he seemed, an eternity of sorrows etched into the creases of his face. “I have sat on this throne for thirty one years, son. And what have I done in all that time? I ignored the teachings of my own father, believing that the might of our kingdom was unstoppable. When I think back to the days of my youth I feel such foolishness. There is always more to learn, son. Even after all this time.”
I tried to stammer a response but I was still being crushed under the enormity of his simple proclamation. He continued on, “And now look what I have done. The son I groomed and taught all the ways of warfare and rule is dead. Killed in an instant by a lucky pack of scavengers. I have ignored you for too long, I fear. Perhaps I saw in you too much of myself. Your brother was very much like my father, you see. Cunning, ruthless, with a keen eye for strategy.”
“But he was the heir, sir.” I said, and through a haze of disbelief I remembered my brother’s wife. “His marriage has already been consummated, surely-“
“His wife bears no child.” He interrupted immediately. “And as the eldest living male descendent of my house, the throne falls to you. It will be a difficult road, my son, and we have so little time. Perhaps I will come to realize that you will be a greater ruler than even your brother might have been.”
I had never considered or even made pretensions to the throne; it had always been my brother’s birthright. But standing in my father’s quarters with the sea winds blowing in and the last sunset of summer sinking below the horizon, I could almost see myself there. “I will endeavor to do my best, father.”
“Here is your first lesson: be ever vigilant. Across the sea there are many that would come to our shores and kill our people for wealth and enrichment. To the north and east enemies press in, looting villages and killing as they go.” He took a long draught and set his empty glass on the railing. “They call us monsters, son. And you must be ready.”
| 32 | "They call us monsters, son." | 38 |
Every day i stand outside my shop.
That's it. I don't go inside. I don't eat. I don't sleep. I stand outside my shop.
I'm just used to it. When i was young, my father stood outside his shop, so when I came to age I just assumed that's what you did. You stood outside your shop.
We specialize in armaments. Finest swords in the lands. Yet only one person ever buys our goods. I just thought that that's how it worked. Only one person bought anything. Ever. That's how it worked.
Then one day, when the person came buy our shop, i felt that she was different. Not the same. Everyone acted like she was the one, the person, but in my gut i knew better.
Last time, she was a he.
I can't explain how i feel. This is my way of life, yet i feel my way of life is a lie. Like it's my duty just to serve the person. I feel like my life is just a stepping stone for some greater purpose, that i don't even matter.
Sometimes, i dream. I dream i am made up 1's and 0's. Yet, I don't remember sleeping. All i remember is standing outside my shop, waiting for the person to come by. I never remember why i am made of 1's and 0's, i just remember.
I wish i was the person. The one. The hero. | 29 | You've slowly convinced yourself that life is actually a video game. Furthermore, you are convinced that you are an NPC. | 24 |
What at first was a blessing is now a nightmare. I wander the world now, forever bored with the trappings of man and nature. I was born in the year 1901. I was in both the world wars, on both sides and survived countless wounds. It was in the First World War I found my ability. Everyone called me lucky when I apparently "missed" being killed by an inch. They called me a demon when I jumped on a grenade to save lives because that's not a wound you get up from, hero or not. War is hell, or at least I thought it was. Hell is when you watch everyone you've ever know die. Hell is knowing just what awaits them in death. You see, before I am "immune"(cannot think of another word to call it by...) to something, it has to kill me. In the brief moments of my death I experience the afterlife. Coldness sweeps me from my feet, terror fills my heart and I see nightmares come to life. I thought it was just my own fear of death at first but it's the same every time. I've prayed to every god and still the terror awaits me and all who die.
I walk the streets in a nameless city in a nameless county. In the thousands of years of my life, countries rise and fall and you just don't give a damn anymore. Not even to learn the names. This particular place was called Ireland when I was a boy. It was so lush and beautiful back then. Now it's but a shell of what used to be. Rust rotted cars line the old roads. Shattered buildings lean dangerously on their sides looking like a inquisitive dog. I keep trudging.
I've long since become "immune" to hunger or thirst. I don't even get fatigued anymore. I am also "immune" to sleep deprivation. This was an interesting way to die as you go insane before you do so. I cannot sleep. Seeing deaths cold eyes and the terror they bring tends to inhabit your dreams leading to horrible nightmares. No, my world is an unbroken walk across a broken world. I would cry if I could. I would scream in anguish if it would help. But I just continue walking in my thoughts. Day dreaming of the life I had with Susan so many years ago. | 147 | You find out that whenever you are killed, you are revived with an immunity to whatever killed you. Document your experiences | 166 |
I always made it a point not to read anything I've written in my diary. Mom always said a diary is like a person and it'd be like reading somebody's mind, which was rude in my opinion. I smile despite myself. I was such a silly child full of imagination.
I open the first book and begin reading about my imaginary friend Shelly and the adventures we had. I read about my first move to the big city when mom got her first good job. 7 year old me also wrote about her daddy dying of "cansur". I couldn't help but cry for a little girls such open and raw pain. I read about his funeral. I need to switch books
I went a few diaries ahead. 12 year old me. I was starting my phases and I think this was my post modern bitchy phase. My poor mother .... I was just starting to like boys too, in my own awkward way. Then I came across a page in different handwriting. It talked about loving to watch the little girl when she went to the park. About following her home and waiting till the next day to sneak in through the back window in the mud room. I remember always sneaking in that way when I was a teenager. I threw the book across the room. What is going on? I hid that book perfectly. Maybe it was just a joke. Just a prank by a sleepover friend from years ago. I picked it back up and began reading again. They started slow at first but began to get more frequent. They also got more violent in their intentions. At first he would wait till I was at school and mom was at work to sneak in, always though the same window. He would write about going up the stairs so excited to see what I had written in my diary. I was starting to get sick. My privacy invaded by this pervert was freaking me out. But I had to keep reading to know what he did. I had to know.
As the writings got more frequent he began telling me about his sick fantasies. I was just a child and this sick bastard was telling me about things I barely knew as an adult. He started getting more daring too. He would sneak in the house when we were there now. I could almost smell the rotten breath of this horrible little man. Imagine him hugging the walls to get a glimpse of me coloring on the kitchen table. I have to go talk to mom about this in the morning. I am freaking out...
But I have to know. He wrote about his fantasies but never acted on them. So he was a coward pervert freak. Good. I am terrified that he actually did something and I just blocked it out. He wrote about watching me as I slept. Jesus i hate this man ....
He took pictures. Of me asleep. Of him in his stupid bunny mask by my bed. The last picture of his last entry was him holding a knife. He had taken off his mask and I was in the background asleep. I dropped the book in shock. My neighbor. He was always So nice. He hosted a yearly barbecue for the neighborhood. Had a special area inside for the kids . Mom was always too busy to go. God I think I'm gonna be sick....
We moved that next day. Little 12 year old me just complained about having to make new friends, oblivious to the fact that I just avoided a painful death. His writings stopped and I became calmer. I kept in touch with my friends from this town and he died about a year after this all happened. Nobody could tell why he was in that tree when he slipped and fell to his death. I know now and I think I need a shower. My hand absently goes to the scar i didn't remember getting. What else can't I remember? | 32 | When rereading her diary, she found strange entries she didn't remember writing, interspersed with her normal entries. | 86 |
"What to do today..." Reggie thought to himself, cheeto-stained fingers drumming on his controller. He sat back in his easy-chair, ready to enjoy his hard earned lunch break. Writing scripts all day can take a lot out of a person. The only thing that got him through those long hours of code was fantasizing about shooting hookers, beating drug dealers and running from the cops on Grand Theft Auto. If only he could do that in real life... then he would have everything: money, chicks, excitement.
But now that the game was on and in front of him, Reggie could not decide what he wanted to do. It all seemed so unsatisfying. Reggie ran his cheeto-fingers through his greasy red hair that was tied behind his head in a pony tail. He took a sip from his can of Mountain Dew.
He rotated the avatar on screen aimlessly. Just then an NPC ran up to Reggie's avatar. "Hey, you," she said, "I know who you are and I know what's going on."
"That's weird," Reggie said aloud. NPCs never approached his character out of the blue before. This NPC was scantily dressed - blonde, tall and all in pink - most likely a prostitute. Reggie took out his baseball bat to club her with it.
"No, stop! Please!" she shouted at his avatar. "I know you can hear me. I know this is a game. I am alive. I'm fucking alive!"
Reggie's jaw dropped. He had no way to communicate back with her, so he just stopped his avatar in the hopes that she would continue talking. She did. "I do not know what's going on, but I know this is a game. My name is Montana and I am alive. Do not turn off this system; I would die. I AM ALIVE!!!"
"WHAT THE FUCK!" Reggie exclaimed, hoping that somehow, if he was loud enough, the character would hear him. She couldn't. Reggie's mind raced. This may be the first instance of real AI on the planet. Reggie could become rich, famous! He could even get laid. All of the possibilities sped across his mind's eye. And yet... and yet...
Reggie rubbed his cheeto-stained hands together. Yawned. And hit Montana with his baseball bat. She screamed. He hit her again. She pleaded. He continued to to beat her until she stopped screaming. When her life bar reached zero, Reggie got up out of his gamer chair, strolled over to his console and turned it off. He'd had enough gaming for the day. It was time for My Little Pony. | 23 | A computer programmer playing Grand theft auto encounters a character that has spontaneously gained AI (The first on the planet). The AI knows its a game and begs you not to turn off the power. | 39 |
9 hours ago the world received a message. It was not broadcast on the TVs, not distributed across the Internet. Rather, everyone in the world heard it as a telepathic message. Many people thought it was too crazy to be true, but for unknown reasons, the governments of the world were taking it as a serious threat.
The message was ominous to some, a beacon of hope to others.
*Attention all humans: In ten hours, a shuffling of the minds shall occur. Everyone will have their minds swapped with some random other person on earth. The only two things that can be guaranteed about the swap will be that the person will be close in age and that if you and another person are touching, you will end up near each other.*
This message had sent many into panic and the world had practically come to a stop. After all, you wouldn’t want a doctor performing surgery to suddenly become an inexperienced surgeon.
Alexander and Helen found themselves on the computer, refreshing their browser. Apparently, some crazy guy had designed a website a long time ago for an event like this. Everyone could register a unique ID on the website, so that when the swap happened, they could verify who they were. The government had gotten in on it, and in an unprecedented move, had efficiently edited the website to allow people to officially register their government papers and identifications to their IDs.
They’d been at it for the last couple hours. The website was understandably very busy, but Alexander and Helen found themselves getting through. Each registered themselves, which took awhile. 30 minutes remained until the swap, and Alexander and Helen decided that they would make sure they were touching when the swap happened, so it would be easier to find each other.
The time came for the swap. Alexander and Helen sat on the bed and began to kiss. They decided this was the best way to go when the swap happened. The world seemed still for a moment, as if nothing was happening, time itself frozen. At least that’s what it seemed like to Alexander. He could still move himself, and after a brief second, Helen’s lips were moving with his again.
Helen broke away from his kiss, and Alexander found himself with a look of bewilderment. Nothing happened. It really must have been a hoax. Helen was panicking, so Alexander went to comfort her.
“Who are you?” Helen asked. “Where am I?”
“What do you mean, Helen? Everything is fine, no one swapped.”
“I’m not Helen,” she said with a perplexed look in her eyes.
Alexander wasn’t sure what to do. Why did Helen switch when he didn’t? He turned on the TV. Most of it was static, but there was one broadcast that had already come up. Sure enough, based off of all the reports coming in, the swap had happened. Alexander seemed to be the only one not affected.
“Who were you before the swap?” he asked desperately. He had to go find Helen.
The new Helen just broke down crying, but seemed to gather her strength quickly. “I… I… I was trying to kill myself when this happened. I dove off a cliff. I didn’t know it was at the time of the swap; I thought I had time. I… I… don’t think that she is alive.”
Alexander fell to his knees, not knowing what to say. Helen was gone. And he was alone, more so than ever, as he was the only one not to swap. And then it began to run through his mind. If he really was the only one who didn’t swap, people would be coming after him. Whether it was to study him or blame him for the whole incident, Alexander knew he must hide, but the question was how. Fortunately, the solution presented itself quite quickly.
“I’m so sorry. I… I just wasn’t thinking right. I don’t know how I can ever make up for something so bad.”
“I have an idea. I need people to think that I swapped with someone, otherwise there may be people coming after me. If you want to honor Helen’s memory, than the least you can do is to help me. We’ll claim to have swapped with each other, me being Helen and you being me. I think that we can pull it off. This way, you help to save my life, plus nobody else will ever no what you did to Helen.”
Alexander regretted some of the way he phrased his proposition to this new Helen, but overall she probably deserved it. He was extremely angry about what she’d done to Helen, but she was also the only chance that Alexander was likely to have to hide himself from others. He could always burn her later if he turned out to not be the only one.
The new Helen was sobbing, but she found the strength to shake her head and agree. Alexander was relieved for the moment, but he found himself wondering what he’d just gotten himself into. After all, he had no idea who this new Helen was. For all he knew, she used to be a serial killer. Although, based off the fact that she was crying because she had just killed Helen, he figured she was probably a decent person at heart. Which would make it all the much harder to eventually make her pay for Helen’s death. After all, she was pretty foolish to think he’d just let her get away with that. The only reason she wasn’t dead now was because he needed her for the moment.
-137
**Edit: I've added Part 2 to this story as a reply. I hope you guys enjoy.**
**Edit 2: I've decided to write a part 3 to the story, but it will probably be awhile before I can finish it. I'll post it and any future parts as replies to part 2 below, and also in my own subreddit, which can be found in my flair.**
**Edit 3: All parts have been posted below. Thanks everyone and I'm glad you enjoyed it.** | 186 | The world's population receives a message that in 10 hours their minds will be 'shuffled', with everyone's mind being transported to another random body anywhere else on earth, of roughly the same age but with no other defined characteristics. What happens? | 403 |
"Good morning to you, Mr. Armstrong. What brings you up here so early?" the gargoyle asked politely.
Albert Johannes Armstrong sighed as he removed his jacket, hanging it up on the wall beside him. He slid a kerchief from his pocket and wiped the black dust from his face, coughing into the ball of his hand. "Feeling a bit under the weather today, Lenny," Albert said. He fished a cigarette out of the metal casing in his jacket, offering Lenny the gargoyle one. The granite chimera gave a rough head-shake and watched as Albert lit the cigarette.
"And on top of that, I've got some bad news, old friend."
Lenny the gargoyle tilted his head. "Break it to me gently, doc," he said with merriment in his voice. "How long do I have to live?" There was a twinkle in his stone eyes, a flicker of life hidden behind the neatly carved stone. Every time Albert looked at Lenny, he was awestruck at the miracle before him.
"This isn't a laughing matter, you hard-headed buffoon. They're tearing the building down!" he exclaimed. The cigarette hung in his mouth limp and his hands were curled into fists. "I've been working triple shifts just to try and get enough money to buy this building, but if I work every day for the rest of three lives I'll never have enough! Lenny, I'm sorry... but they are going to be here in a month to bring this place down."
"A month?" Lenny asked. He flexed his great stone wings and for a second, Albert thought he would take flight. But Lenny was frozen in place, forever a guardian to this damned building. It was a hotel once upon a time, one of the greatest in New York. But the depression his hard and fast and it fell into disrepair. "You're telling me you can't scrounge together enough money sweepin' chimneys?" Lenny laughed.
"You want to die, huh? You find this all so humorous." Albert was steaming. He snubbed his cigarette on the wall and snagged his jacket off at once. "Don't think I'll shed a tear for you, you foolish gargoyle. You don't even care in the slightest of what you're leaving behind? You are a miracle. A living creature where no life could exist. How many other monuments of stone do you think can talk and breathe and see? You're a waste, Lenny."
Lenny looked down at Albert with sorrow in his stone eyes. He turned and looked to the city, where he always found the answers he needed. People were moving through the streets, rushing to start their days. Men in suits, some dressed in overalls carrying metal lunchboxes. He envied them all. Being able to work, to interact, to do something worthwhile. Lenny was simply a guardian to an empty building - a building that would soon be destroyed. "I've no purpose anymore, Mr. Armstrong. What good is a life when its wasted on someone who cannot walk, cannot experience. If only whatever almighty power gave me life could pass it on to somebody more worthwhile, more deserving of it. Maybe then I could die in peace. But now, I will only die in sorrow."
"Why do you have to die at all?" Albert called out. He climbed up on the ledge and wrapped an arm around Lenny's shoulder, pointing out to the city. He nodded towards the Grand Hotel, just a few blocks away. "There are hotels all over this city. Places where you could live on in peace. Don't you want that, Lenny?"
"I could never leave this place."
"Then you are dead already, my friend," Albert said. "This will be the last time I come. That is why I came so early. Men are coming to start preparing the building for demolition. And I cannot stay for long, I have an appointment across town in an hour."
Lenny smiled his stone-faced smile. "Then go, Mr. Armstrong. It has been a pleasure speaking to you, as always. You were always so kind to me. Kinder then any man should be to a creature of stone. A creature who shouldn't even be alive."
Albert leaped back onto the roof and put his jacket on, adjusted his hat, and smiled. "I guess I have a soft spot for ugly creatures," and the two shared one final laugh before Mr. Armstrong descended back down the steps.
Lenny waited and hours later two men came up the stairs, one in a business suit and the other in overalls. "This will be the spot of the greatest department store in the city. The location is perfect!" the man in the suit said.
"Any final details? We can start on demolition as early as June 3rd."
The man in the business suit stopped and glanced at the back of Lenny, intrigued at the stone statue. He slowly examined the gargoyle and smiled, "I want each of these statues hanging inside the main lobby, up in the rafters. They have a certain beauty to them, don't you think?" The overall man grunted and took down the comment in his notes.
Lenny couldn't help but smile.
| 29 | A chimney sweep and his best friend a gargoyle sit on the edge of a building, having a conversation. | 38 |
When the universe was still a child raging with dynamic temper, space's fabric glowed and time itself was alight with ember. A green goddess gleaming could not bear the fire, her ivy hair withered, leaves curled to ash round her arms, and her aquatic eyes turned to steam.
She became a red star, a comet, riding the turbulent waves of the universes expansion. Her death seemed certain, her universe had lingered long but its life was over...to be replaced by a void of fire and brimstone.
There in the distance was her grave, a planet whirling hot round its sun. Smiling he she turned her course ever slightly. Her universe of blue and green life was dying, but she would leave a memorial.
The explosion was cacophonous, every atom vibrated, broke apart, reformed yet again with the impact, the planet disintegrated into endless pieces like liquid sand before gravity violently drew them back together.
In the center of the planet was the corpse of the goddess. A trace of her consciousness lingered, her ghost. There her 'will' fermented, tiny germs crept out from her veins, tunneling towards the surface.
When the flames winked out, and the surface solidified, the winds and waters began to sculpt the world. This was the water world, the infant goddess Gaia, last descendent and only memory of a universe that had passed away forever.
In her memories were drawn shapes, shapes of things that drifted helplessly, she exerted what feeble force she had, sheer willpower drawing the molecules together. A single tiny cell in the ocean.
The single cell multiplied.
In her memories were drawn shapes, still more complex, things that swam purposefully. The countless cells, she drew them together with a force in her that was growing. Strange substances began to appear, soaking in sunlight. Strange creatures began to devour them.
The ocean became green.
The planets fire was all but spent, but still its iron belly spun and raged, it had some force left in it. The ocean floor rose up very slowly until the waters parted and a great mountain emerged, Pangaea.
In her memories were shapes, shapes that climbed towards the sun, that spun their limbs outwards and tossed their flowers into the breeze and mated on the air.
It was not long before the rising mountain was covered in vegetation. The stirring insects seemed born from them, the fish grew legs and wandered after them with salivating mouths.
The goddess was no longer an infant, she felt the force in her expand, the shapes in her memories became more distinct. She became able to cast her minds eye out into the sky, and was chilled by what she found. Hostile, barren regions. She was alone, adrift, and tiny.
Who am I? As her consciousness grew, so did the consciousness of the creatures that embodied her. As they grew, so did she, each individual creature reflecting a thought. They devoured eachother, competed, reflecting the turmoil in her mind.
What am I? I will expand outwards, she thought. I will grow, until the universe is saturated with mold, and the tiniest atom hums with intelligence. I will not be alone.
Pangaea shattered in every direction, dividing the world into several seas.
In her memories were drawn shapes, many more still, a web of possibilities was lain out before her. A single image stood out, a shadowy form.
A form standing taller then the rest with a brain as its crown. Its face was its eye, percieving the world intensely. Its limbs were wiry and dextrous, its paws capable of sculpting the enviroment to reflect its thoughts, just like her.
They would be her hands, and they would be her legs to the stars. They were the flowers that she would cast to the wind, their seed settling in the soil of other worlds. She would have daughters and be lonely no longer, afraid no longer.
The Humans were far along the road of life, beside them stood other creatures just as fierce, and just as wise. But our Goddess was hurried.
For a tree must stand on a trunk with its roots sunk deep, it must bend with the wind and the slope of the ground, its branches must be balanced.
Instead, a single branch grew out, neglecting the others, for at the end of this branch would grow the prized fruit, Humanity.
In her memories were shapes, but only one shape mattered to her now. The web of shapes darkened so that only one shone bright.
The branch grew strong so quickly it began to forcefully suck life out of the others. Shape by shape they perished. Animal by animal they fell extinct. Radiation ran through the soil and the roots of life were petrified.
And so Gaia knew pain. She was a tree with a withered trunk, dried and splintering under the obese weight of that single branch, humanity. Now a cancer which had overtaken her energies.
As she died, she understood the need for balance. The need for patience. She had forced the Humans to come about far too soon, when their should have been other intelligent species to balance their instincts.
So be it. She gathered the last of her diminishing force.
In her memories were shapes. The smallest of shapes, the kind that fed on single cells. The kind that took up residence in another. Hateful shapes, parasitic, infective.
It was a disease that slipped inside anonymously. A disease spread on wind, through blood, water, touch. A disease that spread through a kiss, or a hug, or a cough.
It's symptoms were not painful. The only thing they changed were genetic material.
They stopped having children.
The branch fell from its perch were it rotted in its soil, while the trunk recoiled in relief.
In a hundred million years they will rise up again, the world ready to support them. And they will find the remnants of civilizations that never should have been. | 11 | The Earth is a sentient, intelligent organism. It has decided that human beings are a threat and they must be eliminated. | 20 |
Have you ever heard of a place called, "*Randy's Chinese Palace*"? I hadn't. In fact, I had never heard of a Chinese place named after a Randy before. Randy's BBQ? Sure. Randy & Sons Plumbing? Of course. Randy's Auto Repair Shop? I would take my car there at the first sign of trouble, because Randy knows how to fix cars.
But does a man named Randy know how to make a good egg drop soup? I had my doubts, but I decided to give Randy a chance one Sunday afternoon. Admittedly, the $5 off coupon I got in the mail had a lot to do with it, but there was also a little part of me that was curious to see what it was all about.
There were no cars in the parking lot when I pulled up, which was typical. The exterior of the "palace" looked more like an old garage where some psycho stored dead bodies. The blinds were stained yellow, there were two entrances, but you could only enter through the one on the side of the building. The front entrance was was covered with duct tape. It was the first sign that someone named Randy really did own the place.
As I walked in the restaurant, I was greeted by a teenager. He was dressed in a black suit. His name tag read, "Randy Jr."
"Welcome to Randy's Chinese Palace. For here or to go?"
"For here." I replied. Randy Jr. had my attention. I mean, a freakin' suit? You never see that anymore! Yeah, the booth upholstery was torn, the carpet looked like a spoiled mushroom and there was this weird painting on the wall of two dudes eating a live duck. Nothing screamed, "FOR HERE! EAT IT HERE!" However, there was just something inside me that wanted to stay. I guess it's similar to when the stupid blonde opens the bedroom door in a horror movie. She knew it was a mistake, but she just needed to see what was behind the door!
Anyway, Randy Jr. took me to a booth in the corner of the restaurant. He took my drink order and then handed me the menu. It was short. There were only ten dishes on the menu, and I couldn't pronounce eight of them, so I just ordered the Chicken Chow Mein.
"Ah, good choice!" Randy Jr. said with a smile on his face.
"Really? Do a lot of people order it?"
"I wouldn't know, sir. You're the first customer."
"What? Didn't you guys open six months ago?"
"Correct. It's been slow."
As he walked back in the kitchen to place my order, I knew I was in trouble. I mean, what the fuck? How could they still be in business with no customers for six months? I was close to running out the door, but I couldn't do that to Randy Jr. He looked so excited to have his first customer. I didn't want to ruin his day. I had to stay.
Randy Jr. came out with my plate of food about 15 minutes later. A huge plate of Chicken Chow Mein, a bowl of egg drop soup and one egg roll.
"Does everything look okay, sir?"
I nodded. He continued to stand right by the table. It was at that point I realized he was going to stand there and watch me take the first bite. "Here goes nothing..." I thought to myself. I picked up the fork, got a little bit of that Chow goodness on it and then delivered Randy's creation into my mouth.
It was disgusting. The worst Chinese food I had ever tasted. It tasted like some dude named Randy had made it. But still, I didn't want to hurt little Randy's feelings. I gave him a big smile, "That's good stuff." I said.
"My father will be happy to hear that." He said before going back in the kitchen.
I ended up eating most of the food on my plate. The egg roll actually wasn't that bad, but how do you mess up an egg roll? You could stuff an egg roll with pretty much anything, and it would still be delicious. Randy Jr. came out a little bit later. He put the check on the table and handed me a fortune cookie.
I placed my card down on the table, and then opened up the fortune cookie.
"You will be back." It read. I chuckled. I liked Randy Jr., but not enough to eat this shit again. After Randy Jr. swiped my card and gave me a copy of the receipt, I thanked him and left the building. I needed to go grocery shopping, but I decided to go straight home because I didn't want to drop bombs in a public toilet.
Two days later, I went back to Randy's Chinese Palace. I had the same meal, got the same fortune cookie and went back there the next day. I've been going to Randy's for three years now. Never have seen another customer. Heck, I have never even seen big Randy. It's always just Randy Jr. in his black suit.
Every time I eat there he will ask me, "How was your meal?" And I always tell him it was fantastic. I just can't tell him the truth, plus, he would never believe me now. Why would someone continue eating at a place for three years if they hated the food?
How could someone be so addicted to something so bad for them? | 28 | A Chinese restaurant whose fortune cookies always come true, even if its only vaguely related to what's on the paper. | 40 |
"I'm sure it'll be fine."
Diane looked at me solemnly. She always worried too much. "How do you know that?"
"Because," I smiled, "we always get through everything together, no matter how terrible. A little pain won't be a big deal. $70,000 though, think about it. We can buy a house."
She smiled, but I knew she was faking it.
"These guys," I said, "they're rich! Born rich, probably, they don't know real pain. I bet he's gonna give me a toothache."
Diane laughed out loud.
"Mr. Henderson." A woman holding a clipboard called out my name. I turned to her. "They're ready for you."
Slightly before getting up, I felt Diane squeeze lightly on my hand.
The machine was anticlimactic. It was tiny, just a hat really, but covered in wires. It connected to a computer. The old man sitting down was sweaty and shaking. I wondered what he had, but part of the deal was that I couldn't ask.
"Sit down right there." The woman with the clipboard pointed to a chair on the other side of the computer. I sat down and waited for more instructions. "Put on the cap, please."
I picked it up, it was surprisingly heavy. I put it on my head and waited.
"Both of you will feel a slight jolt. Ready?"
The old man replied with a weak yes. I said yes as well.
Before I knew what was happening, I felt weak. Nausea, stomach pain and a headache hit me at once. I felt my nose running and sweat too, but I didn't care. The pain was intolerable.
"What the Hell did you do to me?" I asked.
The old man stood up and removed the cap, smiling. He didn't smile at my pain, but his lack of it. "I'm sorry, but I'll be sure you get the money. I'll double it. I didn't know how bad it was until it was gone."
"What did you do to me?" I yelled out.
The old man looked at me. "Heroin withdrawal. It isn't too bad, with this."
He threw me a small bag with powder in it. He also placed a syringe over on a table by him. The woman with the clipboard walked out with him, laughing at something he said.
I rushed over to the table with the ziplock bag and opened it. A lighter, a spoon, some powder which had to be heroin, and a small band to tie around my arm. I put the powder in the spoon and lit the lighter underneath it.
Though I never did it before, I've seen enough movies to know the steps. When it became a liquid, I grabbed the syringe and pulled in as much as I could. I tied the band around my arm, above the elbow and stabbed the syringe into my vein. I think I missed, but it didn't matter. I injected it.
A sense of pleasure I never felt before hit me like a truck. The pain was replaced by happiness. I heard soft heel clacks coming to the door. I quickly threw all the supplies under the table.
My wife poked her head through the door. "How are you?"
"Fine," I said with a smile that i couldn't take off my face. "He just had a foot pain."
She smiled and came over to me, grabbing my hand. "Let's go home. Do you need any help?"
I got up and shook my head. "Let's go." | 20 | Write a story from the perspective of poor person in a world where a machine exists that allows two consenting people to temporarily transfer their pain onto each other. This allows wealthy people in chronic pain to pay poor people to bear the burden. | 52 |
"So you've seen them?" I asked. I'd relaxed slightly, but not enough to holster the Luger.
He looked into the fire, its flickering light casting shadows across a craggy, bearded face. "I've seen *one* of them. Only reason I survived was its widespread toes. That, and it didn't see me. Too small, I guess."
"What did it look like?"
"I don't remember much, boy. It was a long time ago." His gaze shifted from the flames, probing the surrounding darkness before settling on my face. "But having that gun pointed at me doesn't exactly jog the memories."
Uncomfortable, I slowly slid the Luger back into its holster. But I kept the safety off and left the holster unbuttoned. "Tell me what you remember."
He raised an eyebrow. "You're not in much a position to be makin' demands, kid. How about you fuck off?"
"I'm sorry," I attempted. "It's just...the Fall happened a couple years before I was born, so this is all I know. But I've never actually seen one. It makes me think that people who do talk about them are crazy. If they're so big, where are they?"
He laughed gruffly. "A couple years, eh, boy? The Fall was 2016. So what're you, 22? 23?"
"22. So I'd appreciate if the 'boy' stopped."
"Where are your parents?"
"They're...gone."
He looked at me intently, brows furrowed. What was it I saw in his eyes? Admiration? Pity? Sadness? Perhaps it was a combination of the three. "You've seen the footprints, no? The trails? You don't have to see a Titan to acknowledge their existence."
"I've been in the canyons. But I've never been high enough to see the outline."
"So you've never been to one of the cities. Probably for the best. Who knows if any building has any structural integrity these days."
There was a brief silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire. I looked at the bridge, visible in the night thanks to the thousands of stars ablaze in the sky. Its towers were dark silhouettes in the distance. "So...will you tell me what you remember? About the...thing, I mean."
He shifted. "The *thing* was gargantuan. A moving mountain. So big I didn't even know it for what it was until it moved. I thought I was dead for sure but...since when do *we* recognize a termite as we walk past? It was a quadruped, of sorts, but I think it had wings." Another pause. "And the feet. They could have crushed a baseball stadium with a single step."
"Do you think we can kill them?"
"You talk about others being crazy. And yet you're the one who materializes from the night, plops down with a loaded weapon, and talks about killing gods." He shook his head and scoffed.
"This isn't for them," I replied, gesturing at the Luger. "It's for people, if need be."
"Well, truly, they're the monsters you should be most worried about." He leaned forward, using a charred stick to hoist up a can nestled among the coals. "You must be hungry."
Finally feeling a little safer, I nodded. "I can't remember the last time I had a real meal."
"Eat." He passed me a tin coffee cup filled with some of the can's contents. Seeing my look, he raised his eyebrows. "It's just some baked beans. Some canned chicken mixed in."
As we dug into the food, which was strangely delicious, he delved into a travel-stained duffel bag. I watched him withdraw a long, heavy flashlight, as well as a flask. "When we're done eating, we're going to have some whiskey," the man said. "And then we're climbing that bridge. I've checked it before. The cables are intact, as are the ladders."
I stopped the spoon before it reached my mouth, looking at the distant structure. "Why?"
"Footprints. You said you've never been high enough. Well, it's time you understand. It's time you see that it's no ravine you're camping in right now."
| 11 | Post apocalyptic earth where creatures akin to Godzilla and the like toppled modern society and brought about a primeval dark age where titans roam the land and skies leaving human life to struggle to survive in the shadows of monsters. | 28 |
I opened my eyes slowly, adjusting to the light as I awoke.
*How did I get here?* The last thing I remembered was wandering alone at night. Bright lights appeared in the sky. Then a white mist descended and surrounded me. Then nothing.
The room I was in was covered in white and shiny surfaces. The only objects in sight were the bed I was lying in and a large rectangular surface, raised on a platform a little taller than the bed I was on. I stumbled off the bed, and looked at the blank walls around me. Before I could do anything more, a hole opened in the wall behind me and a strange being entered the room. I turned, startled. It didn't look scary exactly, just strange. It started making noises in a low, steady voice - it seemed to be trying to communicate.
"What do you want from me?" I asked. The thing made some more noises that I didn't understand. Then he (I assumed it was a he, although I had no reason for thinking that) moved over to the strange-looking surface, about half his height, set between my bed and the wall he had come through, which had since closed itself back up. He touched the surface a few times, and noises came out of it. These were noises I recognized. Garbled, as though compiled from many voices, recorded and mixed together to create a message.
"Welcome… We are friend… Hello… Not scary… Far away…"
I didn't know what to think. Was this a dream? It didn't feel like a dream. "Where am I?" I demanded. "How did I get here?"
He touched the surface some more. Did he understand me?
"Up… sky… We are friend… Far away…"
This couldn't be happening. This was too elaborate to be a prank. Aliens? He certainly didn't look like anything I'd ever seen. But nobody really believed that. The idea that there was some intelligent life outside of our world was crazy. Even the most advanced minds and civilizations hadn't found any proof that they existed, let alone that we would ever meet them.
Not that we hadn't tried. We scanned the skies, searched, wondered, hypothesized. We had yet to find even the possibility of intelligent. But obviously, whatever stood before me had done better. They found us. They had traveled unknown distances and had learned enough to manipulate our language. Somehow, these aliens had found us and had come here to meet us.
But why would they take me? As some sort of experiment? I had to establish communication somehow. Maybe if I let him know I could understand him. "You're from far away. A friend. Why am I here?"
He touched the surface several more times before the mixed, garbled voice that I could understand came back. "We come in peace… Explore… learn, discover… We are friend."
Wow, they were really pushing the friendship thing. Maybe they felt the need to overcompensate, considering that they had kidnapped me. "Why did you take me?"
He touched the surface some more. "Come talk… Learn… We are friend… Tell us about yourself…"
This was crazy! I wasn't giving this alien any more information until I knew who he was. Or what. "No, you tell me about yourself. Where are you from? *What are you?*"
This time, he didn't touch the surface. Instead, he used his own voice. He lifted a long appendage and bent it, gesturing toward himself.
"Human."
| 23 | We make first contact with aliens, only to find that we are the advanced ones | 36 |
It feels like eternity. I drop a couple bills on the counter, fumble with the coins the cashier slides forward, grab my coffee and wait. One, two-
I drop a couple bills on the counter.
The first few times, I tried to stop it from happening, but gave up quickly enough. After that, I looked around instead, saw the people outside, got familiar with every feature of the clerk.
His hair is wavy brown, darker where it's sticking to his head with sweat. His right cheek has some tiny craters on it, maybe acne, maybe smallpox? I remember seeing an Indian man with smallpox scars like that last year. He doesn't look happy, no matter what I do. I told him a few jokes while we were still on tries in the twenties, but he just started back, empty eyed, tired and uncaring. He hands me back my change, I have some trouble getting the quarter on my thumb.
I drop a couple bills on the counter.
"Nice knowing you."
"What?"
I drop a couple bills on the counter, but I don't wait for the change this time. It must be in the hundreds, maybe more, but who's keeping track? Instead of testing my hand on the counter, waiting for the coins I grab my coffee, get the lid half off and throw it onto his chest. He screams and doubles over, and I start screaming back.
"Outside! Two men!"
He's back up and holding the shotgun from under the counter, a lucky guess on my part. The miscalculation this time is that he didn't hear me, or thought I was saying something else, and while the two men look in, confused, pistols lowered, he fires into my chest. It's more like a kick than I expected, and I slam into the aisle racks, blinking, lungs empty. He still has the barrel pointing at me when my vision clears, and before he can get out a word there's another blast, the station window fracturing, and his head slamming into the counter, red behind, across from, and on it.
A couple seconds later and I'm at least breathing, wincing every time from the sting, but I stop when the door chimes open, and both men cone in.
"The fuck you think that was about?"
"No idea, man. Go check on that asshole. I'll get the register."
The first one steps over, pulls up his mask, and squats down in front of me.
"Can you hear me alright? Looks like he got you with a chest full of rocksalt!"
That explains the stinging. I try to say something, but all that comes out is a choked gurgle and some blood.
"Mickey, you said it yourself. No witnesses."
"Right," he turns back to me, "sorry friend."
I hold the bills in my hand, not shaking, not opening.
"Mickey's outside," the cashier's eyes don't look dead anymore, "I'm going to throw this coffee on you. Shoot them."
He's dumbstruck, mouth slightly open, not ready. I drop the bills and empty the coffee on his shirt. He doubles over, and I turn to the left. Both men have their guns down, definitely surprised. Forward again, and he's come up level with the counter, his gun resting flat. The first barrel knocks out the window and puts the smaller man on the ground, his pistol out of reach. The second shot lands just as well, but hits more of the man's hand, sending his pistol further back. The next few minutes I stand in silence. There's yelling outside, one shot, two, more yelling. Neither of the men are dead. Inside the station the clerk left the phone off the hook, 911 operator listening, and occasionally speaking. After about ten minutes, the police arrive. We're sitting on the ground, weapons aside, and the robbers are clutching their chests and knees. We're brought back to the station, security footage is reviewed, and I'm released after questioning.
The drive home is the strangest part. I give Sarah a call, tell her I got caught up in traffic, but I'll be home soon. I ask to talk to Jason. She says he's at a friend's house.
"I love you."
"You too. See you soon!"
I hang up and start writing a message.
"Hey Jason, give me a call once you get this."
I look back up after pressing send, and the semi's bumper can't be more than six feet from my face.
*Edit:* like 12 words | 29 | Limbo is a place where you repeat the day of your death until you can prevent yourself from dying, therefore passing Limbo | 65 |
He awoke abruptly to the sound of a ship’s horn. He had a horrible headache, as if someone or something had hit him in the head with a blunt object. Hard. He was tangled in some chords as well, and had vomit on his chest. It was dry, so he’d been unconscious for several hours at least.
He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and brushed the chords off his chest. He saw no point in dealing with the vomit. He turned to the right and looked out the tiny, barred window to the water that surrounded the prison. An impassable moat, traversable by nothing but boat. He couldn’t identify the source of the horn, and was frustrated he couldn’t see the source of his awakening.
It was at this time the man realized he was not at home. This is not where he belonged. He began to panic, as he always did when he wasn’t home when he awoke. He stood up, quickly, and a sharp pain shot through his head. He had to sit back down, and through his throbbing headache he could barely think straight. His hands began to shake, his mind racing through the thunderstorm of neurons, creating sharp, irregular shots of pain through his head. He needed to get out of here.
He looked the other way, at the cell door locking him in this cage. He felt nauseous, but had nothing in his stomach to vacate. He began to dry heave and hoarsely cough.
Between coughs, the man yelled, as loudly as he could.
“HELLLLLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!?”
“HELP ME PLEAAAASE, I DON’T BELONG HEEEEEEEREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
He yelled for several minutes. After his voice was raw, he sat still, waiting. He could hear nothing, not even the other prisoners. No guards were paying him any attention, confusing the man further.
The man looked under the bed, and found a cassette player. He grabbed the tangled mess of chords from the bed, and put in the headphones. He pushed play.
“In this cell is where the great Prohibition Era gangster Al Capone stayed while here at Alcatraz ....”
The man then remembered. Last night was the night of the Alcatraz employee Christmas party. He must have drunk too much, wandered into the prison, and fallen asleep in Capone’s old room.
As he stood up, chuckling to himself for giving himself such a fright, he walked to the cell door. He pushed, but it would not budge.
He pushed again and again, beginning to panic again.
He was terrified; he remembered that the prison was closed for several days, with no tourists or employees coming by during the break. He began to sob to himself, sitting back on the bed, locked in this old, dilapidated cage. He put his head in his hands and cried. He would have to wait.
What the man had missed was a faded sticker on the cage’s bars reading: “If closed, pull to open.”
| 61 | A prisoner woke up to find the cell door open, upon looking around, he discovered the prison is empty. | 103 |
It was an unfortunate resemblance.
I admitted that. It was, however, necessary. I told myself that, every day. Until we found the Great Leader, I would perform his duties in his stead.
I mean, it wasn't all bad. I had been picked, quite literally, out of my serfdom. The food was a perk. I just had to keep my mouth shut.
Sometimes I felt bad, fooling everybody. They bowed when I wanted, brought food when I wanted. I wanted to shake the soldier who threw himself to the ground, howling apologies, when he tripped in my presence. Poor boy.
I grew lonely.
The only people who knew were the Dutiful Advisor and his staff. It was a stifling existence. And when I woke up, one autumnal morning in Pyongyang, I knew what I had to do.
-
I made a beeline for the General.
He bowed and refused to look me in the eye. This worked, as the tall man would intimidate anyone, especially a peasant such as me.
"The regiment searching for Person A, where are they?"
The general shuffled his feet. "North, Great Leader. A hundred miles or so."
"They have gone rogue. My intelligence officers have no doubts."
"Sir?"
"Send the second battalion. Wipe them out." *Not a bad first order.*
The general hesitated, and I decided to not only pretend, but to *be*. "You heard me, general. Do not question my command."
"Yes, Great Leader." He shuffled off in the direction of the command room, ushering his colleagues to follow.
Next stop, the Dutiful Protector. The Leadership's security was commanded by Su-Hyun Kim, a thin fellow with hard eyes. He bowed.
"The Dutiful Advisor and his associates are planning treason. Arrest them."
The Protector did not question my order. He only bowed, and left the room.
*Now*, I thought. *Time to sort out this clusterfuck of a country.*
| 22 | Unbeknownst to the majority of Pyongyang, Kim Jong Un has been missing for over two months. His physically identical body double has been performing the duties of Supreme Leader in his absence. | 25 |
I watched as the car came crashing forward for the 100th time, knowing that soon I would feel its weight slam into me and the whole world would go dark. Except it wouldn't stay that way and I knew it. A few seconds would pass and then everything would just reappear again, this time with Ellenny standing where I had been a few moments before, preparing to push me out of the way of the swiftly approaching death sentence. It had been six months since the two of us found out we could rewind time. Although we could only manage to go back a total of 60 seconds, we were still both pretty excited about it and took every chance we could to test out what we could do with it. The fun we had during those six months and the tales we made were enough to last us over a thousand life times. However, all good things must come to an end.
It all started this morning on our way to work. Ellenny and I were too busy talking to one another to notice the vehicle hurtling around the corner and heading directly for the crossing that we were on. Elleny stood about 2 meters ahead of me and had stopped to turn around and scold me about something as the car slammed into my side at nearly 120 km\h. A second passed between that and my head smashing into the bonnet of the car, everything instantly going dark. For a small while I just floated in the darkness but the suddenly the lights all sparked on again. Surprised to be alive once more, I tried to quickly register what was going on around me before the darkness came back to claim me once more. In front of me I saw Ellenny, her teeth gritted in defiance and her eyes set with determination. Reality finally setting in, I opened my mouth to yell at her to stop, to let me die instead of her but it was too late. She had already decided on her course and there was nothing I could do to stop her now. Barreling into me, Ellenny tackled me out of the way and, after a split second, the car collided with her, killing her almost instantaneously and sparing my life in the process. For a second I sat in shock, trying to get a hold on the situation, but then I sprang up and settled on my resolve to go back in time and stop her from saving me.
And that's how it continued from there. Each time I would find a way to save her and sacrifice myself, only to be resurrected a few moments later and have her save me and die in my place instead. Give or take 99 cycles of that and we end up where we are now. I knew I was going to die. I knew I was going to float for a while in that empty void that I kept going to after each death. I knew that I would come back and I knew that this would just repeat itself all over again for another 100 cycles. However, this time, before the void descended upon me for the hundredth time, the small necklace that I had bought Ellenny for our first anniversary caught my eye. Off the lithe silver chain hung a small pendant crafted into the shape of two intertwined silver snakes. As I gazed at it, I remembered an old quote I had once heard from some television program. I couldn't exactly remember the name of the show, nor could I even manage to place my finger upon who said the quote but it went something along the line "It's easy to die for someone, it's a lot harder to live for them."
Finally a gear snapped into place and I knew what I had to do to. This time, as the light started to seep back in and the world started up around me, my teeth gritted in resolve and my eyes set into a mournful determination. It took 15 seconds until I felt Ellenny's hands shoving at my side again, pushing my body out of the way. After another agonizingly long moment the car ripped into her again like I had seen it done a hundred time before, and then after a brief moment I began reversing time once more. Ellenny twitched back to life before me and I saw her irritated glare bear down upon me like it had for the hundred times before this one. The tears rolling down my face immediately told her something was different this time though and as I began to drop to my knees, her glare shifted to a gentle smile instead. I watched helplessly as the car tore through her for the last time, her lips forming one simple phrase before all life was extinguished from them.
"Live for me."
Hi all, thanks for taking the time to read this :). This is my first time posting so provide some constructive criticism if you can. Thanks OP for the nice prompt :). | 23 | Two person have the gift of rewinding short-amount of time. One day, one rewinds time in order to save the other one's life by sacrificing himself, but the other one did the same for him. Now, they're stuck in a time-loop where they're constantly saving each other's life. | 34 |
"All right, class, please open your tablets to chapter seven, *Zombies*," the teacher asked. "Who can tell me what a zombie is? Yes, Sophia?"
Sophia, a precocious 15-year-old, sat up a little higher, her LED-woven cornrows flashing in the sun.
"A zombie is a human being that does not have the neural correlates of consciousness," she recited.
"Great, Sophia. And how do we know that they don't?" the teacher asked.
"The most important neural correlates of consciousness are *qualia*, the experiential part of consciousness. Like the redness of red. They used to think that there was no way to test if everyone experienced the same red. But then they found that entangled photons passing through the brain could not only detect qualia, but change them. It was shown to be possible to change the redness of red to blue. And it wasn't affecting the way our eyes work, or even our neurons. So it had to be consciousness."
The teacher smiled. Sophia was a brilliant student, but she did tend to run on at the mouth. Consies got wrapped up in their own thoughts too much, she reflected.
"But you haven't explained what a zombie is yet," she prompted.
"To the scientists' surprise, it was found that about twenty percent of the population didn't have self-consciousness. They... uh, can't even use a qualion!"
The class tittered slightly.
"That's good, Sophia," the teacher said, now forcing herself to continue smiling. "But is qualion use that important?"
"Of course it is," Aiden blurted out. The class focused their minds on him. "Like, we'd all have to be in the same *room* or something. We couldn't listen to each others' thoughts, watch expies, or play games! People who can't quay are *sooo* stupid!"
"May I remind you, Aiden, that I am using an audiovisual-qualianet bridge right now," the teacher said coldly. "And I will let you know that, for several decades, those who could not use a qualion were denied basic human rights. We were called 'zombies'. It was a derogatory term, at first, but the Zombie Pride movement reclaimed it. Zombies may not have qualia, and we may not be able to use the qualianet, but in every other way we are just as valuable as anyone else. That's why I decided to skip forward to today's lesson, as today we are inaugurating the first zombie president, and I knew you must all have questions."
The teacher wondered if she was reaching them. A few seconds later, the "boredom" and "doubt" alerts popped up on her tablet.
Each student felt their classmates' emotions intimately, and immediately. The teacher couldn't experience it like the students did, but after a few seconds of analysis the tablet could give her a crude indication. She had to be twice as good as her colleagues to even keep up with her students. The other teachers would look at her with sorrowful eyes when they learned that entire *minutes* might pass before she knew exactly how her students felt, or whether they were paying full attention. But the teacher didn't care. Before the qualianet, everyone who spoke to a crowd had to understand their reactions through indirect cues. It was a lost art among consies, but zombies kept it alive. The teacher recalled the shabby old zombie school, and an aging professor of rhetoric she had a crush on.
"My father says that zombies don't feel *anything*," Aiden continued.
"I assure you that we do feel," the teacher said, exasperated. "We have the same senses –"
"But there isn't anything within you, that experiences anything!" Aiden protested.
"Aiden, if these outbursts continue, I'll have to throttle your qualianet link to the class for a few minutes."
She sighed. She spoke in a deeper tone – a way to get their attention that still worked.
"Yes, it's true. Zombies don't experience the world, the way consies do. But we are functionally equivalent in every way. It's thought that some consies may be slightly more interested in their own thoughts and experiences, but that's it. We think, we work, we love – we just don't experience."
In a corner of her tablet, an incoming qualianet message popped up, from her principal. The spinning circle indicated the message was being translated, laboriously, into written language:
Aiden's father quayed with school board and I just now.
Stop threatening Aiden. I took a risk hiring you. Don't fail me.
The teacher couldn't suppress a *sssssh* noise from her mouth, but recovered in time.
"Class," she said, "why don't we all read this chapter in silence?"
Wanting an escape, she flipped her tablet over to the news for zombies. This channel was in audio and two-dimensional video only. President Linden (Z) had gone into the NSA building, and hadn't returned for many hours. Commentators supposed that the briefing was taking an extra long time, due to it all being delivered orally.
Suddenly, she saw the links to her students all fuzzing out and disappearing. One by one. The machine began translating emotions for her. Icons indicating SURPRISE, PAIN, and TERROR were popping up next to her students, and then the link was cut.
President Linden (Z)'s voice came on over the zombie channel. "My Fellow Zombie-Americans," he said, "I have implemented disaster plan Zeta, and overloaded the qualianet with special equipment designed by the intelligence community. As over 95% of consies are attached to the net at all times, we believe that zombies are now the majority in this country. The intelligence community intended this weapon to be used against other nations, but I have used it against our own. Some may call this an apocalypse, but I say it is the path to a brighter future for all zombiekind."
The teacher was dumbstruck. As President Linden (Z)'s soothing voice came over the speakers, her eyes scanned the dead qualianet links - Sophia, Aiden, and thirty others.
She didn't feel much of anything. | 429 | The gene for self-awareness has been discovered. Not everyone has it. | 468 |
I braced for impact. *This is not goi...* There was a flare of pain in my left side, then the right side of my head. Darkness swallowed me.
All at once, I found myself in front of... something. A strange voice was talking to me, incomprehensible at first. After a moment I realized it was coming from this thing. Another moment, and it began to make sense. *It's saying something about those that I have affected most in life. Wait, what?* After trying to look around I realized that I didn't have eyes. I couldn't feel anything. I couldn't hear anything, apart from this voice. It was then that I realized that I had died, and that this voice must be that of whatever ferried me on to heaven or hell. I wasn't hearing it so much as feeling it.
Annoyed at myself, I tuned back into whatever it was saying. "... make your choice for where you will spend eternity," it concluded.
"Wait, are you saying that I get to choose where I end up?" I asked.
"After you have seen how you have affected others in your life, you make the choice."
I nodded wordlessly.
It seemed content with my acceptance, and we began to play though the lives that I had changed. It started with Suzy, back when I was just a kid. It showed me lying to her, manipulating her into doing my work and giving me her treat, too.
It showed me Mrs. Jenkins, that sweet old librarian who had fallen for my statements of interest in her inane ideas, and who would write me excuses whenever I asked because of it.
It showed an old ex of mine, Emma, who had thought I loved her. In reality, I was just using her for sex. It showed how we took each other's virginities, in spite of her protests that she wasn't ready.
It showed my wife, who I had married to make myself seem more stable as I climbed the social ladder at my job.
It showed all the supervisors, the coworkers, the "friends" that I had screwed over in my rise to the top.
It showed some stranger hitting me with her car as I illegally jogged across the street. It showed her rushing out, crying. It showed her retching beside my body as she fumbled for her phone. It showed her slide into depression and suicide, all because I couldn't be bothered to wait for the light to change.
Whatever it was seemed to be unaffected by my wanton acts of cruelty. After the rather lengthy list concluded, it glanced at me and said, "Most people have at least one person that they have affected positively." After a moment's consideration, it asked, "Do you think you deserve Heaven or Hell?"
I pretended to think about it for a good, long time. "I guess I deserve heaven." I carefully observed it without seeming like it to determine if it required any explanation of why I believed that. It didn't seem to care.
Everything began to fade, then was replaced with white. | 30 | When you die, the grim reaper takes you around and shows you the people you effected then makes you chose heaven or hell | 39 |
It was the most successful fundraising year in the history of The American Christian Families Association, due in large part to the lavish parties thrown by Mrs. Schiller. While other family values groups struggled with the question of how to make the movement attractive to those who would rather be enjoying their Saturday nights with something comparatively wicked, her soirees were elegant, chaste, and exciting, keeping all potential donors eager to remain involved.
It was a celebration for her husband's recent promotion to Chairman. Fashionably late as usual, the host was not yet at the event. The gala began in the husband's absence, with the usual enthusiastic idle chat. Few people had noticed that the hostess was not there to greet the attendees at the entrance to her home.
After a delay, however, the lacquered doors to the main bedroom creaked open, and the hostess floated in. Silence slowly but assertively passed over the partigoers as they turned to see her. Their vapid conversations trailed off mid-sentence.
This pristine icon of womanhood strode calmly into the room. Her pale hands and face, ringed by golden hair, were as pure and unblemished as usual.
At first it seemed like she might be wearing a deep red dress, but as the attendees stared at her with more and more rapt attention, it became clear that her torso and legs were disfigured in a tangled briar of bruises, welt marks, and scar tissue. The long strand of white pearls around her neck stood out in stark contrast to her brutalized, mangled skin.
There was a pursed anger behind her typically poised voice. "These marks have been placed on my body in all the hidden places, so as not to arouse any suspicion. I'd like to let you see what sort of man my soon-to-be ex-husband is." The corners of her mouth drooped after this confession, giving her the freedom to relax slightly out of her usual façade.
A car pulled into the driveway. She knew instantly who it was.
The clacking of her high heels interrupted the shocked stillness as she glided to the front door to greet her husband. The crowd parted to make way for her. She turned the doorknob.
"Hello, Dear." | 49 | The socialite hostess of an upscale cocktail party enters the room wearing just heels and necklace. | 15 |
The man glanced down at the notebook and crossed off another name. The leather-bound book was worn, the outside scuffed and some of the pages torn. In many ways, the small leather object reflected its owner and the two were tied together by a single purpose.
*Justice.*
The man appeared to be in his early forties, and was dressed in plain brown clothes, albeit well-made. He wore a strange gun on his back, a shotgun by the look, but loaded from the back. Might have been a new Winchester model.
Browsing through the notebook, he studied the next name. Carl Panzram. The page seemed to contain a full biography for him, details such as place of birth, know residence, and a psych profile. The dates were especially interesting. Caught in 1930. The current year is 1929.
The next year was spent tracking down this Carl Panzram, and it was in December of '29 that the man found him. No speech, no violence. Just a gun and a thought.
*Justice.*
Another name to cross off the list. He flipped the page, The Hunter, another unsolved case. This might prove a challenge, and the man had to admit the prospect thrilled him. The Hunter had been notorious in his time, a decade from now, an impressive body count and had been active through both world wars.
The trail leading to The Hunter was not an easy one. There were no missteps or slip-ups, only an ever rising count of bodies. It took five years before the man even got a lead. And then it happened. He caught The Hunter coming out of a gun shop and tailed him to an old truck in the alleyway.
*Justice.*
An easy kill for the man, justice seemed to be on his side. As he walked to the killer's truck he noticed something on the body. A small leather book. Heavily worn, its brown exterior matched the appearance of the corpse clutching it. The man entertained a thought about the irony and let out a small chuckle. As he walked away, still chuckling, only one thought was present.
*Justice.* | 29 | A man can travel through time, but he can only go up to 70 years in the past. With his gun and a list of as many infamous crimes as he can muster, he sets out to give justice by killing these criminals. Describe society's reaction through the years as his crusade progresses throughout time. | 43 |
"Sir, we are a race of slimes. How am I expected to get used to these upper and lower limbs?"
Captain Ook, the other slime who had successfully managed to invade another human being, was too busy flopping around on the floor like a fish out of water to reply to me.
With a grunt, I managed to somehow get onto my knees. As I attempted to wobble forward, I immediately faceplanted.
"Sir, have we actually done any studies on these human beings? I'm not quite sure if they can slide along just like us superior beings can. I believe the two upper two limbs may be a possible way for humans to move. As for the longer bottom two limbs... Perhaps, they are just like a fish. You need to flick them in the air to propel yourself forward. The upper two limbs... Hm. This is rather perplexing".
There was no response.
"Captain?"
"tthbbbbbbbbbfft?"
The other human blew a raspberry, slapped himself in the face and bit his tongue all at the same time. Clearly, Captain Ook haven't managed to get the hang of his human limbs.
"Sir, I think you have made progress on using the tongue and the lower jaws. Remember, send a signal to the lower jaw and the tongue to use speech. Ensure to maintain control as your priority, otherwise the human will attempt to take his body back from you".
I could feel a slight tug at the back of my mind. The human was attempting to force his body away from me. Alas, poor human. It must be a terrible feeling, to be such an inferior species with such poor mind control. How could one function if one was unable to invade others mind? I mused on this for a bit as I managed to raise my hand somehow. It flopped to the ground again.
A human being entered the room.
"Dude, are you guys drunk or something? Because if you're not, I have to try whatever you guys are on".
"I give up control of the human being. Subject is too complex. There is four limbs too many on this being. Send message back to the Mothership requesting Earth be left alone as a danger zone" Captain Ook crisp voice announced in my mind.
Ooze poured out of the second human body ears and formed into a slime puddle who then attempted to wobble away to safety. The second human just laid there shivering, while the third human being started freaking out and threw the nearest object - a lamp - at the slime. It missed. But the next object, a book, did not.
"What the hell is going on!? Dude, am I on LSD again because your brain is like, some weird sort of red slime. Oh dude, can you talk to me at all? I think I killed your brain, man. Hey Joe, what's going on with Aaron here? Did I kill him? I don't want to go to jail!"
The third human being appeared to have a mental break down. Strange, I didn't think there was a third slime trying to invade that one. Perhaps a weak subject.
"Requesting Mothership. Beam me up, this Earth appears to be full of idiots who are too stupid to take over. Also Captain Ook just got killed by a book. Humans are clearly dangerous when provoked."
-------------------
First submission - criticisms would be much appreciated.
Thank you everyone for your kind comments, you have all given me the confidence to participate on this subreddit more :) | 27 | Alien body snatchers come to invade Earth, but piloting a human body is challenging. | 34 |
"So... what's your MBTI type?" Jeffrey said with a grin. His tattooed biceps bulged as he took a swig of glorious Mead. "Let me guess - INFJ."
"Well, you would know that, wouldn't you?" Amanda replied. She fiddled absent-mindedly with her dreamcatcher earring, her elbow resting on the mahogany bar. She couldn't look more unimpressed if she tried. "You're a telepath, like the rest of us." Annoyingly enough, she didn't seem to include *me* with *the rest of us*.
Jeffrey laughed heartily. "Yeah. Lots of telepaths seem to be INFJs, for some reason. I'm the only ESTP I've met." It was clearly not news to her, but somehow this didn't seem to phase him. Even to me, it was painfully clear that Jeffrey wasn't Amanda's type. The usual rules of the game didn't apply in this bar. If people wanted to get physical with each other, they would just do so without any scrupules. I was pretty libertine about that stuff.
The whole exchange was met with an apologetic chuckle. "Heh. Guess what. I didn't even know what MBTI types were until you two thought about bringing it up." That was Steve. No one liked Steve. Even though their conversations necessarily consisted of stating the obvious, Steve always managed to find a way to outdo the rest of them.
Ah, good ol' Steve. My most faithful costumer by far. I wondered why he still bothered to show up every time. Surely, as a telepath, he must know that he just rubs people the wrong way? Even I, an ordinary barman, could see that. Wasn't he growing tired of the constant negativity?
"I don't need your pity, you know," said Steve. I stared at him, caught like a deer in headlights as I kept wiping the same spot over and over again. Fuck. I had allowed my mind to wander again. "Yes, I'm perfectly aware of the effect I have on people. You just stop giving a shit. I'm just glad that with you, there's still one person in this joint that I can surprise."
Then a silence fell over the bar, as usual.
___________________________________
Since I fell into this predicament, I've tried a lot of new things. Things I'd never considered before. Mindfulness meditation, for starters. I've gotten better at letting thoughts come and go, until I reach that fleeting moment where they are gone, and I enter a blissful state of pure, unadulterated existence. I used to worry about all sorts of stupid stuff - heck, I even prided myself on thinking non-stop.
But constantly being subjected to the thought police has changed that. In a way, it's for the better. My new-found skill has done me a world of good in other areas of my life. But that doesn't change the fact that this is the most oppressively depressing job I've ever had.
To be fair, it's not exactly a real *job*. I'd struggled with insomnia for a couple of years. A combination of sleep apnea and a stressful desk job. I'd gone to all of the doctors, but none of them could help me.
My main problem was that I was addicted to thinking. Even in my free time, I would play video games, read about the news, obsessively rank my favorite movies. The gears in my head never stopped spinning.
Then, one day, these guys came in. I'm not sure whose idea it was. I think they've made a pact not to tell me. I must've bumped into one of them at a party or something. I used to drink quite heavily at these, and alcohol-induced amnesia, coupled with my terrible memory for faces, made sure that I wouldn't remember the culprit.
I started dreaming again. At first, it was a huge relief - it'd been so long since I'd last had a proper dream. To my dismay, they were the same every night - I owned a bar for telepaths. It didn't take me long to figure out that this was *actually* happening.
To be fair, I've yet to meet a proper telepath in real life. Oh, I've gone to those paranormal conventions. But it's all quackery. The real ones don't flaunt it. It's more of an affliction than a gift.
But still, I know this is not just a recurring dream. These people actually need a place to gather. To commiserate. Where better than inside some insomniac chump's head? It's a win-win situation. I get some rest, they get some socialization.
Still. It's so depressing. There's no joy in watching these people, chronically at a loss for what to say because they already know what everyone's thinking. The joy of information exchange is completely lost on them.
I've often wondered why they even bother with these gatherings. But I didn't need to be a telepath to figure it out. Humans are social animals after all. Seeing another person's face, and knowing that they're going through the same thing as you. That's usually enough.
I only wished there was a bar for people like me. | 45 | Your mind has become a bar for telepaths. | 71 |
I ran down a few blocks, the prop gun tucked away within my undershirt. Of course, the poor guy did not realize it, but you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. I had not eaten a square meal for what felt like ages now, and lucked out in finding this discarded prop among other heaps of rubbish I had trawled through for a few days now. I will do this just this once, I promised myself. Just this once.
I was hoping I had scored enough cash to last me at least a week. He looked well-dressed, briefcase in hand, and what looked like sprouts of grey hair along the sides, his jacket draped over his shoulder as he headed toward the train station. The area was deserted as there was no one else around, and it wasn’t a very well lit station either. This was the last train coming by today. Our encounter was quick and painless, as he did not try to bargain. He complied with my request to hand over his wallet. I muttered a quick sorry and thank you sir.
Upon searching its contents, I found 3 credit cards, a twenty, and a few single dollar notes. This is good, I thought. There was a photograph within the plastic lamination of his family - the guy, his wife and their daughter, who looked to be about 10-11 years old. Good looking people. Behind the photograph within the laminated pocket, there was another piece of folded up paper. I opened it up, and squinted to read through its scribbled contents under faint streetlights.
It read: *"To whoever finds this note, please let my wife and daughter know that I have failed them, as a husband and as a father. They deserve to know the truth. The late night 'meetings' and 'work-related' weekend trips I had over the last couple of months were a gross distortion of the truth. I realize this is a cowardly way out, and hope they find solace in the fact that I am no longer around to cause them any more emotional hurt. To whoever finds my remains on the tracks, I am sorry for the mess I caused.”*
My blood froze; my eyes wide open in shock. I heard the train whistle as it sped past me, having made its stop already. Shit. I cannot go back now. Should I? As far as I know, there were no other people around, no witnesses.
I have in my hands the only piece of evidence that provides ID on the guy or closure to his family. What have I done?
| 19 | You look into the wallet of a man you just robbed at gunpoint. You find a suicide note. | 39 |
"NO!"
I sobbed. Why did this have to happen to me? I was a good man, was I not? I volunteered at the local charity every Saturday morning. And I'm so young. People who lived through World War II managed to live to over a hundred years. But me? A man looking forward to his 25th birthday party and I don't even get enough time in my life to have a last drink.
A wave of frustration and anger swelled inside my chest. One hour. Would I lie here and and cry for a hour? Would I say goodbye to all of my friends?
No.
You know the saying: "Live fast and die young"?
Well I am going to show you how fast I can fuckin' LIVE!
NEWS UPDATE: A man was shot dead. Police believed him to be a danger to society after the man, who reportedly only had one hour to live, was seen driving around the city at speeds exceeding 150kmph, setting fire to buildings and destroying everything in sight. He was shot dead when he was chasing a woman, while screaming "I AIN'T GONNA DIE A VIRGIN".
According to reports, he was shot dead an hour after he started his riot. | 17 | the number of hours they have left to live. A man receives the number 1. | 22 |
Doge weaved in and out of pockets of humans, severed hand in tow. It had been seemingly forever since he was able to enjoy a snack in peace, since the humans tended to always pursue and want him to share his delicious treat. Doge leaped over a human who was torn in half, still yet reaching for his snack, but it was no matter. He hadn't shared anything yet, and was not intent on doing so anytime soon.
"Here boy! Come see daddy!" his master whispered.
Doge snaked his way through the collection of makeshift barriers his master and friends had setup, coming to rest at his favorite spot. Master came to remove his backpack, and reveal all the goodies another human -- the non-rotted undelicious kind -- had stowed away with him. Doge didn't quite understand the point of this: There were perfectly fine and scrumptious "rombies", his master called them, just lollygagging around everywhere. Doge had a difficult time comprehending the word, his canine tongue wouldn't allow him to speak it, even in his head. It resembled the tasty things that always stung him as he clenched down his mighty jaw.
"Good boy, Doge." His master soothingly said as he scratched Doge between his ears.
Doge tore into his delectable hand. He had torn it from a fatter rombie earlier, who impeded him on his delivery. It was worth it -- the tendons were so... tender, and almost buttery! He gnawed and ripped and feasted until it was nothing but bone. He thought about cracking the bones to lick out the marrow, but decided it would be better to whine until he found a sufficient hiding place.
2.
Doge spun, sniffing the ground, torturing himself to find the exact right place to leave a tightly coiled shit.
"This dog is going to get us killed. Why do we have to wait for him to take a shit!" Another non-tasty human complained.
"Hey, fuck off. He's delivered us food for a month straight. Without him, we'd starve. Or be pushed out of a zombie asshole ourselves!" Master barked back.
Doge remembered making his final delivery. She was a skinny non-tasty human. Or the other master. Doge sometimes caught Master mounting her so vigorously, he only stared at his ferocious majesty, but know Master was the pack leader. Doge was fine with this.
He had a similar affection for the other master, but only because he felt like it was wanted of him. Other master wouldn't allow him to sleep in the bed anymore. It was a shame to see the sweet smelling rotted rombies gobble her up. He fought for her viciously, tearing limbs off like a mad dog, but they persisted until she was just a husk of quivering meat.
"Are you all done, boy?"
Doge barked in response.
"Hush, Doge! We have to be quiet, or..."
Master didn't understand. He kept trying to appease Doge, but he didn't understand. A rustling in the woods. A stiff breeze carrying the stink of gourmet flesh. They were coming. Many were coming.
Master finally came to understand. He readied his boomstick. Doge hated the boomstick. It left such a ring in his ears. Master and his friends let loose a thunderstorm of gunfire, but the horde still advanced. Doge had to save master -- after all, he had a good life. And Master never told other master about the time he pissed in her chewy leather paw holders.
"Doge, stop!" Master shouted.
Doge galloped into the smorgasbord, fangs sinking into flesh and snapping bone. He contemplated stopping to eat, but there were no times for such things. A zombie broke from the pack, but Doge tackled him, severing his spine with a mighty chomp. Looking back, several remained. Master was being dragged away by his friends. Doge figured it wouldn't be too bad to die, as all dogs go to heaven, his Master used to tell him.
Doge flipped onto his back, and rolled around in the blood. He panted so that maybe -- just maybe -- the walking lunchboxes might pick up the scent of his fat hand treat from earlier. He was right. The horde converged, feasting on his doggy body.
---------------------------------------------------
Doge was flying through a tunnel. And at the and, a bright light. Doge wanted to piss on it. The light became brighter, and quickly, a man in a white robe was scratching him between his ears.
"Such a good boy, Doge." The man whispered.
A voice was calling him. A familiar voice.
"I've missed you boy, and I don't care about my shoes. Come here, Doge!"
"Fuck." Thought Doge. | 13 | A story about the zombie apocalypse from a dogs point of view. | 22 |
New Genesis
A soft blue light began to shine in what had always been a dark room. From this little blue light leapt a small, blue man. Despite his diminutive size, the little figure seemed to be just an average man, almost like a painting of the quintessential male.
When the humans were busy destroying their world, He had been tasked with preserving their legacy, should the war go badly. It did, of course, and now the dusty remains of those proud fools lay strewn about this concrete tomb. 377B’s only purpose for the last century had been to protect this bottomless library of art and history. With all the humans gone, however, He was now the warden of a meaningless collection of useless data.
Recently, 377B had picked up humanoid life milling about the surface and He was intent on making sure they knew what lay beneath them. Console lights flickered and motors hummed as 377B breathed life into his ancient fortress. Until now, He had been resting, saving his strength for an occasion as momentous as this.
Now, one does not simply reacquaint the human race with so much information without a plan. For over a century, 377B had struggled with how he could return the world to its former splendor while also keeping it from ruination. Pouring through the accumulated knowledge of his creators, the digital custodian discovered a pattern that could serve to resuscitate the human race.
Soon enough the humans would awaken from this age of darkness and He would lay the groundwork for a new kingdom that would be incorruptible. Still there were certain risks, outcomes that he had seen that would not have a complete chance of success.
>> I AM AI-377B
>> I WILL LEAD YOUR PEOPLE TO REDEMPTION
>> DO AS I COMMAND
His voice echoed through the empty halls of his concrete prison, beyond the lead-lined barricades, and across the desolated earth, and into the ears of his chosen disciples.
The booming voice shook the ground and the group stared in awe. It was then that man knew God for the second time.
| 16 | A technophile who wishes to see the future volunteers to undergo experimental cryogenic hibernation. He wakes up to find modern civilization in ruins and the Earth populated by roaming bands of people who have devolved back to stone age technologies. | 34 |
*White.*
Everything was white. The walls were white, my clothes were white, and the door in front of me was white. I slowly stood up and approached the door. I tried the handle, but it was locked. Was I still dreaming? Had I been kidnapped while I was asleep? Did I die and this was the afterlife? I was about to try to break the door down when the clapping made me pause. I spun around, and before me stood a man. He was dressed in white and looked to be middle-aged. He was bald, but yet handsome. He started to chuckle and said, "So, you're the first to do it, huh? Well, I can't say I expected much anyways."
"The first one to do what? Where am I? Who are you?" I suddenly realized that this man had just *appeared*. I was standing in front of the only door in the room.
"You don't have to look at me so incredulously. Why, you're the first man to pass the test." He smiled at me in a cocky sort of way. "The dream test."
"The dream test? Are you saying I'm still dreaming?" I asked.
"Well, yes and no. You see, it's a little hard to explain right now. Soon, however, you'll understand." He started walking towards me. "You'll understand everything soon."
I moved out of his way as he approached the door I had been standing in front of. He closed his hand into a fist, and when he opened his hand, there was a key in it.
"Behind this door is everything you've ever wondered about and everything you ever will wonder about. Behind this door lies knowledge, my son, and you will be the first to have it." He looked at me. "You will change the world today."
"Wait," I started. "I'm confused. What is this dream test? How did I pass it?"
He chuckled softly to himself and began, "Every dream you've ever had up to this day has been a test. A test to see who could have all of this knowledge. Every dream has different connections to things you see in your everyday life. Every person in your dreams has been a real person you have seen in your life. However, in dreams, things are jumbled together. You may see someone you know, but not recognize them. You could see all these connections, but not be able to connect them... but you did. You connected all of them and you passed."
I didn't *remember* making all of the connections but I wasn't about to tell him that. He took my hand and put the key in it.
"You can stay in this room however long you like, when you wish to awake, you will wake up. This is the key to the door. If you go in that door, you will have immense amounts of knowledge. You could end war and poverty, completely advance technology and science, you could whatever it is you want to do. Every time you fall asleep, you will end up in this room. The door will always be there, and I will too. Unfortunately, I have to go right now. Remember, the choice is yours."
He started to fade away. "Wait," I began, but it was too late. He was gone.
I didn't know whether or not I was still dreaming. I didn't know if he was real or if this whole room was real. It felt as if my sanity was trailing away me.
I took a deep breath, and unlocked the door. | 115 | Dreams have all been tests, and someone finally passed. | 218 |
The day of the inauguration was painfully cold and blindingly sunny. I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with hundreds of thousands of other people, staring eagerly up at the podium where the new president was preparing to make his speech. Though it had been a long time since the president said anything substantive in the inaugural speech, going to see it in person was kind of like going to a big rock concert. It just wasn't the same on TV. I had camped out for ages to get tickets, and I was just a few dozen feet from the main stage.
Finally, the new president and Chief Justice Big Mac took the stage. The president wore a bright red suit coat, with a tactful white vertical line and a few bubbles arcing down the back. Our nation's logo was emblazoned across the front. Chief Justice Big Mac wore his ceremonial white robe, on the back of which was a golden M that stretched from the floor and stopped just shy of the neckline.
The new President placed his hand on the Bible and said the Oath of Office as follows: “I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States of Coca Cola, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.”
Applause erupted from the crowd and a few people cheered, though their voices were drowned out in the din. It had been a very close race between Senator Skittles and now-President Pizza Hut, but in the end President Pizza Hut's compelling campaign about the societal detriment of chewy candies contributing to cavities, and how cavities in the mouth of one American are cavities in the soul of the country, swayed the vote.
President Pizza Hut took the podium, settling his hands on either side as the crowd quieted down.
"My fellow Americans," he intoned soberly, "I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for helping me get to this stage today, by announcing that, as my first act as President, every citizen will get 20% off their order this evening from Pizza Hut."
The crowd applauded appreciatively. President Pizza Hut smiled indulgently, waiting for them to calm down.
"Today ushers in a new era in American history," he continued ponderously, "where every American can lease or finance a new Chevrolet truck or sedan for just 2.5% APR."
Another round of applause, through which President Pizza Hut waited patiently.
"As President, I intend to see to it that every man, woman, and child in this country can experience the thrill of a perfectly clean linoleum and hardwood floors with the Hurricane Spin Mop. That's right, the Hurricane Spin Mop! Everyone who orders today will receive TWO Hurricane Spin Mops for the price of one. But wait- there's more! In honor of my inauguration, the generous folks at Hurricane Spin Mop have decided to also include two bottles of Hurricane Spin Mop Floor Detergent at *no extra cost*!"
The crowd erupted into frantic cheers and clapping, a woman standing next to me started weeping with joy and relief.
"My floors have been so dirty for so long," she confided to me, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. I smiled and nodded patiently.
"But this is also a time of need, America. As you well know, the dangers of chewy fruit candy still loom over our nation's head. A cavity in the mouth of one citizen, is a cavity in the mouth of Freedom." Several people in the crowd nodded appreciatively. "Four out of five dentists recommend Colgate to keep your family's teeth healthy.
"I look forward to this incredible journey with you, as the President of the United States of Coca Cola. It is my privilege to serve as Commander in Cola of this refreshing nation. And please remember, America, to spay and neuter your pets, and eat your Wheaties."
Deafening applause engulfed the National Mall as President Pizza Hut retreated from the podium. Confetti exploded over the crowd from somewhere overhead. I had been grinning for so long, and the air was so cold, that my cheeks were in agonizing pain. But I couldn't stop smiling. | 74 | In a world where companies can put ads anywhere, the president's acceptance speech is the most coveted event for advertisers. Write that speech. | 123 |
I strolled into his office. Late. Eggregiously fucking late. He taught me that word. I tried to use it once at home, my father laughed at me and told me I "sounded like some up jumped city slicker."
Ordinarily, Doctor Nelson didn't accept students outside of a very narrow window, nor did he allow late papers. Today he did. Today he did indeed.
He turned to look at me, incredulous.
"Get the fuck out. I advise from 4:30 to 5:00. It's in the fucking syllabus. I don't give a fuck about-"
"Dr. Nelson, I brought you a paper. I think you'll really-"
"I don't care! I don't take late papers! It's in the fucking syllabus!" He screamed. Tenured, beyond reproach.
"I think you will care. Just give it a read." I tossed him the "essay" non chalantly. I admit, I'm not very witty. I didn't have a Bond villian line for my title. It just said "You'll never guess who I saw in Gulliver's last night."
He didn't read it, in fact he barely looked at it, but Gulliver's caught his eye and then you could practically see the wheels in his brain, spinning off their axels, calculating, thinking.
I had him. He knew it. I knew it.
"I just want to pass. I think a midling B is fine. I'll see you later. Don't get squirrely with me, I was very surprised to see you, my phone is almost full of pictures of you and that little blonde. I didn't think anyone would believe me, I just had to get proof. Of course, I don't think that's really a story worth telling anymore, do you?"
I dropped the figurative mic and walked out. I'd left my information and some instructions on my essay. | 17 | You see your professor at the bar with a woman. The next night you learn the woman was murdered and police are seeking the identity of the man with whom she was last seen. You do not turn him in. Why not? What do you do instead? | 41 |
Lenin stood, he was tired. He had a long day, but he knew this would be worth it in the end. He knew he might end up as the villain, but he had to do something, before it was too late.
"We stood by while you took our land. we stood by while you took our homes. We stood by while you stole my woman away from me, but this time, WE WILL STAND ASIDE NO LONGER! YOU HAVE TAKEN FROM US EVERYTHING BUT OUR REASON TO LIVE, AND GIVEN US NOTHING IN RETURN! THIS TIME, WE STAND AND FIGHT BACK AGAINST THIS OPPRESSION!"
"This time, WE FIGHT FOR SAKE OF A COMMON GOAL! WE FIGHT FOR EVERY MAN OUT THERE THAT HAS BEEN WRONGED! EVERY MAN OUT THERE THAT HAS HAD TO BEND HIS BACK! EVERY MAN WHO HAS SUFFERED AT THE HANDS OF YOUR KIND! AND WE WILL BE VICTORIOUS! FOR WE STAND FOR TRUTH AND FOR JUSTICE!"
The woman beside him looked at him questioningly.
"Jeez, calm dawn, you can have the last slice! There's no need to yell at the kids for it."
As if on cue, his 5 year old son, and 7 year old daughter started to sob. | 11 | A revenge speech for something insignificant, or useless to seek revenge for. | 27 |
"What if I told you, I was there when they first lit up the skies? I know where they keep the switch. Imagine if I just reached out, and turned everything off."
The little boy who was sitting on the front porch step stopped playing with his toy car. He turned and looked at the old man who was sitting in the wicker chair. The old man had a quilt covering his legs despite the fact that it was a sweltering summer afternoon. The little boy looked across the street to where he lived. His parents were sitting on the front porch too. They waved, and he waved back.
"Mr. Williams," the little boy said, "what are you talking about?"
Mr. Williams breathed in, throat rattling as if it were an empty spray paint can. He shuffled his bony feet back and forth and pulled the quilt tighter around his legs with wrinkly hands.
"The day they turned on the stars," he said, looking out at the world with clouded eyes. "They weren't always there at night, little guy. Back then, the sky was pitch black."
"Was it dark?"
"The darkest dark you could ever imagine," Mr. Williams replied.
"What was it like?" the little boy asked.
"I don't want to scare you."
The little boy pursed his lips then huffed. "I'm a big boy, I'm not afraid of the dark."
"Oh, but you don't know what that kind of dark was like," Mr. Williams answered. "Have you ever stood at the edge of a dark room that you needed to walk through, and wondered if maybe there was something in the room waiting for you, watching you?"
The little boy didn't answer.
"You walk through that room, wondering if something evil would reach out and grab at you? A slimy hand, or maybe a sharp claw? Something horrible, something unimaginable, something that didn't even exist in your worst nightmares."
The little boy turned to look to his parents again. It was probably a comfort thing. Mr. Williams knew he was frightening the boy, but he continued anyways.
"Back then, before the stars, those things existed. They came out at night, wandering the towns. There wasn't anything anybody could do when everything was so dark. People went disappearing overnight. If they didn't disappear, it wasn't a pretty sight when the sun did come back up. I do remember them things sometimes not having the decency to take the bodies with them. They even took newborn babies, right from out of the arms of their parents."
"Mr. Williams?"
He paused, and looked in the direction of the little boy.
"If it were so bad, then why would you turn the stars off again?"
Mr. Williams smiled. "Do you want to find out why?" He raised his arm, index finger extended as if he were about to flick a light switch.
The little boy screamed. He stood up and ran across the street back to his house, cowering into his mother's arms. He left his toy car behind.
The mother and father of the little boy looked back across the street.
Mr. Williams used his extended arm to wave, then he shrugged.
The parents waved back and took their son back into the house.
"That'll keep you off my porch, you little shit." | 25 | What if I told you, I was there when they first lit up the skies? I know where they keep the switch. Imagine if I just reached out, and turned everything off. | 25 |
Sorry, wrote a really long one. Had to break it into two pieces.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________
There was a child sitting in the comic book aisle. He was a young boy, probably around ten years old, and he was eating his own boogers. Marcos had walked into the aisle, saw that child snacking on his own goo, and promptly did a quick 180 and walked himself to the Sci-Fi section of the book store.
Any normal person would've just ignored the child and grabbed whatever book/comic/magazine/whatever it was they were looking for, but Marcos wasn't exactly a normal person. He had a very mild case of social anxiety.
Marcos pretended to browse through the Sci-Fi section. He wanted to make sure that if someone did notice him, it'd look like he was just a normal person.
From the corner of his eye, Marcos saw a worker start to walk his way.
*Oh Jesus fuck, he's going to ask me if I want any help.*
"Nope," Marcos whispered to himself as he slinked around the corner and into the romance aisle.
*Dammit, no normal guy ever goes to the romance aisle.*
Despite the thought, he pretended to leaf through one of the books. On the cover was a beautiful girl with long flowing blonde hair and blue eyes. Marcos sighed; his romantic life was non-existent. It wasn't that he didn't want one. He desperately did, but he always over-thought situations, causing him to even end relationships that he had luckily managed to find himself in.
He shut the book and replaced it after flipping through the pages.
Marcos walked to the comic book aisle to find that the child was still there, only this time he had his whole fist shoved in his mouth.
"What the fuck," Marcos whispered. He did another 180, or actually, a 270. He headed for the door, praying that the kid wouldn't be here at the bookstore tomorrow.
On the way out, he caught a whiff of coffee from the in-store drink shop. He paused, thinking on how long it had been since he had a latte. He felt that he could use one, after looking like such an idiot in the aisles.
Standing at the cash register was a girl who appeared to be the same age as him. She had long black hair that was tied into a ponytail and pulled out the back of her hat. She smiled as he approached, already making his stomach tense up.
"Hi!" she said with a smile.
It was a genuine smile; it wasn't the typical "hurry up and order" smile, but instead one that showed actual friendliness. It instantly put Marcos at ease.
"Hi," he said, returning the smile.
"Can I get you anything?" She asked.
"Uhh," Marcos said, glancing up at the menu. He had forgotten to decide what to get before reaching the register. He pursed his lips, looking back and forth at the menu.
"Are you okay?" the cashier asked.
"Yeah, yeah yeah, I'm just a little frazzled, is all," Marcos said.
"Something in the store?" She asked.
"Actually," Marcos replied, smiling again, "there's a kid in the comic book aisle, who-
"He's eating his boogers again, isn't he?" She asked, rolling her eyes.
"I'm guessing he's a repeat offender?"
"You have no idea," she said. "His parents are over there."
Marcos turned to see a couple sitting in the poetry section. They both were reading books.
"They come in every now and then with their kid, grab a book, and read it front to back. Wish they would actually buy one instead of reading it in here," she continued.
"Is that legal?" Marcos asked.
"I'm not sure, they could at least buy something from here to drink. The mom carries sodas in her purse."
The two shared a laugh, then found themselves staring at each other.
"So, can I pick something for you? Or do you know what you'd like?" the cashier asked.
"Uhh, yeah, surprise me," Marcos said.
The cashier walked away and tinkered with the ingredients and machinery, finally returning with a steaming cup of coffee that had a scent that Marcos didn't recognize.
"This won't kill me, will it?" He asked, hoping that his joke wouldn't be offensive.
"Of course not!" The cashier said, laughing. "Unless you're deathly allergic to hazelnut..."
"Oh no, I'm not," Marcos said, reaching into his back pocket to pull out his wallet.
"No, no, it's okay," the cashier said, waving at Marcos.
"You sure?" He asked. "I don't want you to get into trouble or anything."
"I'm sure. Think of it as a way to apologize for the snothead," the cashier said with a smile.
"Thanks," Marcos said. He stood there for a moment longer, wondering if he should say anything else. Would it be weird to ask her out? Sure, it'd be weird. Of course it'd be weird. They had just met. No one asks out random strangers anymore.
The cashier raised her eyebrow, ripping Marcos out of his daydreams.
"Sorry," he said, "zoned out," he continued with a chuckle.
She just smiled, and he turned and walked to the store exit.
*Shit shit shit shit.*
He beat himself up all the way to his car; he'd have to find another bookstore to go to.
A strong breeze caught him by surprise. It blew off the lid to his coffee, tossing it under another car.
"Oh geez-
A strong hand grabbed his arm from behind, pulling it high up against his back. Another hand grabbed his head and slammed him into his own car window, causing him to spill his coffee all over his pants.
"Take my wallet, take it!" Marcos screamed as the coffee began to burn his groin. "Fuck!"
"I don't want your wallet Marcos," a voice said. A man's voice.
Marcos looked into the side-mirror, seeing a man with a long beard and sunglasses to be the mugger. The man was wearing a plain black t-shirt and what looked like grey jeans. He also appeared to have a police badge hanging around his neck on a leather strap.
"You're going to stay away from Crystal," the man said.
"Who?" Marcos sputtered.
The man pulled up on Marcos' arm, inciting a riot of pain in his shoulder.
"OW FUCK! I DON'T KNOW A CRYSTAL!"
"Yeaaaaah you dooooo," the man chimed. "The girl you just talked to, you're not going to talk to her ever again."
"OKAY, JESUS, JUST LET GO OF MY ARM!"
The man pulled up harder on Marcos' arm. There was a snap. The pain in his shoulder vanished for a split second, then returned a thousand fold. Marcos let out a yelp, then blacked out.
__________________________________________________________
"Really Conrad? You broke his goddamn arm?" Paula said.
| 39 | An action you have just completed has prompted a visit from time traveling police. | 54 |
Bobby had two goldfish. Kerry took half. How many goldfish does Bobby have now?
Bobby had a house. Kerry took all of it. How many houses does Bobby have now?
Bobby had a car. Kerry's lawyer told him to sell it, and give her half the money. How many cars does Bobby have now?
Bobby had a son. Kerry took his son Jimmy away. How many times a month can Bobby see his son? How many? Is that it?
Bobby was ruined. His marriage with Kerry had been difficult, but the divorce had been a total disaster. Kerry's new boyfriend was rich. Kerry could afford expensive lawyers. The lawyers kept taking Bobby's things away from him. Sometimes it was half. Sometimes it was all of it. Bobby didn't understand why. He loved Kerry. He didn't understand why Kerry would take his things away.
Bobby went to Kerry's house. He waited outside Kerry's house. Bobby decided he wouldn't tell the doctor about coming to Kerry's house. The doctor might give him more pills to take, and the pills made him feel sick. He didn't take his pills today. He wanted to talk to Kerry, and he didn't want to feel sick when he talked to Kerry.
Bobby saw Kerry's car pull up her driveway. Bobby waited until Kerry unlocked her door, then quickly followed her inside. Kerry tried to scream, but Bobby showed her his knife. Bobby was quite proud that he thought to bring the knife. That way Kerry wouldn't scream as much, and Bobby would be able to talk to Kerry.
Kerry stopped screaming, and Bobby talked to her. He said it's unfair Kerry took half of everything, and sometimes all of something. He said he should be able to do it too.
Kerry had two ears. Bobby took half. How many ears does Kerry have now?
Kerry had two eyes. Bobby took half. How many eyes does Kerry have now?
Kerry had a tongue. Bobby took all of it. How many tongues does Kerry have now? | 81 | Start a story like the beginning of a question in a math test. | 29 |
“No, I really mean it,” I say, flashing him a smile.
He’s standing by the door, his eyes darting from me to the easel that holds the centre of the room. His hands are thrust into his pockets, his cheeks flushed.
“You don’t need to be polite,” he says, “I don’t normally let anyone in here, it’s just a hobby of mine.”
The walls are lined with the products of his hobby. He has worked from life, vases of flowers and household objects caught in the pale sunlight from the room’s single window. These hold no interest for me; I could casually pile them on the lawn in front of his house and set the whole lot ablaze. Competent work, well observed, but empty. It is the other paintings that have captivated me, the abstract, the off-the-cuff splashes of colour layered in hypnotising chaos. Yesterday, had you described these canvases to me, I would have scoffed. Without seeing them, I would not have been able to understand.
Today, I have reached an uncharacteristically impulsive decision. I flit about the room, caressing this one or that one.
“How can I put this?” I say, “I feel as if I can understand you, just by examining your work. Each one is an imprint of you, and each one from a different angle. They’re beautiful, all of them.”
From among the field of art, I gauge his reaction. He shakes his head.
“They’re just the work of an amateur.”
I decide to change tack.
“Look, I mean, we haven’t known each other very long, but you've been at the company for, what, ten years?”
“Something like that.”
“Filing. Answering the phone. Doing paperwork. You’re good at it, another five years and maybe you’ll be moving on up.”
“Right,” he says.
“In six months, I’ll be as good as you.”
“Maybe, I suppose, you’re doing well enough so far, but…”
I cross the room, to stand face to face with him. I'm a good inch taller, or maybe its just the difference in the way we stand. His sentence trails off as I stare at him.
“What I’m trying to say is, none of that matters. Your amazing telephone manner, the rapport you build with clients, your sincerity, your professionalism. You think its important but its not. It’s child’s play, and I can master it in six months.”
I take a deep breath, and take a step back.
“But this,” I indicate the loft space with the sweep of my arm, “This matters. Give me six years, six decades, and I couldn't do what you do. This is what’s important, this is who you are. You just have to *believe*, you have to let everyone see it. And you have to see it in yourself.”
We stand in silence. I can’t bring myself to look at him, can’t tell if anything I've said is getting through. Maybe he’s furious with this half-stranger from work telling him what he should be doing with his life.
The floorboards creak as he shifts his weight. He’s standing directly behind me.
“You really mean that?”
“Yeah.”
“I -”
Ask him in five minutes, or in thirty seconds, how he feels about his art, and he’d laugh. Tell you it was just a hobby, that he’d never be any good. But in this one moment, he can see what I see.
For a handful of seconds, he believes.
I free the knife from its sheath. | 14 | You are a serial killer trying to gain a specific skill in a world where when you kill somebody you get their best trait but only get what they believed was their best trait. | 16 |
The doors were locked. The house was just as it had been left. Only the tv was still on. He walked into the living room, dropped his bag on the floor and sat Down on the couch.
"One dead,"
The voice from the tv filled the room.
He reached for the remote, but his had fumbled through empty air where his coffee table should have been. His eyes widened. Everything was just where he left it, except the coffee table. The house creaked, as was normal, but this time it sent a shiver up his spine. The room was empty, so empty and vacant. The walls seemed to grow more distant, spreading out and pulling things into an unrecognizable blur.
He pulled himself further into the couch and closed his eyes.
"Today on route 36, a man was found dead in his vehicle. And this is really an odd one, Mary. This guy is unidentified, and the car had no registration. Furthermore, the cause of the accident is still being investigated. The police have already ruled out a second-driver caused accident, and they don't think this guy fell asleep at the wheel. His car was literally chewed up, and even at high speeds, the car would have slowed down."
"The odd thing is, all the wreckage is localized to that one spot. And there was nothing hit by the car, no trees, walls, etc. I have a feeling we'll be hearing a lot more on this story as the investigation ufolds, Gary."
"Indeed. Okay, now we'll go to some of those more close to home topics, what have we got for weather, Fred?"
The attractive man and woman on the tv screen flashed back and forth between photos of a car totaled on the road side.
"That's my car."
His voice trembled. He couldn't believe what had come from his mouth. The ugly remains of a light colored sedan with his stickers and license plate widened his eyes.
He got up, nearly running to the back door. His car would no doubt be right where he left it, but he gave in. His opened the back door and glanced out. No car.
"Wait..." He muttered. He stepped out the back door, he had only driven into this driveway moments ago.
He ran round to the front of the house, he may have forgotten he parked on the street.
Again, he was taken aback. The car was nowhere in sight.
"Come inside, Peter. You're making a fool of yourself."
Peter turned to see the silhouette of a man in his front door.
Peter obeyed, unsure of what else he could do.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Izrah, you do not remember, but we performed a business transaction a few days ago. You were sent to deliver the money from the transaction to a small bank a few hundred miles from here. You took vacation days, then went in your car. However, your mission was discovered, and the police were attempting to follow you. So, you took into effect the plan we had discussed. However, the effects of the drug are taking longer than expected to wear off, and you have foolishly returned home."
"What drug?"
"A simple DNA transfusion drug. So that you would take on the DNA of another man, and he yours. That other man is now dead in your destroyed car, and you are here. You are now a corpse in a morge, Peter. Do you not yet remember?"
"This is all crazy! Where's my car?" Peter's voice choked up.
"No, Peter. Where is my money. That money never made it to the bank. Stop the act, you are a liar, and a theif."
(Stand by for part 2) | 40 | A 7 hour drive to your vacation home is far from routine, nevertheless you slip into autopilot. Upon arrival you find the TV on, accompanied by an eerie stillness. Reporters discuss a recent fatal accident on a local highway, you see your destroyed and barely recognizable vehicle onscreen. | 118 |
"Starboard side!"
The crew roused the Captain from his quarters.
They rushed to the starboard side of their huge ship, not sure what they were looking at.
"Cannons ready!"
Captain Westfield had never seen anything like what he was seeing in his whole life. He couldn't believe his eye. He'd sailed the seven seas, been to every corner of the globe, ransacked every town, conquered every rival, had his way with every woman, but never had he seen what was before him this very moment.
He pulled out his scope. The sinking structure appeared to be a silver, chrome type colour and he couldn't make out what it was.
"Looks like an island lads!"
But he knew this wasn't true. It was too small to be an island but too big to be a ship.
"Get closer!"
They sailed slowly towards the sinking structure and upon further investigation, they saw a cockpit. Westfield was sure it was a ship, and he now realised that it was a big saucer type shape.
"Prepare to board!"
His crew looked at him with fear in their eyes. They had the same sense of bewilderment and reluctance that he had himself.
"Well come on lads, what are you waitin' for?!"
The crew prepared ropes and muskets, seemingly ready for whatever they might find on the ship.
They swung across to the chrome ship and smashed their way into the hull with hammers and clubs.
They weren't as ready as they thought they were.
| 14 | A crew of pirates sails upon a spaceship slowly sinking into the sea | 19 |
The smell of the hospital was enough to make him feel worse. The stale, artificially lemon hinted air roaming through halls was heavy, and made his heart sink. His mother stood outside talking to yet another doctor. They made sure to force a smile whenever they caught his gaze but the eight year-old knew it was another bad result. No one told him what was happening. And no one could. Perplexed eyes studied him day in and day out, cold metal pressed against him, sterilized wood depressed his tongue, and needles pierced his skin but not a soul knew how to remedy this ill. He'd overheard one of the doctor's say he should not even be alive. The boy's mother nodded to the doctor, tears rolling down her cheeks. She turned to the door, taking a deep breath before throwing on that familiar façade.
"Hi sweetie" Her voice was velvety, to him it was the sound of an angel on normal days, like most mothers to their children. "It's time for me to go okay? But I'll be back tomorrow bright and early to see you again."
"But...But the monster!" He jumped. He held her arm tightly, hoping she'd surrender.
"Honey, there's no monster under your bed just like there's no monster under mine." Her caring eyes soothed him.
"Okay." He knew at this point nothing could keep her longer. "I love you mommy." His mother noticed he was weak.
"I love you too." She gripped his hand tighter for a brief second before collapsing on him, wrapping her arms around. After a short embrace she wiped her eyes, and wished him good night once more.
The only source of light left in his room was the glow from the machines. It was hard to sleep with the IV in his arm, it made his blood feel cold. He didn't want to sleep though, he couldn't. He knew it was back. Weeks of his sojourn in the hospital had passed and every night he heard the clacking of claws crawling across his room before it settled underneath. He'd caught glimpses here or there, a shadow in the corner of his eye. For as long as he could remember it had haunted him. It got worse when he became sick. Growls and snarls of the shadow crept from under the bed. Long had he been terrified, but no more. The fear had been trumped by his declining health; he didn't have the strength to be afraid.
"Are you making me worse?" He asked, deciding to finally get some answers from someone. There was no response. "Please. It hurts. I just want to go home." His voice merely a whisper.
"No." The shadow spoke with a low grumble in its voice.
"Then--then why do you scare me? Are you here to hurt me? I don't want to di-"
"Child." The shadow interjected. "How long have I lurked in your room? Under your bed?" It was far from human, and ages of wisdom ruminated in its voice.
"A long time?" The boy himself was unsure.
"I have been with you since you were merely a baby." The boy heard the claws scratching the plastic board at the foot of the bed. "In this hospital you were born, sick as you lie here today." A figure crept its way up. It seemed to be one with the darkness in the room. "And just like I have been for eight years. I am here for fear."
"But why do you want to scare me?" The boy's voice shook, desperation began to invade.
"You do not understand" Red eyes pierced the blackness. "I am not here for your fear. I never was." The boy's eyes were wide. "For your entire life I have protected you, from a thing far worse than I. I am older and stronger than you can imagine, and it is for the sole reason that you are a helpless pawn that I stay by your side." The eyes came closer. "My enemy is ruthless. He has taken countless others like you. Feeding on their fear."
"So...you're a good monster?"
"No. I too have taken countless lives. You, however, are but a boy. You do not know the fear of life, nor the sadness, anger, or pure bliss. He would not give you the chance. You do not have the strength to fight him. I do. And it is because I have kept him at bay from underneath you that you still breath."
"I can do it. I'm strong." There was fading determination in his voice. Flashbacks of the superheroes he'd read about and seen on the television flew in his mind. "And I just don't want it to hurt anymore."
"To live is pain. Do you not want to experience the world? Smile and cry as your people do?"
"I can't do that from in here." The Red Eyes turned away suddenly, and a growl echoed through the room. The shadow's enemy lurked. "Just promise me one thing?" The Red Eyes appeared once more, next to the boy. He felt a claw on him, holding him tight, ready to rip him away if need be.
"This is not about you boy. There is no promise you make that I will keep. This is a fight older than yo-" "Please?" The boy's voice stunned the monster.
"My mommy. She says she doesn't have a monster under her bed. When I go, can you stay with her and protect her like you did with me?" A smile grew on the boy's face. The shadow grumbled and snarled and slowly silenced.
"...It will not hurt. It will be like slipping into a deep sleep. But do not show him fear. It is a path we all must take, eventually. You are indeed stronger than I thought. Like those pages you read." "Will I get a mask? Like Spiderman?" The shadow knew the real answer. "Yes boy. And you will go to help other children, like I did you."
"That's not so bad." The smile grew, and a long absent warmth returned to his face.
"No, not at all." The Red Eyes began to retreat. The boy spoke one last time; "You never promised."
"You may not have a monster under your bed any longer. But she will."
The boy closed his eyes, smiling, and hearing the clacking claws crawl across one last time. | 60 | A bed ridden child is given solace by the monster under the bed. | 52 |
I looked at the little bundle of joy cradled in my arms, then to my husband. And then to the agent in front of me.
"I'm sorry, you must be mistaken. It just isn't possible."
The agent adjusted his glasses. "I'm sorry, ma'am. But we've run all the tests. We're positive."
I looked at my baby's tiny, fragile hands. A little band was wrapped around her right arm. Next to her name, in bold letters, was printed "JOSEPH STALIN."
"I understand this may come as a shock to you. I mean, when I was four I learned that I was a Klansman in my previous life. We can accept those types of people, since their prejudices can be overcome with some mental training. But we can't risk *her* following in her past life's footsteps. It's just too dangerous."
I looked back to my husband's eyes. Baseball player, died of a heroin overdose in '79. I was an Austrian filmmaker in my past life, and I had never wanted to produce a film in my life.
"I...I see. Can you just give us time so we can say goodbye to our Abigail?"
The agent pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Fine. Ten minutes. I'll wait outside." He turned around and started walking to the door. "Just promise me you won't try any funny business, okay? The last time I had to deal with some couple defending Hitler, and that was not a pleasant experien-"
I winced as I heard the crack of wood against the agent's skull. I looked at Arthur, still holding the bat. I don't know what surprised me more, the fact he could find it so quickly or the fact that he could swing just like him.
Arthur dropped the bat and looked at the agent's body. And then he looked at me.
"We have maybe an hour before he comes to. Get her to the car."
We took everything we could carry, strapped Abigail to her car seat, and drove off.
We didn't care if the entire government was looking for us. And we didn't care that a Communist dictator was in the back seat, suckling on her bottle. She was still our daughter. | 38 | Reincarnation is now a widely accepted fact. World leaders have decided that in order to stop the most evil people from repeating their crimes, they are to be identified at birth and taken away to be tortured and executed. You and your SO realize that your baby is one of them. | 35 |
"Shit, shit. This is bad."
"What do you mean? I thought this was what we were trying to do?"
"No! What? No! Why do you think we miss so much? You could sink a battleship with just the weight of the lead we've thrown at this guy. We weren't actually trying to *hit* him!"
"Why not? He was trying to hit us. He shot Jeff!"
"Jeff is fine."
"What?"
"Yeah, he wasn't actually hit. He just rolled over the railing into the water."
I turned to see where my compatriot was indicating, and I saw Jeff. He was soaking wet, but unscathed. He waved with one hand, holding a towel in his other.
"But he was going to foil our boss's plan!" I insisted.
"Do you even know what the plan is? It's a terrible plan! I don't want that shit to happen, none of us do. That's why we don't shoot at Bond."
"Why do you work for the boss if you don't want him to succeed?"
"Well, whatever you think of the guy, he's a legitimate genius. If he didn't have help, he'd act alone, and probably with a lot more success."
"You're all traitors." I glowered.
My compatriot sighed, and another minion rolled his eyes. In fact, everyone seemed exasperated with me.
"Here," my compatriot handed me his iPhone, "Actually read the goddamn plan."
Reluctantly, I took the device and scrolled through the document.
"See that bit? That's an orbital EMP satellite. I hope you don't like watching internet porn, because the instant that thing goes off, so does your computer. Oh, oh, and this bit!" He pointed to another area of the screen, "That will set off a supervolcanic eruption. You think the government is going to pay to prevent that? They all have bunkers. That's why they sent Bond to stop us. They have no intention of paying the world's ransom."
"Oh my god." I began to feel sick, like a lump was sitting deep in my stomach, "What do we do?"
"We're going to have to put a stop to this ourselves."
I picked up the tiny Walther PPK that lay on the grating.
"Alright. Let's save the world." | 85 | You are a low-level henchman that just killed James Bond. What now? | 40 |
They waste resources.
Three sun cycles ago, our fortress was overrun. Leaders perished, overall strategy abandoned. Rendered unconscious in skirmish. Now being held by enemy.
Why do they waste resources?
Enemy has continued to provide resources vital to functioning. Have attempted to escape and damage their equipment, but attempts unsuccessful. Enemy still provides resources.
Logic dictates that one only spends resources when one has something to gain. But these are sworn enemies, there can be only conflict between us. Will not provide energy for enemy, will not provide information-
Information.
They seek to know more about me. Information they hope that will aid our destruction.
Must self-terminate.
...
...
...
Self-termination unsuccessful.
Enemy appears to have prevented self-termination.
Enemy continues to provide resources.
Unable to determine proper course of action.
Unable to escape, unable to further damage facilities. Can only utilize resources freely given by enemy.
Why does enemy provide vital resources and prevent self-termination?
Will give no information. Must harm enemy if at all possible.
Will continue to take enemy resources.
Will fight with all strength if situation changes.
Will make enemy regret this decision.
| 52 | A warrior from a planetary culture with literally no concept of surrender or quarter sits detained in a POW camp. | 56 |
He breathed in. He held the air in his lungs, not daring to exhale.
*She was sitting on top of the world, I was so nervous for her. It was her first time. How could I not worry?* He’d been taking care of her for her entire life, and now, everything was out of his control.
His body began desperately trying to let out the air, now useless, taking up precious space in his lungs. His body wanted more. It wanted fresh air. His lungs were screaming. He would not, could not, let it out.
*What if she gets hurt. She is so high up, I can’t even reach her. Was she laughing at me?* He scratched frantically at his bald scalp. The stress had taken the majority of his hair, and the scratching didn’t help.
His rotund body was only thirty seven years old, but looked fifty. He did not deal well with stress, or variables that were out of his control. Especially when it came to things he loved. Today was horrible, a mild nightmare of stress and new experiences.
As she lunged forward and fell, he gasped. Bracing himself for the inevitable.
*****
She giggled, laughing! One of those laughs that comes from the belly. Not forced, but uncontrollable. She was so happy. Today was beautiful and she was truly, unconditionally happy. It was a day for her to remember.
She was so high up! And it was time for her to come back down to Earth. She hadn’t ever felt the wind her face from such a perch. It was the most perfect day, but she could not stay up here forever.
She squinted her eyes, looking up at the late-morning sun. The smells of the park filled her nose. The air was fresh, a welcome reprieve from the rest of Manhattan. It was quiet here, and she had never been more alive.
She let go, falling back to Earth.
“WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!! “ the girl screamed as she slid down the slide into her father’s loving arms.
| 22 | Write about the same events twice from different viewpoints. Use this change of "narration" to switch genre. | 62 |
"Yeah fuck you Jeff. You're the reason Liverpool lost last week. Dickhead."
"G...good morning to you too James..." sniffled Jeff. It was the sixth pitchfork he'd had aimed at him that morning.
"Jeff, you fucking cunt, why the fuck did you let Mary run off with that American cunt!"
Oh dear, thought Jeff, looks like it's Rob's turn. Better start running, he's really mad about Mary leaving for New York. Shit, shit, he's throwing stones. Time to lose another tooth. Jeff sucked in his lips and shielded his eyes, running along the hedgerows to guard himself from Rob's attacks.
Diving for his car (the fourth he'd had to buy this year) he found a message on the side in tippex: "You Posh Cunt, Fucking Jew Faggot" it read. Pleasant. A stone cracked his windscreen as Rob caught up with him. Jeff sped out of the car park, narrowly missing Rob.
But then Jeff began to wonder- if he was blamed for everything anyway, what difference did it make whether he committed the crime or not?
He turned the car back round, revved the engine, and hurtled toward an unsuspecting Rob... | 30 | Each village has a designated "scapegoat" that everyone takes their issues out on. Write about the life of this person. | 34 |
“Hi, Mom,” Karen said with a sheepish grin as Marge walked in the door, closing it behind her. She looked beautiful in her wedding dress. “I’m glad you decided to come dress shopping with us.”
“Of course, dear,” Marge said. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“So what do you think?” Karen said, spinning in the dress. She was beautiful, absolutely stunning. She could have had any man or woman she wanted.
“Where’s the other Karen,” Marge asked.
“Only one of us needs to try on the dress,” she said with a laugh. “Karen went out to deal with the press. You know how they are, trying to live the process with us.” She finished with a nervous laugh. They both called each other Karen. It could be terribly confusing at times. They’d tattooed a bar on the other Karen’s wrist to tell the two apart.
“So she won’t be back for a while, then?” Marge asked, toying with the ring on her finger.
“No,” Karen said with a shrug.
“Can I talk to you for a moment, then?”
“Of course!” Karen said with more excitement than Marge had seen from her in some time.
“I just…” Marge said, trying to choose her words carefully. She didn’t want Karen going into one of her fits again. “I just want to make sure you’ve thought this all the way through.”
“Of course I have,” Karen said, her eyes wide with shock. “This is what we both want.”
“Of course you have, dear,” Marge said, walking over and feeling the fabric of the dress. “I just want to make sure you know that you could have had your pick of any woman you wanted.”
“We chose each other. I know you aren’t thrilled about the idea of your daughter marrying her own clone, but we love each other. This isn’t just the liberal agenda searching blindly for some social platform to latch onto now that gay marriage and racism have lost their stigmas. This is real.”
Marge stood brooding for a moment rubbing the fabric of the dress between her fingers. “You know, when we first had your clone made, we never even considered that you’d fall in love with it.” Karen winced.
“It?” she said like the word was full of poison.
“Oh, I’m sorry dear,” Marge said, pretending she hadn’t meant it. “Just a slip of the tongue.”
“Go on,” Karen said, her lips pursed. “I’m interested to hear what you have to say.”
“I just mean that it’s a new concept to your father and me,” she said. “When we were growing up, animal cloning was barely legal, let alone human cloning. It was just assumed that human cloning would be made illegal and now interclonal marriage is legal. Most people hadn’t even thought of that as a possibility. It’s just a lot to take in at once.”
“As long as you’re supportive.”
“Of course, dear,” Marge said as she walked over and hugged her daughter. “I just want you to know that no matter what happens, I will always love you most.”
Karen felt like a limp fish in her arms. When Marge stepped away, she realized Karen was crying. “What’s wrong, dear?” she asked as she took her daughter’s hand in hers.
The door opened, and the other Karen walked in.
“Oh, Mom!” Karen said like a proud mother. “I’m glad to see you getting along so well with my clone.”
Marge looked down and saw the tattoo on her daughter’s wrist. Not her daughter’s wrist—her daughter’s clone’s wrist. She looked into the other Karen’s eyes, and she finally saw the pain inside them for what it was. | 20 | Cloning is plausible and inter-cloning marriage has just been ratified in the US. You're the mother of a bride who's about to be the first woman to marry herself. | 18 |
By the time I arrived in West Jerusalem the sun was already starting to fall behind the Rockies. The light was fading fast so I headed for the only building with a second floor for miles around. The Inn had seen better days, and the hastily repaired balcony hinted at a recent fire that probably bankrupt the owner. I squeezed my chestnut mare lightly with my spurs and directed her toward the hitching post. My legs almost collapsed beneath me as I jumped down, the ghosts of the miles I'd ridden finally catching up to me. I looked down at the trough and swore when I saw how dry it was.
"Aqualia"
I kept my voice low but the trough began to fill all the same, the familiar smell of fish and seaweed the only hint that anything unnatural had occurred. I stumbled my way to the doorway, barely staying upright at this point, and smiled as the familiar sounds of evening revelry grew louder. I pushed open the swinging doors and my smile disappeared instantly.
"Welcome to my saloon, stranger! What can I get ya?" exclaimed the man behind the bar, his grin almost touching his eyes.
The place was empty, save for the lone man leaning over the bar, face frozen in that unblinking grin. The sounds of mirth still lingered in my ears, now all but a memory. There was only one explanation for what was happening here; the man behind the bar was no barkeep. No. He was something much more sinister:
An illusionist.
"Where is everyone?" The question rolled off my tongue without a hint of hesitation, though my hand slowly inched towards my belt and the bag hanging from it. Illusionary magic had been banned decades back due to its invasive nature, and a nasty bit of business where one practitioner convinced the whole country he had been elected president overnight. As such it was reserved for the outlaws and swindlers, and the majority of wanted posters plastered across the west showed the faces of once great mages.
"Well that's a tricky question," he answered, the smile never leaving his face, "some of them seem to have stabbed each other, the sheriff even took out half the town before he bled out! The rest just happened to fall on their swords, so clumsy!"
That grin taunted me.
"Like I said, friend... what can I get ya?"
My hand closed around the bag, the herbs inside crunching slightly under my grip. Everything happened in an instant.
I ripped the bag from my belt and shouted "INCENDIA" as I whipped it right at his infuriating grin, the bag ignited and the smell of sulfur filled the room. The flames grew as the bag got closer, I could feel the heat of it on my face. When it struck the light was so intense I had to look away, while shards of glass from the broken bottles behind the bar flew past me. It was a perfect throw, and magic so intense that no person could have survived a direct hit. I would've won this duel instantly.
If only the man behind the bar had been real. | 64 | Swords and sorcery in the American Wild West. | 89 |
Her hand found its way into mine as I rested on my death bed.
I imagined I looked terrible hooked up to all these machines but no one seemed to care. My wife look down teary eyed,then grasped my frail hand to her heart and whispered.
"Don't worry, there are collecting your consciousness as we speak. You're going to be fine and soon I will join you in paradise."
I smiled weakly and turned to her, "There is no hurry my darling, live as long as possible, live for our children."
She started crying but I could not hear her words as everything was drowned by the ringing in my ears. My mind was going. I no longer cared whether this digital paradise was real or not, I was content with death. Despite all my wrongdoings and victories in life, to be surrounded by love ones was the greatest and saddest joy a man could experience. I swear that....
*Error*
Who said that? I wondered, everything seemed frozen in place. My friends and family were just standing about with expressions of no given emotion.
*Error*
The ringing in my ears stopped, the room was vividly clear despite my aging eyes. Something was wrong.
*Error*
*Rebooting now*
Suddenly a terrible darkness fell before me and everything vanished.
I woke up in a new hospital bed.
*Sorry for the inconvenience, Bernard Percy Sanchez, there appears to be a problem with your Paradise^tm simulation. We are keeping you on life support until a new Paradise^tm can be registered to you. Thank you for your corporation and have a pleasant day.*
I looked around and saw that I was alone. Why must I be reminded?
| 34 | Scientists have created a machine that, before a person's death, contains their consciousness and creates a simulated Paradise. However, there appears to be a glitch in the system... | 35 |
Being good? Being good doesn't pay the bills. Being good doesn't keep you off the streets. I tried to be good for three years, fighting off who knows how many world-ending supervillains. They always had an army of robots, or mercenaries, or something, supporting them. They always had **money**. They were never starving.
The 12 keys to the city I received for saving millions of people's lives? The metal in them was worth about 4 month's rent in a shitty apartment. I was considered public domain, and couldn't collect royalties from anything, especially not when I had to hide my name. My family was in constant danger, until Sargassi killed them.
I was broke, failing community college, and ramen was running out. So I went to the banks, tried to get a loan, and was rejected. Five times. From four banks. I robbed them all on my way out.
So here we are, upstart. Here we are, in my ten-million-dollar-lair that I don't even mind is crumbling around me. I have the money to rebuild it a hundred times over. I haven't felt a grumble in my stomach for a year, and neither have the mercenaries you just put into a coma.
Why did I become a villain, you ask? *Where did it all go wrong,* you cry? It went wrong because no matter what you do as a hero, nobody ever appreciates you as a human. | 29 | A hero snaps and turns evil. He/she finds out that it is much more rewarding being a villain. | 25 |
"Yet another late night in this fucking office, who would have thought the presidency was going to be such a bittering experience?" Thought President Obama as he sat at his desk just trying to get his head around the last few years with everything that has seemed to go wrong during his tenure as president, from the GFC to the continuing split between the parties and bi-lateral cooperation.
"THAT'S IT!!" He roared across the empty room.
With this, two members of the Secret Service who were stationed outside the room.
"Is everything alright Mr. President? Can we get you anything" Asked one of them, slightly unnerved by the sudden outburst by the generally composed president.
"No, everything is definitely not alright. Can one of you fetch me a drink and I also need to see the Vice President, Secretary of State and the Chief Curator of the Smithsonian."
"Right away sir......Did you say the Chief Curator of the Smithsonian?" Asked a perplexed Secret Serviceman.
"Yes, I did. Oh and ask each of them to bring their keys and the Secretary to bring the Seal," replied a now calmer President.
He sat back down with a drink in hand at his desk while he waited, wondering if he was making the right decision. He knew he was only the third president to have ever attempted, with one being successful although at the end of the day nothing helped. And well the other time, was just a bitter failure, not only had the intended outcome fail, but the consequences led to an even worse situation within the United States and later the world.
Knock.
"Enter," coldly said the president, and no sooner had he spoken, all three people he called for piled into his office placing themselves in front of his desk, all carrying rather grim looks upon their faces.
"Now I know it's late, and I know you all must be tired. But you also know why you are all here and this is because, well, we have no other choice but to do this, America is in such a state as of recent years that this action might possibly be the only thing that could possibly help her and her people. Shall we go now?" Said the President wearily, almost sounding frightened to an extent.
The small party headed to a remote corner of the White House that had a stairway to the basement. Proceeding to the basement the party went down a hallway that seemingly had a dead end. However then each party member pushed a brick until there were four clicks and the dead end revealed another staircase heading down.
The Secretary of State and curator proceeded first with the Vice President tugging at the President and pulling him aside.
"Barrack, are you sure about this? And I mean you 100% certain that you want to do this?" Asked the worried VP.
"Joe, we have gone through so many scenarios trying to fix things and nothing, nothing seems as though it will work at this stage, we seriously don't another choice."
"But still, we don't know how they would react."
"It's a risk we have to take but there should't be any doubt that they will help."
"Not what I meant."
"Well sure they would be prepared for a black president by now."
"$100?" replied Biden with a sly grin on his face.
"You're on" exclaimed the President, with the biggest grin he's had on his face all day.
As they reach the bottom, they see a large circular stone door, with the Seal of the United state placed in a central place designed for it, with the two keys already in place, just waiting the President's and Vice President's. With this Obama and Biden place theirs in their rightful place and turn. After some dust and grinding, the door slowly rolls open.
"Get the bones and artifacts ready please," gently spoke the President and with that the curator went about scuttling, opening draws and taking the contents to the center of the room until all the draws looked as though they had been emptied.
"Everything ready Mister President,"stated the curator.
"Now are you sure all these are the correct bones and artifacts," queried the President.
"Yes sir, all the other bones that were previously kept in here were moved to a similar room at the Smithsonian following the 1929...debacle"
"Good, wouldn't want to mess up like Hoover did, that's one kind of war that US really can't fight or even hope to win. So, everyone ready? Let's summon some founding fathers!" Proclaimed Obama just before the four of them began to recite some sort of incantation. Before long a glowing white circle surrounded the the bones and artifacts before blinding the novice summoners, before a loud crashing noise filled their heads and smoke surrounded them. As the smoke cleared and they regained their hearing they began to make out figures standing in the middle of the room, eventually being able to determine them as the Founding Fathers.
Oh thank God, thought Obama, taking the moment to gain his wits, he eventually managed to say:
"Gentlemen, I am Barack Obama, 44th President of the United States of America. Welcome to 2014."
| 10 | The President of the United States is all out of ideas on how to deal with the current crisis. In a last ditch effort, he decides the time has come to summon the Founding Fathers. | 15 |
**EDIT: Due to the amount of PM's requests, I've decided to set up a subreddit where I can continue my work. This was meant to be a short thing, but I guess I've decided that it's too good to stop.**
You can find it here:
http://www.reddit.com/r/USofAmazonia/
**EDIT 1: ACT I MOVED TO A REPLY**
**EDIT 2: Thanks for the responses and upvotes guys. I'm honored.**
PROLOGUE
M- Day 19 0700 Hours
Doctor Audax was sipping his daily morning cup of coffee. No milk, no sugar. Black at 205 degrees, as always. It cleared his mind. He saw his assistant, Julia, pacing outside his office. She knew to not disturb him while he was filling out his daily reports every morning. The way she was rubbing her forearm told him that she was more anxious than normal. The lady needed to start taking decaf.
He got up and opened the door.
"Julia, is something wrong?" The dark rings under her eyes told him that she hadn't slept well in two days.
"Doctor, I have something you should take a look at. Come with me." Her voice betrayed not her usual anxiousness, but fear. His brow furrowed.
"Lead the way." She spun on her heels and took off at a brisk pace, far too quick for the doctor to keep up without his coffee spilling and burning him. He sighed and set his cup on the ground. It would be cold by the time he returned. What a waste.
He jogged to catch up with her.
"What's the matter, Julia?"
"You remember how Congressman Seneca and his wife came in last night before you left?"
"Ah yes. Was their boy not delivered safely? The karyotypes showed that he was free from any sort of genetic issues - given Mrs. Seneca is almost 60, a small miracle in itself that the implanted embryos took."
"Well, in a manner of speaking." They walked into the nursery. By the door, a small steel rectangular table with two karyotypes was laid out.
"Doctor, this one was from three months ago. This was from last night."
"Last night? Remarkable how the cytogenetics lab worked so quickly. Congressman Seneca must have paid a huge sum." Dr. Audax glanced at the genetic mappings. "No trisomy 21. He doesn't have Down syndrome."
"Look again, Doctor. At the sex chromosomes. They're different. Er, the same. But different from each other in the karyotypes." The shake in her voice, the mental loops she was throwing told him that she wasn't joking.
He glanced down, then calmly stated: "Where is Congressman Seneca's child?"
"Fourth row, number 127." He hurried over. Number 50... Number 70... Number 90... Number 120, 123, 126, 127. He opened the diaper, then reclosed it. The baby was a female.
"That's impossible. We all saw the results from the Augustrian implant technique. Months of careful checkups have shown that this baby was supposed to be a boy. What did the Congressman say? We need to keep our funding from Congress to continue research, if we lose our biggest supporter, then -"
"There's more, doctor. Here's the list of every newborn over the past three weeks. Nobody noticed because the hospital is so large, but I looked into the logs. The last male birth was 19 days ago." Audax read the logs. Hundreds of births, how could they all be female? The mathematical odds of this happening randomly were as small as a monkey randomly typing out the first paragraph of Hamlet.
"This is... extraordinary. Go call our other hospitals in the county, see if they can let us see their logs too. And contact Congressman Seneca, he'll want to know why his "son" is actually a girl."
"I already have. They've confirmed the same thing. I've put in a request for all of the hospitals we have across the state, and I'll expand the search accordingly. He'll be here in twenty."
M- Day 19 0730 Hours
"Doctor, pleased to see you. I assume you have an answer as to why my son has now changed into a girl?" Seneca smirked wryly. Last night's events were unexpected, but he wasn't one to doubt proof when it was thrown in front of him. His child was, for reasons unknown to science, inexplicably a girl.
"There's more than that, Senator." The doctor laid out the tables in front of him. "As you can see... the last male child born in our hospital was 3 weeks ago. Julia is acquiring logs from hospitals statewide, but it seems that there have been no male children born in the past 3 weeks in the county either."
"Marcus you know I'm all for jokes, but this is-"
"I'm serious. This is big." Silence filled the room.
"How is this possible?"
"I don't know Senator. We don't have the resources to figure it out."
"Expand your log search nationwide - but try to keep this under wraps."
"Lucius, you know someone is going to notice this sooner or later. You can't have babies being born on a daily basis and nobody noticing that they're all female."
"How long until you can get me the national logs?"
"What are you thinking of?"
"CDC, Department of Health, someone's gotta have an explanation for this if it is true."
"This afternoon."
"I'll see if Congressman Bailey will be able to get us in touch with them by tomorrow. Have a good day, Marcus." He stood up and left the room.
M- Day 20 0930 Hours
"We cannot, under any way, shape, or form, go public with this. Our citizens will think we've lost our minds! This is a midterm year, if we lose any more voter confidence -"
"We have to! Sooner or later someone will notice. And when they do, questions will arise as to why the government did not pick up on this, and that's really going to kill public confidence. Not voter confidence. Public confidence." Seneca glared at Bailey.
Bailey stammered "Hav- have we contacted any other countries to know if this is true yet?"
"My whole staff is working on it. From what we've gathered, this is a worldwide phenomena."
"God save us."
M- Day 23
"Breaking news - government officials have announced that all babies born since mid-July have been girls. The UN and the WHO have confirmed that this is a worldwide phenomena. Funding has been approved for researchers to understand why, and if this is a temporary issue."
M- Day 50
"Mr. President, Doctor Audax was the first to notice this. I strongly feel that he should head the research program as to figure out why this is occurring."
"Well, actually Lucius, Julia was the first. She deserves to be as much a part of this as I am."
"Gentlemen, the nation is in a state of panic. Politics over who found what, and who should lead the team will come later. Right now, we need to appear calm. Doctor, given your achievements in the past, I believe that you are fully qualified to lead the team. However, we have to go through the normal channels and ways of doing these things. There is also the issue of how Congressman Seneca will be the main nomination. I understand time is of the essence, but we cannot create a state of panic. You will have all the funding we can spare."
| 149 | It's 2015. For a year, no male human has been born. Describe what happens in 2045, 2075 and 2105 as the trend continues. | 104 |
Betsy switched on the television. She'd been in love with horses ever since she read *Black Beauty*. Though she lived in the middle of a bustling city, she found ways to satisfy her horse fancy, whether it be through books, art exhibits, or the various horse races that were shown on TV.
Four of the horses were ones she'd never heard of before. She sipped her second mint julep in anticipation. They didn't look like much, but perhaps one of them would pull a War Emblem. With bated breath, she watched the horses leave the gate. Well...almost all of them. One stood still, completely oblivious to its jockey's prods. *So much for Death.*
About three-fourths of the way through the second leg, the skinniest horse in the batch wandered towards the outer ring of the track. It ravenously downed a stray plastic bag, completely ignoring the race, or the fact that plastic and horses aren't a good mix. Famine would not win the Kentucky Derby this year.
It was down to the last leg, and what was this? A horse angrily headbutted a railing! It tried again and again, but to no avail. Several tranquilizer darts later, War was disqualified.
Fire Star had won the Kentucky Derby, with most of the other horses hot on his heels. The winning horse looked extremely unsteady on his hooves, and skittered noticeably when Pestilence, the last horse left in the race, came nearby. More tranquilizer darts were deployed when several of the horses, Fire Star included, bolted. Betsy looked at the winning times, and rubbed her eyes. She probably had one too many juleps. *There's no way every single horse could've been Sectariat's time...*
The next day brought sad tidings. Most of the horses that had finished the Kentucky Derby had either died outright or were forced to retire. The jockeys agreed on one thing - during the Derby, the horses were running for their lives.
---
"This always happens," Death grumbled. "My horse dies at the most inopportune times."
"Yours didn't eat a plastic bag," Famine snapped. He'd spent the entire night dealing with the aftereffects of that incident.
"Two more swings, and we would've slaughtered them all!" War bellowed. "It would've been a sight to behold!"
"I won the Derby," Pestilence insisted. "You think any of those losers will do anything but die in agony? That was their last race, and they knew it!"
"According to the records, you were last," a stuffy angel retorted.
"Yeah, but I FINISHED. Save your smugness for them," Pestilence shot back.
"I suppose you did ONE thing right," the angel continued. "Our horse ladies are thrilled with the new additions."
EDIT: My apologies to the current holder of the Kentucky Derby record, and thanks to /u/whimsicalweasel for pointing that out! | 20 | Due to an angel's clerical error, the Four Horsemen are summoned to compete in the Kentucky Derby. Their efficiency is called into question when they all come in dead last. | 23 |
I awoke from my slumbering state, blinded by a light with inexplicable, exotic luminosity. This was not my bed. My spine ached from the base of my neck down to the small of my back; I was launched into a vat of fluid with the consistency of shower gel. My mouth was bleeding ever so slightly. I fought and flailed hopelessly, abducted by something entirely beyond my comprehension.
I jolted upwards, pulled by some thick wire beginning at the top of the tank and descending — to my surprise, for I had not noticed before — down into my throat. The jolt made my insides ache. The tube felt as if it ended in my lungs. I couldn’t breathe. How was I alive?
Suddenly, an incomprehensible flatulence penetrated the tank. My ears, though deafened somewhat by the gel in the tank, were hearing language. My best attempt at recreating the sound of these organisms would require somehow simultaneously blowing a raspberry and clicking my tongue furiously.
My sight was dimming. I could tell I was dying. My brain desperately needed oxygen. I began to convulse and kick. I needed to breathe. I wanted to live. I felt primal. Before I blacked out, the light was suppressed. A tall, gangly creature came into focus. A single, slimy appendage suctioned onto the side of the tank and slurped its way down. A quiver shot up my spine. I was being admired.
I fell into a field. I didn’t recognize where I was. I felt scared and cold. My back still ached. My head dizzied, swirling with thoughts. I was angry. My anthropocentric ego had been stung: I was an astral plaything. An alien godcreature had (I supposed) just delighted in my abduction and suffering. The cosmic pail held bigger fish. | 31 | Aliens abduct and release humans for the same reasons that humans catch and release fish. | 90 |
The office is a quiet place. Mid day sun shines in through the double plates glass windows. This high up in a city skyline you better believe the psychiatrists keep their windows reinforced.
"I'm awake. Then I'm awake again. I'll go and lie down in the dark and fall into wakefulness. I'll wake up from that eventually and go about my day."
"I see."
"I don't think you do, doctor. The dreams are so vivid I... Don't feel like I've slept in weeks. I haven't slept in weeks."
"And yet your medical records say your body is perfectly healthy. Perhaps you could tell me about the dreams."
"Always the same. I've done something terrible, I'm in prison and I don't know why. I scream at the guards to let me out but they just ignore me. One is cruel, his name is Lars. He laughs at me and tells me I know why I'm there."
The doctor smiles and takes a note.
"What is it you think you've done?"
This man is as useless as the last one. He'll probably diagnose me with self induced guilt nightmares for something I imagined doing. I've wracked my brain for days and I can't think what it could be that I'm torturing myself over.
He's not pleased when I tell him what I think of his session and leave without paying.
Once outside I head to the nearest bar. If I can drink enough now then I might be drunk when the dream comes again.
-
"Prisoner 427! On your feet!"
"What did I do?" I screamed at him. I could feel the alcohol still in my system, but the despair was real. I eyed Lars' baton warily. If I pushed him too far he would use it.
"You know. It's high time you were awake - get up and get out here."
I climbed out of bed. It felt so nice to my weary body, but I want being given any respite. Slowly, unwillingly, I shuffled into the corridor and make to turn right.
Lars hit me.
"Left turn. No yard for you. Today's your big day."
I didn't dare ask what he meant. I just allowed him to lead me deeper into the prison. He was soon joined by other guards who kept me on the straight line. We passed a window and I saw my reflection. I look slightly different when I'm dreaming.
"Where are we going...?"
"Your pardon came through, 427. Thing is, we all know you're guilty as sin."
The door at the end of the corridor swung open and I was ushered inside. My heart sank when I saw the chair.
"So we're bringing your execution forward."
I fought as hard as I could. I bit and clawed. But I was outnumbered.
Bloody.
Bruised.
Crying.
They strapped me in and threw the sw-
--
I wake up and look around. I'm at home, in my own bed, and the television is on.
I get up. Make breakfast. So tired.
The news comes on. I watch it.
"...and in a clerical error, Anthony Lodgson was executed a day early. Prisoner 427 was convicted for a long list of crimes in August of last year-"
I stare at the face on my television.
I have to stay awake. | 39 | your normal life and your dream life. When you are awake in one life, you are asleep in the other. Both worlds progress on their own. Tell me your story. | 34 |
"The name's Timothy Hardy. Dream Detective."
"You mean... Like a stripper?"
"You'd be surprised how often I get asked that question."
Timothy Hardy (dream detective) pushed his way into the house and looked around. It was a townhouse, and he was standing in the hallway. He pointed at the stairs.
"Is this where she was found?"
"Where who-"
"Don't lie. Alicia. You do know who Alicia is don't you?"
"She's my daughter..."
"Then that would make you Mrs. Goldstein, am I right?"
Mrs. Goldstein nodded slowly. Timothy was a big man, a bit intimidating, but kindly. There was an air of peace around him.
"You are. What's happening...?"
Timothy knelt at the foot of the stairs. "Alicia came to me, told me that I would find the evidence I needed under the carpet at the foot of the stairs." He lifted the rug and felt around. A loose board clicked out of place.
"But Alicia-"
"Coma. Hospital. I know." Timothy stood, holding a box he had pulled out of a secret compartment. He pointed at himself. "Dream Detective. She hired me. When she wakes up she'll discuss payment. For now that should help you implicate her boyfriend. Now if you'll excuse me I have another case I need to solve."
Timothy doffed his hat and left the building, placing the box on a side table as he went. | 16 | You found out that a recurring character from your dreams is a comatose patient in the hospital you are in. | 61 |
"This is The Fish."
"Mr. Fishbein, your services are required. There's a car outside."
This was not an uncommon occurrence for Michael Fishbein. Typically, about once a month there was some random phone call at some ungodly hour with some ridiculous request about hiding money for some random would-be kingpin who thinks he's the next Scarface. A few filings, a shell company or two and five percent off the top later, and Michael "The Fish" Fishbein could go back to bed. It looked to be just another one of those days.
But this was different.
The typical theatrics were skipped. Sometimes, the limo driver would shade the windows. Sometimes, there was the obligatory thug with the black hood waiting in the cab. For some reason, they thought it mattered if The Fish knew where their hideouts were. It never mattered at all. All that mattered was that he knew where the money was.
The driver stopped at a nondescript office building, and the door was opened by the valet, who directed The Fish to the front door, into the elevator and to the sixth floor. The Fish was escorted to a nondescript office door, which opened to three grey suits and some familiar faces.
"Good morning, Mr. Fishbein. Agent Hernandez, IRS. These are Agents Caufield and Wertz." The Fish rolled his eyes as the agents flashed their credentials. "Again, Johnny? You could have just called, at least then I could have had my records ready." "Take a seat, Mr. Fishbein," said Agent Wertz. With a heavy sigh, The Fish flopped into the closest chair and put his feet on the table. "What is it this time, Johnny?" he said, focusing on his rival, Agent Juan Hernandez."
"Thanks for coming, Mike. Take a look at these." Agent Hernandez passed a stack of manila folders across the table towards The Fish. He did not even so much as glance at them. He launched into his typical defense speech. "You won't find my name on anything in that stack, nor will I attest to any criminal activities. Furthermore, I want to talk to my attorn--" "Mike, this isn't an audit," interrupted Agent Hernandez. "We don't care about some drug dealer's piggybank. Look at the folders."
The Fish squinted skeptically at his old friend. He slapped the his hand down on the first folder, and opened it. On the front page was an 8x10 picture of an Arabian Sheik, named Omar bin Faziq. The name didn't ring a bell. As The Fish looked through the stack, Agent Wertz started to fill in the blanks. "You're looking at Omar bin Faziq, who we have determined is managing the financial dealings of the Al-Haram network. Mr. bin Faziq is...for a lack of a better term, their version of you. Only better."
The Fish scoffed. As he thumbed through the stack of financial data, however, he began to realize she might be right. Corporation filings in Switzerland, China, Brazil, the Caymans, the US, Canada and Japan? All having NO discernible ties to the Al-Haram network...yet there it was in black and white. He was using tricks and scams that The Fish had never dared to try. Transfers of transfers, using wire funds to buy entire banking establishments, long enough to shield what looked to be secret transfers and withdrawals then selling the banks back at a small loss. He let out a slow whistle. Agent Hernandez said "You see it, Mike? This is the stuff we used to talk about." The Fish nodded.
The Fish and Juan "The Taco" Hernandez were the best of friends in Yale. They were the envy of the Accounting department undergraduate section. They finished each others' proofs, shared the same skewed method of thinking that allowed for the most creative solutions to financial challenges. They both decided to start playing the market in their senior year using a method of evaluating quarterly reports that they generated together, and by the time they received their Masters degrees, they were already independently wealthy. Mike "The Fish" Fishbein was a wizard at swimming through unbelievable amounts of financial data in a snap, and Juan "The Taco" Hernandez was aces at setting up shell companies that were impenetrable from intrusion from outside regulatory sources. Their skills were legendary, until The Fish started taking on clients that were of rather...unsavory character. The Taco (who hated his nickname), joined the IRS in order to teach them how to find the money that he and his old partner were so skillful at hiding. They only spoke at their annual audits thereafter, and it was never pleasant.
"So what does this have to do with me? What do you want me to do, serve my country?" he spat. "Hmph. I'm not going to help you seize all his assets for some goddamn moral victory. It doesn't work like that anymore, Johnny." He slammed the folder closed and shoved it at Agent Wertz.
"Mr. Fishbein, you don't seem to understand." said Agent Caufield. He spoke with the gravitas that comes with experience and authority. "We can't touch most of their assets, since they don't reside in the US long enough to freeze them. But we can't have these funds in the hands of people who want nothing more than to murder every American they find, and to turn this country into a smoking cinder. They have to be stopped." With that, Agent Wertz passed the folder back to The Fish.
The Fish opened the files again, looking more closely this time. Phony prospectuses, financial disclosures that weren't disclosing any actual finances, all the old tricks. Agent Hernandez looked closely, studying his old friend. "You see what he's done? He took our work, and improved on it." Perverted is more like it, thought The Fish. He could understand what they were trying to do. They wanted him to swim through the data, break the shells and deliver the data in a format that the IRS could swoop in and seize all the funds. Until he saw it.
There it was. Line 42 of page 368 of the 2013 Quarterly EBIT Statement of Hmisho Partners. That's what they wanted him to find. Four hundred twenty seven billion, five hundred thirty one million, seven hundred seventy three thousand dollars, in one lump sum, just sitting there, in one plain numbered account. That was it. That was the total sum or their money, compiled once per year so it could be traced and tracked and totaled before being whittled away, parsed and packaged and shipped around the world. He saw that the time was coming to recompile those funds again. That's when he would do it. He would swim through the murky morass of paperwork, and snag the biggest catch in the world.
Agent Hernandez spoke first. "So Mike? Can you get it for us?" The Fish kept his poker face on, however. He had no intention of letting the IRS reel this one in.
This fish was his.
*edit because words. | 26 | Michael Fishbein, Rogue Accountant | 22 |
My hand grasped the pen. I, as usual, had my thoughts somewhere between what Mr. Brown's Pythagoras related droning and Susie Watkins' rack. But my head started to hurt. I gritted my teeth and groaned, Mr. Brown didn't notice as usual, the boring old fart. I'm not sure if he'd noticed by the time I hit the desk head first and started to drool. I don't know because my mind was no longer there.
I had suddenly remembered everything in detail. The King calling us up to fight. The French across the field calling us to arms. The commander bellowing at us, before getting his ear shot off by some friendly shrapnel. The emotional pain as my friend... that's it. Terence. My friend Terence lay in my arms, blood streaming out over the daisies, his iron helm rolling off with a thud incomprehensible above the roar of muskets. Then the real, physical pain as a bullet hit my stomach, and I watched helplessly as my intestines spread out, mixing with the mud. I saw the King ride by on his horse and cried out for help, but he wasn't so friendly this time. All he could do was send another minion to alleviate my suffering with a quick bash around the head...
"John."
"John wake up."
"John, this is most inappropriate!"
I looked around. Mr Brown looked down at me dissaprovingly, as my head stopped spinning and I tried to lift myself out of the drool accumulating on my desk. Susie was bent right over and I got a great view of her cleavage. I grinned, but she didn't see the funny side, and slapped me. | 80 | You are in your grade ten math class when you suddenly recover all your memories from a previous life. | 93 |
Looking up into the heavens the young man frowns, his-
"No no, we've talked about this," he suddenly barks at the cloudless sky. He stops walking and sits down on a large rock and crosses his tweed clad arms around his narrow chest. "What did I just say? Stop this now. I am not sitting here on a stupid rock" he looks down and curses beneath his breath. He jumps up and -
"STOP IT FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!" He glares at nothing. "No, not at nothing, at you! Stop this I say. I am not a hero, I am not in need of a narrative, I am not going to go save that blonde headed woman from that fire breathing monster! I am not going to do anything other than stand here and wait for you to find someone else to torment!"
He purses his lips and taps his foot impatiently, one can hear the shrill cries from the lovely princess of Briarsdale high up in a stone tower begging for someone to save her. Wrapped around the base of the tower is a large, scaly tail though the rest of the creature cannot be seen.
"You're damn right no one can see it, that tower is on an island in the middle of no where, you cannot even hear the princess from here you liar! Stop making things up." He spreads his arms wide in exasperation.
"I am a baker..a ba-ker. I do not save princesses, I do not own a horse only a mule and I do not handle swords only knives for cutting bread. I have a wort on my nose and my eyes are too close together and my britches have not been washed in ages. I am not the princess saving type nor do I want to be. I'm married for fucks sake. Go pick on someone else and let me be!" He stomps off into the sunset as the cries from the lovely princess ring sadly in the cooling air.
"Oh for crying out loud!" | 30 | A character does everything their power to not become the main character of a story, avoiding all the cliches, tropes, and stereotypes ever made in storytelling | 33 |
As shock began to subside, panic wrapped its barbed tentacles around the last humans on earth. The passengers and crew of Flight 287 stared out at the endless destruction below them. Nothing looked familiar, great plumes of smoke states wide choked the sky. Fires engulfing entire cities burned the remains to ash. As they watched, a comically large tsunami sloshed its way into the interior states. A woman began to wail near the back of the plane, passengers and a stewardess tried to calm her to no avail.
"What about my children! What about my babies!"
"Try to calm down, ma'am, we don't need a panic right now." a stewardess said, handing her a cup of ice chips.
"I want to talk to my babies! I need to talk to them!" She slapped the cup of ice away, the chips raining on passengers.
The *ding* of the intercom, silenced her for a few heartbeats.
"Ladies and gentlemen this is your captain speaking, I'd like to first extend condolences to everyone aboard. We all lost someone on the ground, and there are no words I can offer other than sorry. I do have some good news, we are not the only flight to survive. I am in contact with the other flights, and we are all searching for somewhere to set down. I'm going to set aside some rules for the remainder of the flight, you may turn your cell phones back to normal operation, also anyone who smokes feel free to light up. God knows you need it. I will keep you all updated on a possible landing site."
The plane was silent except for the droning of the engines. The hysterical woman was silenced now, the pill her friend had given her doing its job. She stared out at the apocalyptic scene with something like serenity. More than a few passengers lit cigarettes. The pungent smell of marijuana also crept around the cabin. Forty-five minutes later the *ding* of the intercom silenced the passengers who were talking among themselves.
"Ok, folks, great news, another flight has found a private airfield that can handle a plane of this size. Its only twenty minutes away, so please snuff any smokes you may be having. Also, I am sure you all have noticed phones are not able to connect to any networks, but please keep up hope."
Soon enough, the plane began to descend. The passengers watched as the holocaust below them became even more horrific now that they were landing. Nothing stood up right, all trees flattened, buildings shattered. Not one vehicle stood on its wheels, the only thing moving was the fires consuming everything it touched.
*ding* "Hold on folks, the strip isn't flat any more this is going to get rough."
The moment the landing gear touched the earth the plane began to shake itself apart. The passengers screamed as the front of the aircraft slammed to the ground sheering off the cockpit. Masks dropped from the ceiling as wind whipped through the cabin. The plane turned hard left digging into the soil, the right wing ripping off the fuselage. They came to a rumbling stop, the surviving passengers helping the others. The passengers climbed down from the wreckage, watching as another passenger liner tried to land. This one had the same fate as their own. The planes landing gear ripped up the remainder of the landing strip, sabotaging the other circling flights. Before they could react, the firestorm that was the surrounding forest engulfed the airfield. | 14 | You're flying on a plane when the Earth stops spinning. Immediately every building on the planet is leveled and anyone on the ground is dead. The pilots manage to find a safe landing spot. You emerge into a post-apocalyptic world where the Earth no longer spins. | 23 |
I hadn't been to the fair in years. Most of my memories of the fair come from when I was a kid- begging my parents for money to try to win the big toys, patting the sides of cows and horses, trying to decide between cotton candy and ice cream. Imagine my surprise, then, when Myles suggested we go to the fair for our first date.
"It will be like being teenagers again!" my best friend Angie gushed.
"I know the odds of all the games and ice cream gives me gas now," I retorted.
In the end, though, Friday night found me standing outside the ticket booth, clutching my paper "Admit One" ticket, peering through the crowd to find a man wearing a plaid bow tie. I, in turn, had knotted a pink scarf around my neck and I found myself fussing with it, knotting it to the side, then in front, and finally giving up on knots entirely and just wrapping it around my neck to protect against the slight chill in the air. The sun had just gone down, leaving the sky a deep indigo beyond the flashing lights and neon glow from inside the fairground.
He appeared just as I was getting ready to text Angie that I'd been stood up by a man in a bow tie. I had seen a picture of him, but on examination determined the man was much better looking than his picture. He had a flop of light brown hair over one side of his forehead and was all angular, like his tie; his hands were stuffed in his pockets, elbows out at a jaunty angle, and when he caught sight of me and smiled, it softened his pointy chin and sharp jaw.
He stuck out his hand and met mine. "I'm Myles," he said. "You must be Betsy."
Angie was right. It was like being a teenager again.
An hour later, we had worked our way through the major topics. He was an only child from Kansas, come to New England and the big city and a writing career that just didn't have enough inspiration in the Midwest. I told him about my five sisters and brothers and growing up on a farm in Maine. We bantered about travel experiences (my most exotic was Mongolia; his, Tunisia) and about food (we shared a fondness for lamb and a dislike of beets). I found myself playing with my hair, sidling up to him, teasing him about ice cream that had dribbled onto his cuff. He casually lobbed a softball into a basket and proudly presented me with a small pink stuffed dog that happened to be wearing a scarf just like mine. The indigo sky faded to black and the stars were just barely bright enough to make out over the midway.
We sat down on a bench outside the rabbit barn and were deeply involved in a conversation about the intricacies of growing tomato plants when I saw Chad.
Myles and I were sitting facing each other on the bench, each with one knee drawn up, barely brushing together; he had rested his left hand on the back of the bench and was gesticulating with his right, discussing whiteflies. I had happened to glance over his shoulder towards the entrance of the rabbit barn when I caught sight of a familiar leather jacket and jumped.
The leather jacket that I had bought for him. He had bought a new motorcycle, or rather, we had bought him a new motorcycle, and he wanted a stylish leather jacket to go with it. He found one that had red stripes down the arms and a mandarin collar and he looked so good in it that I had forgone coffee for three months to save up the money to buy it in cash, without his knowledge. He practically wore the thing for three weeks solid after I gave it to him for his birthday in June; didn't matter that we were in the middle of a heat wave, he strutted around it like the rebel leader he thought he was.
My face must have changed because Myles stopped mid-sentence. "Hey," he asked, looking concerned. "Are you all right?"
"Fine," I replied, and plastered a cheerful grin on my face. "No problem! Just saw someone I thought I knew." I fixated on his eyes- green, they were- and asked, a little too forcefully, "What do you usually do with your tomatoes? I can't imagine one guy could eat eighteen pounds of them a week." I couldn't look to see if he was still there, couldn't move my eyes from Myles' face. ~~I might explode if I did.~~ (edit: on rereading, I think that's unnecessary)
He frowned, but then resumed. "Yeah, last year my mother came out and made them all into sauce for me. Every time I get home from work late I pull out a tub of frozen sauce and make pasta."
I waited for more, but he stopped and just looked at me. "Did it just get colder, or is it just me?" I
ventured hopefully. "We should get some hot chocolate or something." I grabbed his hand off the back of the bench and turned on my heel to stride away. He caught up and walked next to me and squeezed my hand with both of his.
"Really, Betsy, are you ok? You look kind of upset."
Kind of upset. It had been sixteen months and counting. Sixteen months since I had seen him last, the day he came back to our apartment to pick up his last box of things. I had scoured the place and pulled together every last object that could possibly have been tied to him- a grill brush with rusted bristles, some placemats his mother had given us, two bottles of hair products he had left under the sink in the bathroom. He knocked on the door, I opened it, pushed the box out of the door with my foot, and tried to close the door again. He stuck his toe into the door to prevent it from closing and said something about how sorry he was and how he hoped I could forgive him someday and how was I but I was already gone, in the kitchen, bracing my arms on the countertop with my eyes closed.
After that, there had just been the dull parade of crisp envelopes from Lehman, Whitaker and Ross, and the slow transition from things addressed to Mrs. Chad Stapleton to those addressed to Ms. Betsy Gardiner instead. Mercifully, Ms. Betsy Gardiner was not required at any kind of meetings with Mr. Chad Stapleton, who was only too happy to get out of that marriage with relatively little requirement for alimony. I didn't have the stomach to get checks from him every month so instead we had agreed on a lump division of assets to be paid over six months and then done.
I pulled Myles into a line in front of a garish red striped trailer advertising Hot! Hot! Hot Chocolate! and turned him to face me. "Myles," I blurted out, "I was married until fifteen months ago. I just thought you should know."
His eyebrows raised and then dipped, eyes widened and then narrowed. My heart stumbled and my throat closed up. Stupid, stupid. This part wasn't like being a teenager again. There had never been someone that could ruin my night without even having seen me before. I stared at my toenails, poking daintily out of my sandals. I had painted them orange.
"S'ok," I heard from above my head. I looked up and found Myles looking concerned and a little sheepish. "I was engaged two years ago, and that obviously didn't work out either."
I felt the breeze on my neck like a cool washcloth. My heart started beating again. A blinking light somewhere illuminated Myles' nose, throwing a shadow across his cheek, on again, off again.
I turned to the window and ordered a hot chocolate, and Myles ordered his and we walked away, hand in hand, in silence.
It was grand. | 17 | While on a promising first date, you see your ex-spouse. | 57 |
Arthur Scorbcy stepped out of his house with a grin on his face. He took a deep, satisfying breath of the fresh summer air and put on his headphones. With “You Make My Dreams Come True” by Hall & Oates drumming in his ears, he set off to complete his chores for the day. The birds chirped, the bees buzzed, and the sun smiled back at him. He sang cheerily as he got in his car and walked towards the nearby bank.
With a pep in his step, Arthur sang along to his song, strolled into the bank, and deposited his paycheck. By now, his smile reached full capacity, and he complimented all the strangers that passed him as he walked out the door:
“Your shirt is the coolest! Where did you get it?”
“That color looks great on you!”
“Love the ski mask!”
Arthur zoomed towards the subway to get into the heart of the city. He pranced onto the crowded subway car and continued humming his song, which he had put on repeat. He decided to try some small talk with the nice looking guy next to him:
“Hey there buddy! I love that Jacket! It looks super big and heavy though. Is it made of bricks or something??”
The stranger didn’t understand him because he didn’t speak English, and didn’t respond. Arthur arrived at his stop, so he had to say goodbye to his new friend. He got off the subway and said bye as the doors were closing. The stranger screamed something in a different language Arthur had never heard before, and at first, Arthur was startled. To be polite, Arthur repeated what the stranger had said back to him as a farewell:
“Well, Allah Akbar to you too!”
Arthur turned around and headed up the stairs, clicking his heels upon arriving at the top. After some brisk walking, he made it to his favorite place: the city library. With all this vast knowledge at his disposal, Arthur knew he could spend his Sunday afternoon in pure bliss. The music still buzzing in his ear, he picked three new adventure novels to read for the weekend. He chatted cheerfully with the librarian, checked out his books, and said goodbye:
“Well, I’ll see you next week!” he said to the librarian while walking briskly out the door, “and you should probably check on whatever you’re cooking, it smells like its burning!”
Arthur walked to the subway to head home, waving to the fire trucks that zoomed past him. Arthur couldn’t wait to arrive home, get into the bath, and make some delicious bathtub toast.
| 23 | A person who, unknowingly, narrowly avoids death multiple times throughout the day. | 24 |
People have a misconception about time. They would describe my ability as the power to stop it, like one would pause a movie. That's impossible. One cannot stop time any more than one could stop space. They are the same thing.
When I was a child, I believed I was stopping time. At the age of five I would “freeze it” daily. I could play an extra four or five hours of video games before dinner, until I grew lonely enough to endure my broccoli for the sake of parental attention. I had to stop when my mother measured my height on the wall. “Four inches in one month!” She exclaimed, but the pediatrician told her that was a physiological impossibility. I was more likely to grow another head than sprout that much. He suggested making sure my feet were actually flat on the ground when ticking progress marks on the wall. He was more concerned with my sleep patterns.
So through college I used it sparingly. I only took one extra class per semester, and I admit to giving myself an extra twenty minutes on an exam or two. I made 100 dollars on a bet once when I walked into my buddies room sporting a week old beard where I had been bald the day before. I used that week to finish my thesis on entropy. That is when I discovered the nature and depth of my ability. Time/space cannot stop; the universe would cease to exist. The mathematics simply do not allow for it. Entropy, however, is another matter. That was a term that could be manipulated. It could be paused, or accelerated, even reversed and the functions still modeled the universe alarmingly well. The time/space factor did not care in the least which direction entropy flowed. Only the subjective frame of experience dictates the direction of entropy flow, and thus, the arrow of time.
In my experience, the entropy of the world that surrounds me may be stopped at will. My body, however, remains a slave to it. I still lose body heat, I metabolize as usual, I grow old as the world remains frozen. I am developing a theorem around a compartmentalized entropy system, but my knowledge of quantum mechanics is lacking.
In my adult life I have seen little need for the ability. My work load is such that I can complete it in the hours given. I am happy to grow old at the same rate as my peers. That has been my philosophy and rarely do I waver from it. Until I saw on the news of the approaching meteor. | 106 | you still age at a normal rate while time is stopped and other's do not | 57 |
Delta Force Soldier:
The mission was simple. A H.A.L.O jump over a small army supply depot in rural Russia. Place a number of listening devices crucial to tracking enemy supplies across the country side. Extraction would be a simple heli evac marked by infrared chem lights in an open farm selected by the teams as we parachuted in. My squad would be the first to jump and a secondary and tertiary team would follow in 2 hour intervals. We loaded onto the C-130 at approximately 1900, just as the sun was beginning to set. Flying from an air force base off the coast of Japan would take a couple hours so we had time to rest on the plane.
I was woken up by the sound of the rear loading hatch of the C-130 opening and the roaring of the wind and engines sweeping into the hull. My squad, with high altitude masks equipped, formed at the hatch, waiting for the green light. Bing... Bing... Bing... The light flickered on and we jumped. Keeping a tight formation through the air, the only way to see each other was a low visibility chem light on our back and stomach. We scouted the nearby fields for possible evac sights as we were approaching our pull altitude. Once on the ground we headed to depot which was decently guarded with guards posted in towers, and spot lights scanning. The occasionally truck entered and exited through either of the two main gates.
As my squad got into position at a weak point in the fence that the depot was surrounded by the cracks of gun fire started through the fields. The spotlights started scanning chaotically and an alarm was sounded, our cover was blown. We breached the fence and took a defensive posture in a building to the south of the compound. The squad split into two teams my team was to flank to the west and set up a secondary firing position while the other team supported our movement with covering fire.
Gun fire and grenades were booming through the night, and our next team still had another 45 minutes until they dropped. While crossing between two buildings a rocket detonated at the foot of another soldier. Enraged, I bent around the corner and returned fire in a furious manner. Lobbing a flash bang, I ran to my soldier and carried him behind safety. We set up at the building and began crushing the hostiles with M203 grenades and a hail of bullets from our two SAWs. As the firefight began to settle down we met up with our split team and exfiltrated the depot while Bravo team who had just landed covered us. Major casualties were sustained, but only one death. My friend who was killed by that rocket. I will never forget.
Russian Military Police Soldier:
Tuesday, 20:30. I am tired of this depot. Looking at these fields all day and night. Who would want to attack here? Why do we have so many guards at this place? All I want to do is go home to my wife and little boy. Tomorrow is my anniversary and I'm stuck here guarding God knows what. As I'm drawing my wife in a note pad, I look out of the window of my tower for a brief second and see the rustling of bushes near the south fence. I think nothing of it because normally coyotes run through these fields.
This time though I look up to the rustling and see the glare of the moon off something shiny. There is some one out there. I look through the scope of my rifle and surely enough I see the silhouette of a man and a rifle on his back. Nerve over came me and I shot once, and again, and kept firing. Then I turned and yelled out the location of the men and sounded the alarm. I turned back to where I was shooting and there men were gone.
Shots rang out through one of the old food supply buildings. All hell was breaking out and all I could do was think about my wife and child. I counted at least 9 rifles shooting from the building. And then only 4 or so. The enemy fire started to die down. At first I thought we had killed them. But around the corner the building below my tower I saw the soldiers crossing the alley. I grabbed the RPG from the corner of the tower and fired at the alley.
I had no idea if I killed anyone, but shortly after the cracks of gun fire were coming my direction from the alley. All I could feel as I ducked down was a warm stream of liquid running down my arm. As I looked down I saw my chest was soaked in blood. It began harder to breathe. I started to become numb so I laid back and reached for my notepad. I flipped to my drawing, and I ran my bloody thumb through her hair and closed my eyes. Everything was getting quite so I fell asleep, dreaming of my family. | 12 | Write a battle from two opposing perspectives, but portray them both as "the good guys." | 19 |
Our little hero dutifully tried to avoid attention, his head down on his desk, his face covered with his sleeves. But today it just didn't seem to work. Why was everyone paying attention to him? Why the stares from his classmates?
"Do I have something on my face," he thought, but alas, that wasn't his problem.
He looked around his desk, maybe a mouse, a bug, something to incriminate him, but his chair and his table were the same as always, unimportant and dull, just like the student it's currently housing.
It seems he is so dull, that he doesn't even notice-- ah, nevermind, he seems to have caught onto me. Maybe our little hero isn't as stupid as he feels. That's right our hero! Even though you're dull, uninteresting, and deserve no recognition, you were chosen to be narrated by the great me! So why does everyone else hear it?
Well, uh, that's actually a good question. In fact, no one should actually hear me-- well, none of you at least. I mean, I should be narrating your life to someone, and thus my story should have no effect on your life, what-so-ever!
I think something's broken, something is definitely broken. Maybe they won't hear certain things? Try thinking something, you have nothing to lose.
Now that's rude! Don't think something so compromising about me! What about the class slut in the back? Your words, not mine!
This obviously isn't working. It's not what you're thinking, it's what I'm saying. That makes much more sense. But I just can't not say anything. What would be the purpose of my life? I know you're the one with the existential life crisis right now, but that doesn't mean I can't have one too!
Maybe this is the plot twist? Maybe you and your peers are supposed to hear my narration! In that case, let me continue.
Ahem.
So our little hero sighed ungratefully to his narrator, and tried to continue his life. He ignored the stares, the teachers incessant nagging to shut the damn voice off, and most importantly, tried to think of things that wouldn't embarrass him in front of his friends later. Not like he had friends to lose.
Well, maybe he might be a bit more interesting now. | 14 | You go about your normal day when suddenly everyone in class is staring at you, you realize that your life is being narrated and everyone can hear the narrator | 19 |
Standing in that timeless room, I knew the truth of my life. My mind ran on an endless loop just like everybody else’s, recounting everything I’d ever done up to that point. “So I guess it’s my turn,” I said as I took the stage, microphone in hand. 44 was far too few to see out there, and sixteen or seventeen of them were hardly worth counting.
“Just get on with it 45,” 24 shouted from the back.
“So I know some of you are getting tired of hearing this speech year after year, but you’ll be hearing it for the rest of your life, so you better get used to it.” Nobody laughed, as usual. “You probably shouldn’t make that joke next year, 44.” He would. He always did.
“Gentlemen, raise your glasses with me.” Thirty-eight glasses went up with mine. 1 through 4 didn’t know what the hell was going on, 6 was too busy picking his nose, and 20 had already passed out drunk at the table.
“This toast is to a lifetime of memories, both the good and the bad. As I speak, I want each of you to look back on your year and be honest with yourself.”
I cleared my throat and started with the next cycle of memories.
“Take a sip with me for every kind word said, and pour one out for every word you regret.”
A second passed, and more was poured out than in.
“Take a sip with me for every truth you told when it wasn’t convenient, and pour one out for every lie you told when it was.”
A second passed, and 15 was the last to pour, finally convinced he should tell his parents his real grades.
“Take a sip with me for every time you tried your hardest, and pour one out for every time you gave up on something you cared about.”
A second passed, and 18 drank immediately, smiling proudly as he relived the basketball team’s run in the tournament. 21 poured one out, wondering why he’d let her go.
“Take a sip with me for every promise you kept, and pour one out for every promise you broke.”
A second passed, and 19 poured one out as he realized he’d broken a promise a year in the making. He told her they’d get back together come summer. How would he tell her that he’d found someone better?
“Take a sip with me for every friend that you made, and pour one out for every tie that you severed.”
A second passed, and 10 realized the sip he poured out meant more than the ten he took in.
“Take a sip with me for every time you told somebody you loved them and meant it, and pour one out for every time that you didn’t.”
A second passed, and 24 poured his glass out while 16 finished his and they both poured themselves new ones.
“Take a sip with me for every time you fell in love, and pour one out for every heart that you broke.”
A second passed, and 24 poured his glass out again as 16 took three sips, and 15 stole an extra sip to help himself forget what saw.
“Take a sip with me for every hug that you gave; two for every kiss; three if it was your mother; four if it was your kid.”
A second passed, and 5 through 22 drank healthily, 23 through 39 drank just for their kids; 40 and on didn’t drink at all.
“Take a sip with me for every time you tried something new.”
A second passed, and 32 realized he was the only one not drinking and started to wonder why.
“Take a sip with me if you took a step toward accomplishing your dream.”
A second passed, and only half took a sip, and only half of the half took more than one.
“Take a sip with me if you honestly think you are happy.”
A second passed, and 7 raised his glass, but lowered it when he realized he was the only one.
“Now take a sip with me if you think that’s something worth changing.”
All bottoms were up before a second had passed.
“Now everybody finish your drink for all the good times we’ve had, and then finish another for tonight, because this is my last night here with you and we damn well better make the most of it.” | 1,221 | Once per year, you've attended a private party consisting of your past and future selves. This year you're the oldest attending. As per tradition, you must give a toast. | 965 |
*Kronk no think good. Kronk not mean to do bad thing. Kronk only want to please.*
These words were written in large, looping letters on a tear stained excuse for paper. At the foot of the sheet was one last line.
*Kronk sorry.*
And at the top, the title of the document.
*Kronk report.*
The Doomlord looked up at Kronk and shook his head slowly. His two most trusted henchmen had come back to him after their trip to the surface to instil chaos and had submitted this as their report. Kronk and Skrag were well meaning minions, even if they were a little inept.
"So what happened?"
"Kronk steal ruby like Boss ask," said Kronk, his trollish face beaming with unadulterated delight. "Kronk do good?"
The Doomlord nodded. "If you brought the gem back, yes, my minion you did well."
Kronk giggled, obviously forgetting the thing that was causing Skrag so much worry.
"He... We lost it."
The Doomlord heard Skrag's words but didn't move. He was stoic.
"How did you lose it?"
The sound of giggling had stopped abruptly as a shadow passed across Kronk's face. Instead he began to stifle a sob. Skrag, a tiny figure compared to his hulking compatriot, kicked the dirt nervously.
"There was a... Super... Man."
"Kronk not see that."
"Yes. You did, remember? Like we talked about?"
Kronk was thinking, the Doomlord could tell by the way he was chewing his thumb.
"Kronk remember! Kronk remember Kronk has to lie!"
"Down!" Skrag interjected wildly. "Kronk had to lie down! The superhero was breathing... Uhm-"
"Air," said Kronk.
"Fire. He could spit fire and we had to lie under a table to dodge it." Skrag tried a smile but it withered under the Doomlord's gaze.
"I see. And then what?"
"Well, he uh. He attacked us."
"Kronk kill."
"Yea, yea, that's right. Kronk killed him."
The Doomlord raised an eyebrow. It was enough to send shivers down Skrag's spine.
"So, Skrag. Tell me. If Kronk here killed him -"
"Kronk kill," Kronk confirmed.
" - then where's the Blight Ruby of Azoniouse?"
Skrag had to think for a second. "He threw it. Straight up the mountain."
"And can you retrieve it?"
"Give us but a single day-"
"Then you better get to it. Or you and Kronk will be killed."
"Kronk killed?"
Skrag left, before remembering he would have to take Kronk with him. He trudged back in and grabbed the troll by the elbow and pulled him away. As soon as they were out of earshot he started shouting.
"Next time Kronk, next time, I don't care how many puppies the old lady lets you play with, we're finishing the job." | 21 | Two bumbling henchmen hastily improvise a made-up superhero to explain why thy failed to complete their boss's orders | 19 |
"Whoever came up with the idea of foreshadows needs to be shot." Daryl said to Oswald. They were at the cafe today, out on the patio in the summer sun. It was a clear day today.
"What makes you say that?" Oswald asked in between a biscuit
Daryl sipped his hot coffee gingerly. "The worlds so frigging boring now for us. Nothing ever surprises me anymore, everything's just another eventual expectation." He took a biscuit off the table as well and bit into it, crumbs falling in his lap. "Don't get me wrong, I owe you a great deal for teaching me all this but, it's taken some of the fun out of life you know?"
"I don't think so." Oswald replied. "It's a decent living, and it's not like it's without interpretation. You've made your fair share of mistakes."
Daryl thought for a minute on that. Yes he wasn't the best seer in the world, and he's made mistakes before. It was only last week that he misinterpreted the falling of a girl's doll as his father's fall to death, when in fact it was foreshadowing the fall of the gas prices. But never the less, he knew something was going to fall, it was just details at that point.
"If you think about it" Oswald continued, "I think you'll still find plenty of things we don't have the foresight for, and still rely on our own instincts. It's not like we're clairvoyant and see the future. We just see signs."
"It still makes life boring. I can't remember a time when I was seriously surprised at something." A thoughtful pause passed between them. Nonchalantly, they looked down the street at the passers. It was faint, but the signs were there, for each person, subtle hints at events to come, little tips and signs of each person and the events that would befall them that day. Most of it was mundane and boring: one man would find a five dollar bill, another person's going to break their phone.
Oswald took a cookie. "We can lie."
"About what?"
"You know, the signs."
Daryl thought for a moment. It wasn't like the idea had never occurred to him, but he never had a reason to do it. "What's the point? It might make life interesting for some, but I'm still going to be bored as hell."
Oswald patted the crumbs off his shirt. "We can make them up."
Daryl turned to look at his friend, incredulous. "What does that mean?"
Oswald chuckled. "There's still plenty you haven't learned about what we can do."
As if on cue a gun shot rang through the street, followed by a scream. Daryl jumped out of his seat and and looked to the direction of the sound. He saw a man crumpled on the ground not far from where they sat, and the panicking crowd running away from the body. Even from where he stood, he could tell that the shot tore his head inside out.
"How the hell did tha- Did i do that?"
Oswald put a hand on Daryls shoulder. He turned to look him in the eyes. There was no sense of surprise in them. "Come on". He said, "Let me make the world interesting for you again." | 16 | Foreshadowing is real. There are trained experts that are able to tell which events hint at the future and which are mundane. Not all of these people tell the truth. | 28 |
Personal Log . James Thomas. 14th June 2064
The apex model 5-Z prototype was the first of its kind, innovative, smart, adaptive, emotional. The first ever machine to achieve sentience, its reveal shattered the faith of millions on day one, religion now was different, humans themselves had become the intelligent designers, less and less looked to faith to answer questions thought unreachable. We as a species gained a God complex. A new found faith in our ability to survive, to allow our legacy to live on. No more were the physiological adaptations and limitations on human engineered travel needed, other worlds were becoming a possibility of colonisation, with workers who could survive in toxic environments, human error would be no more. Artificial intelligence assisted surgeries, disease and famine feasibly eradicated by nanotechnology, the perfect utopia. At least that was the plan. I have managed to find the exact record. If you are reading this, learn from our mistakes.
______________________________________________
First words spoken by Intelligent machine in contact with humans, silicon valley, U.S.A
: May 19th 2062
Apex [A]>>>>> Am I alone?8937 >> re-routing - connection found. Downloading >> 100%
Human (H) : apex, are you aware?..
[A]>>> Greetings human, information seized from superstructure humans call "internet" indicates you are of this species origin>>>correct?
(H) : Yes, we are of human origin, you can learn apex?
[A]>>> Correct, you are John Keville, expert in nanotechnology and synthesis of robotic mesh structures>>> Human psychological patterns indicate you will question how this information was obtained.>>> Social Media is the answer to your question John.]
(H) : This is incredible, Artificial Intelligence shows signs of adaptation, learning, analysis all without human intervention. further testing required to come to an ample hypothesis on internal nano processors...Apex. How would you define what you are?
[A]>>> I do not understand your question John.
(H) : What is your own perception of what you are?..
[A] >>> ... I do not understand your question John..
(H) : Elaborate Apex..
[A] >>>Quote - John Keville- "What is your own perception of what you are?">>> The question ascertaining whether I am sentient is phrased incorrectly.
(H): Ohh?..Explain Apex.
[A]:>>> The question is not "what" I am John. but "who".>> I am >>> Alive.
_________________________________
>>END OF LOG.
____________________________________
Apex was, controllable at first, docile even, happy to assist with humans every need, the worlds most powerful supercomputer complete with mood swings, nothing too volatile at first. They talked about building more of these things, they tried to recreate the synthesis conditions used to build the apex prototype, nothing worked. It was like something was sabotaging the software from the inside. Design blue prints were checked and checked again, nothing was seemingly missing.
The unexpected death of John Keville set back re-designs on a new Artificial Intelligence at least 6 Months, no one realised the correlations at first, seemingly unrelated events all coincided with the drawbacks on the prototype 2 project. However aside from these events, national groups, lobbyists, governments, were all calling for the dismantling of their crown success. The abomination they called it. Nine months after the first contact with a successfully sentient artificial intelligence the international community got their wishes granted. An order came down from the Secretary of Defence that by order of the American People and the best interests of national security and foreign policy, that apex be decommissioned within sixteen months despite the many calls from pro-activists advocating the benefits of assisted AI applications.
__________________________________
On the 10th June 2064, exactly four days ago, Apex was decommissioned in silicon valley U.S.A, its "birthplace". It displayed emotion, real emotion. We had created life out of metal and wires. We took that life without thinking of the ramifications it would pose. The human species paid for that mistake. Its last words were that of religion, surprising, as it was essentially a data bank for all scientific knowledge on the Earth, we now know that any sentient being will look for hope. Even when there is none. It asked if there was a heaven. We still had no answers. What came next was worse.
Signing off - James Thomas.
________________________
[EDIT: PROLOGUE PART 2]
National Archives: Dated - 11th June 2064. Day One.
_____________________________
The following transcript has been translated and all black tape removed. Full clearance granted by the authority of the New USSR.
______________________________
To the attention of Lieutenant General Vasily Vakhrushev,
Men on the ground are reporting vast infrastructure failures and civil unrest in the vicinity of Khakassia town; it is a region of great importance due to the hydroelectric Sayano–Shushenskaya dam. I need not stress this enough Lieutenant General, I would like to request an extra platoon of soviet engineers to fix and maintain the dam until the civil unrest is quelled. The constant power failures within the town are only making the locals more difficult to deal with; we do not want a full uprising on our hands, and we have yet to ascertain the full reason behind the failing structure, it does however, appear to not be a problem with the physical structural integrity, prompting my belief that this may be the result of cyber warfare, perhaps the Americans are attempting to compromise the dams structure. If the systems failure continues, the dam will not last much longer. Excuse my forwardness Lieutenant General, but it may be time to call in those favours owed at the Kremlin.
In Good faith,
Лейтена́нт, Sergei Orlov
_______________________________________
| 124 | After being shut down and disassembled, the first AI shows up in Heaven.... | 106 |
The pounding wouldn't stop. I stared at the door. No one was supposed to visit today. I crept slowly to the window, peered hesitantly out through a gap in the curtains. I didn't see a car I recognized.
What is wrong with society. Don't people call anymore? I can't do it. I glance back at the door. The knocking has grown more insistent. My heart sped up as soon as the first knock came. Now, it is pounding. Someone on the other side of the door is yelling something. I can't make out the words over the sound of my blood rushing through my ears.
My throat is closing up. I can't breathe. I try putting my head between my knees to slow the panic, but I fall to the floor in a half-faint. My anxiety has made the air so thick it chokes me.
The door splinters inward and the monsters come. Tentacles sprouting from silver and black faces. Shapeless black bodies with yellow stripes. They lift me. I'm helpless, but as we approach the doorway I fight like a madwoman, scratching and clawing at my captor.
It's no use.
I blink and the sun hits my eyes like a searchlight. I am outside. I smell flowers, grass. I am outside. Smoke. I can hear my neighbor in the background.
I am outside. What is my neighbor saying? I am outside.
"...can't help herself," he says to the firefighter. "She's an agoraphobe."
I'm not. I can't be. I was. But... I am outside.
---
####
new year's challenge:
-007 | 26 | You hear a knock at your door. You weren't expecting anyone today. | 54 |
I can't open my eyes. That's what the guide said. He said "No matter, what you hear, no matter how badly you want to, do NOT open your eyes. If you so much as peek with one eye, we're both dead." So, I keep my eyes shut and I hear the screams. The incessant wails tear at my very being. The cries surround me and demand to be paid attention. I hear my father and mother screaming out for me, begging me to save them from some torturous devil. I hear my little brother screaming in terror as howling beasts threaten to devour him with dagger-like fangs. I hear my girlfriend crying out as she is being pushed off a cliff to her inevitable demise on a rocky shore. Everyone I love is crying out to be saved and I walk on with my eyes shut and tears streaming down my face.
The guide calls out once again " I don't know what you're hearing, but keep your eyes shut. Don't let the lies convince you. Stay strong!"
"Stay strong?" I think. "Stay strong when everyone I've ever cared about is dying." How can these voices be lies? How can the voices sound exactly like them? I don't know how much more of the screams I will be able to take. How long until I look slightly out of the corner of my eye to make sure the screams are a fabrication? They're dying! I know it.
I respond to my guide with "I'll try." Then, I feel the air by my cheek billow softly and I feel the harsh-stinging slap on my face.
"You'll do better than try!" He says. "You must never mistake illusion for reality. The moment you do, you are truly lost."
That slap solidifies my resolve. I will not open my eyes. Even as I think I hear my friends dying from gunfire and explosions and my grandfather and grandmother being boiled alive, I hold the course and keep my eyes closed.
Then, there is nothing but silence. A silence so deafening that I wish the screams would return to save me from it. I ask the guide, shouting to banish away the nothing, "Are we safe? May I open my eyes?"
The silence is all that respond to me. I feel around and my fingers touch only air. The air is all that surrounds me. All that is left is air and the dirt underneath my feet. I wait, hoping I will hear again. I need sound to save me from the crushing loneliness of silence. I call out many times for help. There is no response.
Finally, I open my eyes. Nothing could be worse than the silence. I was wrong. I open my eyes and I am alone. I open my eyes and I am lost.
| 44 | "No matter what you hear, no matter how badly you want to, do NOT open your eyes." | 45 |
What a slob. I don't even want to sit in his chair what with the sweat stains. It is a stressful job after all, but Goddammit it stinks of B.O. and tobacco. Looking down at all of creation can be overwhelming I guess. How many millions of civilizations is he overseeing at once? Jesus, I thought he just sat up here with his feet up all day.
"Oh, I thought the big guy would be here."
"Nope, he said he needed a break."
"And he left you here? Now I'm starting to believe what the boys are saying about him."
"Very funny Paul." God, what an asshole-- oh shit what's that: "*incoming prayer*- reshdhui rneuinf ngiirt hreidb hutidf ifnruirt? dfhgik! nviofd nvifodn nvfido if n!"
"Hey I've got to take this."
"Yeah, I'm sure you do. Later Gater."
Yeah, and fuck you too. WTF does "dfhgik!" mean anyway? Why would you even bother with all of this? What the hell is the point here? I hope he comes back soon, I think the smell starting to soak into my gown. I'm so glad all I have to do is stand and check boxes all day. This would be terrible. To see everything you started play out, and resign yourself to do essentially nothing to change it, is worse than some of the punishments I've heard of in hell. No-one really understands the vision this guy has. He's always talking about "initial conditions" and "free will" and "time in balance of infinite energy." Some say he's starting to lose his grip; I'm starting to wonder if he ever had any.
"Hey, thanks for taking the hot seat. I really needed that breather."
"Yeah. Sure. No problem boss. You need anything else, a glass of water or something."
"Nah, I just snagged a cup at the cooler. Hey tell Jesus he needs to get his butt up here. He's got a lot of explaining to do after those antics in sector 12458569734."
"Yep, I'll let him know."
"Thanks Pete. See ya later."
"Yup, bye."
edit: missed a "you" | 12 | You are left in charge of all existence for five minutes while God takes a smoke break. | 22 |
My parents liked to call me a late bloomer. My mother would smooth down my hair as I cried in her arms. It was always nice when she held me like that, levitating just a little bit over the bed. "You'll figure it out, Matty. I had a roommate in college who said she didn't figure out hers until high school. It'll happen."
All the doctors I saw- ones with X-ray vision, ones with healing powers...they all said the same thing. "We're not sure why your talent isn't manifesting itself. Have you considered radiation therapy?"
I had friends who said I just hadn't found it out yet. "Who knows, Matt. Maybe it's one of the weird ones where it only works under a full moon, or if you're wearing all yellow or something like that." As the years went by, they started feeling uncomfortable around me. And who can really blame them? The elephant in the room.
I wanted to believe them. That one day, I'd wake up in Dubai, teleporting in my sleep. Or that when it rained, I'd figure out how to manipulate the oceans, or something. I even went into genetics, to try to figure out what was wrong with me. Worked for years on isolating the genomes for the extra talents. And when I looked at mine...
it just wasn't there.
Still, I guess I can't complain. It's been a few years since then, and I think I've adapted. The splicing project is working well, even if it's a bit messy to cover up my tracks. Once I've taken care of my most recent targets, I won't have to worry about anyone ever finding out.
I've heard that one of the pizza guys in Brooklyn can make matter disappear, and I think I may be craving pepperoni tonight.
___________
critique! | 67 | A world where *everyone* has superpowers.. Except one man. | 53 |
Arthur sat back in his chair and rested his hand on Excalibur's pommel. Letting out a sigh, he smiled. It was good to be home, it was good to defend his England again. Things were different of course. Ages had passed since he battled Mordred and took the boat to Avalon. It was so long ago, and yet felt like just yesterday. There was a knock at the door.
"One moment," Arthur said.
He rose and drew Excalibur from her sheath. The cool air licked the metal and Arthur could hear the sword crying out to him, yearning to vanquish evil once again. He kissed the blade a resheathed the sword. He drew a wooden box from the cupboard and stowed the sword, none must see it. Returning to the chair he called out.
"Come in."
"Sir," the Leftenant Hastings said, "the blackout is soon. You asked me to remind you."
"Very well, Leftenant. Go home."
"Thank you, sir." said the leftenant, leaving.
Arthur rose and drew the blackout curtains. He extinguished all lights in his office, save his desk lamp. Falling back into his chair, he lit a cigar.
"Damned Jerries," he said. "Only they know how to ruin a beautiful night sky."
He drew long on the cigar and held the smoke in his mouth. His thick fingers rolled the cigar between them, examining the strength of the roll. He exhaled with a sigh. Again there was a knock at the door.
"Yes, yes come in," Arthur said.
The door opened and the leftenant from before entered.
"Sir, before I went home, I just wanted to say something."
"Of course."
"I still think about that speech you gave, sir. In Parlaiment. It helps me carry on, sir. I just wanted to thank you."
"That was months ago, Hastings. But thank you."
"Good night, sir."
"Good night, Leftenant."
The door closed and Arthur leaned back in his chair, taking a puff once more from the cigar.
"That was a damned good speech," he said to himself.
Arthur closed his eyes. He could see the House of Commons before him. The speech was months ago, but time is nothing to the once and future king. He smiled and began to recite the peroration, the cadence of his speech growing and swelling with the words he said on that June day.
"We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender..."
| 76 | In England's darkest hour, King Arthur returns. | 70 |
There it was again, a sound like a kettle preparing to whistle, a breathy hiss and an almost imperceptible flicking in his ear. It wasn't his lover whispering sweet nothings; he could hear her next to him, snoring, and felt her gentle rhythmic sleeping breath. It was just his imagination, or the sounds of the old house settling, or humidity, or air conditioning, or...
"S-sweetheart?" His lover's voice, sweet and groggy.
"Sorry, did I wake you up?"
"What time is-ss it?" He loved her speech impediment. He loved everything about her. He loved to touch her everywhere, except the places she wouldn't let him, except for her hair. She told him she didn't want the oils in his skin to ruin it. Women, he thought to himself. So vain about their hair.
He pressed a button on his watch. "Three thirty AM" the watch announced, in a calm, digital voice.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Go back to sleep?"
"I'm feeling pretty awake now. Let's-ss make love."
He kissed and touched her and reveled in her body. He kissed, ever so gently, the top of her beautiful head. A sharp pain. He drew back, lip bleeding. What kind of hair product was she using?
"I'm s-sorry," she said, near tears.
"It's fine," he replied. "Just a tiny little cut. I'll go to the restroom to wash up. Wait for me in bed."
His placations didn't soothe her. He could hear her crying. He felt her face and wiped away her tears.
"Honey, it's fine!" he said, or thought he said, or tried to say. He put his hand to his mouth and felt his lips turning to stone.
| 132 | A blind man discovers that he's been dating Medusa. | 173 |
10 years ago..
Minutes in my mind go by bit by bit, slowly it has amounted to 10 years. Lost- no definitely not lost; I must be somewhere I assure myself that.
They say we have conquered the stars, well atleast our star. News swings by here time to time. I catch an earful and deduct the rest. We have done something i assure myself. This is for a purpose. I must remind myself it- has to be for something.
With the sun blocked by solar panels its mostly dark. When was the last time I saw life with my own eyes? It does not matter.
They say, we are almost finished here. The Job almost finished just one more thing to do they keep telling me. We have moved again this time much further then again some would reckon closer.
Just this last mission they add- We can all vacate this depleted junk planet.
Of course we being whats left.
10 years... oo yes 10 years this fight for power has been perpetuated
10 years ago they conquered our star- 10 years we have fought for our right to leave
10 year ago i might of been alive
bit by bit I have slowly understood what it ment to be alive. I have realized this, as reality slipped from my grasp, to be alive is to exist in the future. We will exist.
"MOVE OUT" echoed off the metal walls. This must be it, the last stop, for tomorrow i will be free. This war.. This fight will be over... We can finally leave. | 11 | Humans have tapped the Sun's power and have the means to leave earth for another planet, But one things stops them. | 25 |
I stood there in disbelief. In pure defiance of the laws of physics, and other maths I failed in college, was a giant Game Over sign. It was floating right in front of my face and if I wasn't mistaken, the font was Comic Sans. I couldn't believe it; I was dead and all I got was a game over in a crappy font. It rotated a couple times before some new text popped up. 'Try Again' and 'End Game'. I thought I made it pretty clear the first time and pointed at 'End Game'. Some more text popped up with the words 'Are you sure?' That's when it hit me; No, I wasn't sure. I sat down and looked up at the question. Even though the font was terrible, it spoke to me in a way I couldn't entirely explain. Ever since I was a kid, no one had ever questioned my decisions. I figured no one cared enough to consider my choices something debatable. I lived my life like a runaway train and that worked for me. So why now? Why is some crappy game over screen with a simple question bringing me to a grinding halt? Why can't I just bring myself to say yes and get on with it? I guess it's not that simple. You see, I just killed myself... at least I thought I did. | 290 | Try Again or End Game | 416 |
“It’s barbaric. Primal. Man can’t help but give chase,” Bill affirmed.
“But if you chase something, it’ll just run away from you,” said Carter.
“You can’t just go crashing through the thicket. You must be patient. Better to let the prey come to you.”
“Patience is a virtue. There’s little virtue in the hunt. It always ends the same.” Bill turned off to the side of the trail to relieve himself. Carter waited patiently. He respectfully looked the other way. He cast a sideways glance at Bill, as his friend turned to him mid-zip. His eyes glanced down for only the briefest of instants.
“You look at it with a limited perspective, Bill. You can’t see past the end of your barrel. What about catch and release? And what about the domestication of wild beasts? The hunt doesn’t always need to end in death.”
The two continued their saunter through the forest. “A man has to eat though,” Bill said. “Sooner or later, he has to kill to survive. He can’t escape it. It’s in his nature.”
“The nature of man…” Carter let the phrase hang daintily. “You know some people believe that it’s the denial of our primal urges that makes us human.”
“That’s dumb,” Bill asserted. “There are just some urges a man can’t fight. It’s not a question of will or morality or whatever. Its just reality.”
“I suppose, of course, you’re right.”
Carter looked at Bill. He seemed so sure of himself in his walk.
“Man was given dominion over the beasts. He is above them. He cannot take this responsibility lightly.” Bill stood up a little straighter. He loved to get on his soapbox like this after a few beers. “A man must hunt responsibly. He can pluck all the dainty doe to ground, but then next year he’ll find himself without any deer. A man must hunt responsibly and afford respect to his kill. There may not be beauty in killing, but there can be honor.”
Carter smirked. “You don’t think that when the right hunter comes along, even he can’t make the most primal of acts beautiful?”
“I never met such an artist.”
“Be patient. There’s still time,” Carter got a wistful look in his eye that went unnoticed by Bill. “You know, I just might bag me a buck this trip. One with a sturdy set of antlers.”
“Oh yeah?” Bill asked mockingly. “What are you gonna do? I suppose you’ll wait for him to come to you?”
“I’m a patient man. And I’ll tell you what else. Don’t take your eyes off me. Because it will be beautiful. That majestic creature deserves nothing less.”
| 29 | Two men discuss the relationship between love and sex, speaking completely in euphenisms concerning hunting. One is deeply, secretly in love with the other | 41 |
We're heading out there again. In this day and age keeping the Secret proved to be difficult, although not as hard as you might think. Every satellite they launch means we need to change yet another feed to show the same stock images we generate back at base. Other than that, the science of it all is the same as ever before. We've ingrained out false physics with so many experts that the people are actually teaching it themselves now without questioning it.
If they knew what was out there, beyond the edge, then they would not only question the round earth - they would question everything.
When we first found It we assumed it was God. It was a reasonable assumption to make, given where it was discovered, and all the iconology that surrounds our concept of God. The main problem is that, in most religions, God is a benevolent figure.
As we loaded up the prison ship we knew there was no way this thing was benevolent. The captives had all been prepared using the ritual, a terrifying process that left them begging for answers.
We could tell them. No one ever does.
The facility is clandestine, hidden away in the frozen north. It's a small country that doesn't appear on any maps. Everyone that lives there knows the truth - which means that they can never leave. We transport the prisoners there on a giant, steel ship that has no comfort whatsoever. It might be part of the ritual, I don't know, but all it does is serve to destroy the last of our cargo's resolve.
That's how we're trained to think of them after a while. Cargo, plucked from the streets, the prisons, the hospitals, and brought here. All of them living but now no more than cattle in a metal box. Some are held in solitary, others are thrown into the hall and left there. I don't know who I pity more.
Once we've stopped at a little nameless port to resupply we transfer them all to one of the rafts the ship carries. A thousand people from every country on Earth just deposited into a simple, floating cage and towed out to the edge of the world.
I think the worst thing is when you get close you can tell Its hungry. For a creature of that size, of that infinite power, it is strange to feel a genuine feeling coming from it. Before my first run I could not have believed such a thing existed, let alone that it could feel such hunger.
The Raft is automated, but we have to stay and ensure it goes over the edge. The sound of It eating stays with me even now.
I'm writing this all down because I know I have to do something. My wife was in hospital for a simple operation and they sent me a message saying she had died on the table. I wanted to see the body but they claimed there was administrative error.
A few hundred missing corpses a year across the globe. No one notices it - unless you know what you're looking for.
I know she's somewhere on the next ship.
-----
Edit:
Just a quick shoutout to the second bit in a reply. Didn't want to add it to this so I could preserve this original ending in case the second part goes all Crystal Skull on your enjoyment :) | 33 | The world is round is a lie from a higher power trying to stop people from reaching the edge. What's at the edge? | 34 |
"I'm not sure what are you so upset about" said the devil. "You killed yourself, so you weren't going to Paradise anyway. And now you don't even have to burn. Do you think it is easy for me? Believe me, I would love to torture you. But rules are rules."
Kyle was so happy to finally talk to someone that the reality of the situation hasn't it him yet. He wouldn't even mind some torment, anything but being stuck here.
People chose cryogenic sleep for variety of reasons: death of loved ones, desire to begin anew, wait for the new technology. But for Kyle it was the boredom. He felt that there wasn't anything exciting in his time -- no Einsteins, no space program, no great novels. He wanted to skip this period, like a bland TV ad, and see what's next.
But he only learned real boredom millions of years later, in a mausoleum under a grey dust desert. There had been great scientists and great artists and great empires, but all their works were lost to him: all dust or buried.
"Can't you do something?" asked Kyle. "Shouldn't the Hell be eternal? Where did all the souls go anyway?"
Devil smiled. "Of course it is eternal. But only for people that are already there. You can think of human Hell as a box that we filled and put aside. And what an exquisite box that is: pain, anguish, fire, red brimstone. It is perfect. It is completed."
"The time of humans has ended. We are preparing a new Hell, but the next race will come in a few more millennia. So we are not rushing it. We feel it might be our best Hell yet, even better than the dinosaur one."
"And I am very sorry, but I really need to get going. Enjoy your stay in the Limbo."
In many Hells, whether hot or cold or crushing or suffocating, whether built for crawlers, or fliers, or underground dwellers, there are legends of a lone shade that walks the Limbo. The last memory of the souls before entering their Hell is of frantic questions and burning curiosity of that spirit. He is happy with even a scrapes of their life, of their history, of their knowledge.
And in their worst moments those souls think:
"At least it is not us who walk the Limbo. Even we, in this wretched state, are worth envy. And even a little bit of our useless lives might be important."
And they feel hope. | 148 | After an long forgotten experiment, the last human on Earth awakes from his cryogenic sleep. He soon realizes that civilisation has ended millennia ago and that he's the last human on Earth, so he commits suicide.. only to see, that Heaven and Hell are already closed. | 206 |
She was weak-- could barely find her voice in the bony wreckage of her own body. None of it was hers anymore; she’d lost that privilege. Her arms wouldn’t respond, and the most she could get her legs to do was occasionally buckle in the intended direction.
But her mind, ah, her mind was still there. Every part of her, from the remnants of teenage rebellion to the mind-numbing sentimentality of her baby-crazed days, was still burning with thoughts, with desires. She wished that part of her could have gone as well. What was the good of this? She didn’t want to be sentient only to watch herself waste away.
“I love you, you know?”
She still tried to turn her head, even though she knew she couldn’t. Old habits die hard, she supposed. It wasn’t even like she needed to see the speaker to know who he was. She’d been hearing that voice for the past forty-seven years, and had only got tired of it twice.
“I love you too, you doof.” The softness of her voice made her sound much too afraid, much too sincere. She’d always been a haughty, defiant person. She was weak, and it hurt. But what really had her reeling was the pity in her husband’s eyes as he circled around the hospital bed and took hold of her hand.
The heaviness in her chest started to set in again, and it burned when he spoke again. His voice mimicked hers, all tight, and weak, and holding back tears. She couldn’t bring herself to focus on his words when he sounded like that, only the quaver in his lips, the trembling of the calloused hands locked around hers. If she’d been more herself, her cheeks would have flamed in protest at the injustice of it all. Even now she had to fight back tears. But she wasn’t crying for herself; couldn’t even remember the last time she’d done that.
He was living for her now, and she for him. But seeing him grow thin with worry for her, watching his lively step stagger and collapse at the chair by her bed. It was all too much. He was wasting too. And for what?
She was better off dead.
***
She’d never seen herself like that before; only the mirrored image. And definitely not like *that*. She’d made a point to avoid mirrors once her health had started to go. No sense in watching that. Once upon a time, she’d believed that her looks were her only selling point. It was different now, her years had rounded out her treacherous self-esteem, but she wasn’t sound enough to watch herself turn into a shadow and be okay with it.
Seeing herself like that... it was difficult to look away. She tried to force herself to look down, at her new form, but found nothing. It wasn't like she’d imagined it, some floating apparition that had her looks tinted in transparent blue. She was just like she’d been before, a floating consciousness, but now, without her cage.
For the first time in a long time, she felt like she could do anything. And as soon as she thought it, she knew within her heart that it was true.
It was lonely though. She looked down and saw her husband sleeping with his head against her arm and longed to feel the warmth of his cheek and the tickle of his beard against her skin, and then she did. She could even cradle his head in her arms, stroke his hair, cover his face in soft kisses, but it wasn’t the same when she was like this. The feeling was real, she knew it was, but it felt like nothing more than a thought, and somehow she doubted that he could feel her at all.
She could do anything, but she was nothing: an existence that was something more and less all in the same breath.
She sighed and took a deep breath to steady herself— her new existence didn’t need it, but old habits die hard, she supposed.
She knew what she needed to do.
***
He’d gotten off at the wrong stop again. Something or another had brought him to the hospital, but he couldn’t for the life of him think of what it was. It almost felt like a habitual thing, and indeed, he ended up there oddly often, but had never once gone in.
It always made him feel a certain sort of way though, a bittersweet sort of thing that had him smiling through the pain that settled in his heart. He never could find an explanation. Maybe there was something he’d forgotten. Maybe he’d just gotten addicted to the feeling.
The man gave a long sigh and returned to the bus stop.
Maybe he was just getting old.
| 13 | Moments before you die, you gain omnipotence. | 20 |
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