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"Captain, you have to send the signal. We've been fighting for three days," pleaded Private Oliver.
"No."
"Roland--"
"Goddammit Ollie. Paladin Company doesn't fail, and it sure as hell doesn't ask for help. You know that. We all do. It's why we signed on."
The rattle of gunfire again found it's way to the soldiers' ears. They found their way behind cover, and returned fire as soon as they could shake off the first mind-battering haze of the assault. "I just don't get it," Shouted Oliver over the clamor of the battlefield, "How the hell did they know our position? Why didn't we know theirs? Private Ganelon should be back from scouting by--" The sniper's bullet cut off the last word.
Roland knew the sound of that particular rifle. The one Ganelon had used to save his ass more times than he could count. Now Ganelon had sold out. Sold out to a terrorist organization known as Marsile, who look to take the weapon that Roland swore to General Charles that he would protect. The Durendal catalyst. A pistol shaped targeting system that would send a kilometer of tungsten down on anyone dumb enough to piss off its wielder. He and his men had killed more insurgents protecting it today than they had in all of the missions Roland had conducted combined.
Roland couldn't remember if he'd heard Ganelon's rifle ring out again. He did know that he'd felt it. He saw a wave of Insurgent riflemen charging at the sight of him falling on his knees. He swept his machine gun, killing who knows how many overzealous terrorists looking to get the final blow on the Infamous Captain Roland. His gunfire cut down their courage just enough to give him the time to bring out his Oliphant comms device. Ollie was right. He should've sent out that signal sooner. Although he wasn't sending the signal for reinforcements. He typed out two words, a name and a verb, and hit send. He tucked Durendal under his plate carrier and looked around the mountain pass; At the fallen of both sides. He knew he would be the last to perish in this battle, but not in this war. The thought brought a smile to his lips as Ganelon's bullet tore into him.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
General Charles Magne massaged his temples. "Tell Major Thierry to mobilize his troops."
He looked up at the screen that displayed the last message Roland would ever send.
*RONCEVAUX AVENGE*
Original Story: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Song_of_Roland | 19 | Tell an old medieval tale, but as if it was happening nowadays. | 61 |
"YOU-"
He crashed through a window, the caped fury following faster than ever before.
"-DESERVE-"
Firebolt was still in the air when the hero hit him again, forcing him straight into the concrete.
"-TO-"
The foot came down. Heavier than a tank. Faster than a bullet.
"-DIE!"
Firebolt screamed in agony. His ribs shattered.
But SilverSilk wasn't done. She grabbed him by the neck and pulled him up, planting a fist squarely in his jaw. Her face was twisted into one of pure hatred.
Around them the fires continued to burn.
With speed that only SilverSilk could manage Firebolt was hauled to the edge of the skyscraper. Below him he could see his life's work stretching for miles in every direction.
"TOO LONG!" She screamed, rage distorting her voice, speaking too fast. It came out as a single sound. Firebolt giggled weakly.
"Going to kill me? Really?"
Pain flared in every fibre of his body. Bones jarred against each other.
"You killed thousands!" SilverSilk was still shouting, only now her voice was struggling through sobs. "You killed the entire Hero Squad."
"Your fault," Firebolt tried to say more but she dropped him, delivering a kick as he fell. He rolled to the side of the building.
"How? How do you put this one on me?"
She dropped to his level, one hand on his neck, the other pulled back, ready for a punch.
"It was your stupid space hangout I destroyed. It's your debris raining about us -"
She shoved him from the side.
Firebolt fell.
SilverSilk saw the entirety of the destruction around her. Heard the screams of the dying. She relived the memory of her friends, their bodies twisting in the flames. This was unforgivable.
For everyone else she stood for a fraction of a second. For her it was an eternity.
Her mind made up, she jumped after Firebolt, falling fast and gaining on him. He saw her coming and tried to shout out.
"Mercy!"
"No!"
She hit him mid air. The two shapes danced, punches flying from the silver blur.
"You'll die with me-"
Firebolt took another punch to the gut and couldn't speak any more. This was it. He was going to die.
"I have nothing left! You took it all! You have to die. I have to make su-"
They hit the ground together. | 46 | A superhero finally kills his super villain for something unforgivable. | 30 |
Light suddenly shines. I raise up, and I can only catch a glimpse
of my shiny brothers and sisters before there is darkness again.
I am dead now, and I am in heaven.
It is dark and cozy here, I rejoice in anticipation, because I know
I was blessed, I was chosen to live forever here.
And then it starts. I feel it, I feel His force, His Strength,
if feels so grandiose, spinning and spinning around because He loves me.
*Click*
I want to be here forever, spinning and spinning in His love, feeling
him.
*Click*
Oh brothers and sisters, if you only knew how this is, how magnificent
He is.
*Bang*
I thought I was feeling joy, but this, this is more than I can handle.
Fire consumes me from inside, ecstasy covers me. Oh and the speed,
speed as I never imagined, I am flying, I am free, I am fire and
love and bliss, I am one with Him.
After eons of pure delight I stop, and come to a rest, there is so much
light, and I see Him, I see His Holy eyes, staring at me, with me,
His metallic blood around both of us, and I live my afterlife forever
in his grasp, and we look at each other for eternity.
| 82 | A game of Russian roulette between two people. Describe it from the perspective of the bullet. | 50 |
"You drunk? Wanna get drunk?" Opal, a burly, hairy goddess, opened a big jug of very potent alcohol. She took a swig, and offered it to Flarg.
Flarg, a minor god, was skinny and fretful. They were unlikely friends and even more unlikely lovers; she was the goddess of war and liquor, he the god of insects and microbes. He lusted for her, for her big arms and hairy legs, but knew she thought of him as a little brother. She thought it was cute he couldn't hold his alcohol. "Not now," he said, distracted. He was usually excited to see her. He was usually fluttery and red-faced. Today he was pale and still.
"You okay, buddy?" She put her arm around him, which would usually make him swoon, but his mind was fixed on other matters.
"No," he said, honestly. He reconsidered the alcohol. He took a swig and didn't even gag at the strong taste.
"Tell me about it." She was right next to him now, warm with drunkenness and genuine interest. She could smell the conflict on him, and that was her bread and butter.
On any other day, her closeness would electrify him, but today: "I think I did something very bad."
"You?" Opal guffawed. "Did you forget to say good morning to the sun god? What bad have you ever done?"
He hesitated. "You know how sometimes we play that game where we give consciousness to insects? Just to see what they do."
"Of course. I love that game. I love the way they squirm when they realize I'm about to kill them."
"Well - remember when you got me drunk at the ceremony honoring the thunder goddess?"
Opal laughed. "Every time you heard thunder, you jumped like a terrified fool. What's there to be scared of? You're immortal!"
He ignored her insults. He was used to them, fond of them even. "Well, I had that sack of consciousness we were playing with, and when I jumped, I accidentally spilled it on some planet. Earth."
"Earth?" Opal considered it. It was a fairly useless planet, from what she remembered, nothing more than primordial ooze. There were no creatures waging war there, so she didn't give it much thought. "I wouldn't worry. It probably fell in the ocean."
"It didn't." Flarg trembled. "It fell on an organism." Flarg knew releasing consciousness was a serious matter. Only Rex, the god of knowledge, was permitted to give planets consciousness, and even then in measured, small amounts. There had to be a separation between the creatures and the gods - if they truly learned to think, to love and drink like gods, the consequences could be dire.
"Well, so what?" Opal replied. "Don't worry about them. They'll kill each other soon enough. I can bring some war down there if you'd like. A favor for a friend."
"I may have dropped... a lot."
Flarg conjured a picture of Earth and its citizens. Humans in long robes bent at the knee and muttered chants. They knelt before a giant statue of Flarg and Opal, in passionate embrace. Flarg blushed furiously at the sight of it.
"Is that - us?" Opal asked, but she knew it was. It was unmistakably them, and very provocative.
"I think I might've dropped a drawing I made, when I dropped the consciousness. I think they might believe we're gods."
"We ARE gods," Opal pointed out. Her voice was softer than usual. She was confused, and a little scared by what she saw. Is this how her friend had always felt? And was he really as well-endowed as the statue?
"But I don't know how to be a major god! What would I do with a planet of worshipers? I can't handle that kind of responsibility."
"I can ask the god of meteors -"
"No. We can't! Look at them. They have complex brains, and civilizations, and -"
"There's a reason only Rex gives out the knowledge," Opal said, coldly. "Not everyone can handle it. Sometimes it's better when you don't know things." She noticed her arm was still around him, and pulled it away. "I'll take care of it," Opal said, standing. "Don't worry. I'll leave the booze here and you can drink until you forget." She left.
Flarg had a sharp pain in his heart. He watched the humans worship, and laugh, and cry. He looked at the statue, saw his fondest dreams in marble. He conjured the image away and took a swig.
| 40 | One day, the gods find out that on Earth, there are creatures they didn't even realize existed, and the creatures seem to be worshiping them. | 51 |
The first time it happened I was 18, first year of college. I went to Bed and woke up in London, the daughter of a beautiful model/actress from England. I thought I was dreaming, so I just behaved irrationally, felt my boobs, dressed as slutty as I could find and found me a boyfriend. I recognized my "dream mom" and woke up from a bizarre dream the next day to look for that actress, only to find out her daughter had had a "seizure" and behaved "erratically" the day before. I couldn't understand what that meant, I mean you wish for your dreams to come true, but this was just weird.
The next time I was a geeky guy at a Spanish university. I got a girlfriend that night, which he apparently married (she seemed slutty, though). I looked him up on Facebook the next morning and read his statuses which matched what I had done. That’s when I figured it out.
Since my 18^th birthday my daily goal has been to go to bed and live somebody's life for a day. I've been a bank teller, start-up manager, Forbes 100 businessman, football player, president (just once, not of the US), North Korean worker, priest and countless other lives. Ever since.
The first time I died I was a sniper somewhere in the Middle East. I'd been a soldier several times before and it was a walk in the park for me, then my spotter was shot dead right next to me. As I tried to remember if any or the other soldiers in my past were ever told what to do in these situations, a bullet went right through my throat. I woke up screaming and had lost my voice, my then-wife held me and said "It was only a nightmare." It wasn't. I went to the soldier's funeral when the body was brought back home, thinking about how he might have survived, if I'd let him have the control.
After that I tried to develop a way to "ride along" while I dream, where they would live their lives and I was just a witness to it. I avoided making any decisions, interacted with everyone using sentences like "What do you think we should do?" and things like that. It never worked. Their life was mine for 8-10 hours. I had miserable lives then.
The second time I died I was murdered during a mugging. I "woke up" as the thief with my victim's stuff in my backpack. I freaked out and started returning everything, only to watch the husband taser me. This thief had a heart condition. He was dead instantly. I fell in a coma, dreaming only pitch black for 3 days.
I’m 78 now. I have died at least 1,000 times since, and have lived more than 20,000 different lives. I sleep longer hours now, and always hoping for younger lives, that are becoming increasingly rare as I age. I've had at least 100 wedding days, 1000 funerals, been drunk more times than I can count and seen pretty much every city in the world. I’ve had a good set of lives, I'll tell you that.
But I never had a life of my own. I got divorced at 35, never had children, and never did anything except work as a clerk to get through my “awake” life. I have no one to tell my stories to, to share my experiences, even now that I'm about to die for real, locked up in an asylum. I'm not even afraid to die now, I've done it so many times I know exactly what to expect. So whether you believe my stories or not, I'll leave them in this notebook for you, whoever you are, with my deepest hope that even without my power, you live your life every day as you would if it wasn't really your own. | 24 | For one individual, falling asleep causes him/her to take over the body of someone else in the world, until their original body wakes up. | 35 |
I wish I could make her understand how beautiful she really is. I wish I could understand what she sees in me. In her, I see perfection itself. I see it in her auburn hair, her cerulean eyes, her dazzling smile, and cute nose. I love the way her whole body shakes when she laughs. Can she see the effect that she has on me? What does she see when she looks at me? I'm clumsy and awkward. I trip on my own two feet and go crashing everywhere. I bump into people all the time on the street. I can't hold a conversation to save my life and I look everywhere I shouldn't.
Except when it comes to her, when I'm with her I'm focused on everything she says and does. Her smile brightens up my whole world. That's why I do everything I can to make her laugh. I don't know if I'm funny to others, but I see the excitement that thrums through her body when I tell a joke. That excitement that makes her vibrate like a string on a plucked guitar. Her laugh, her smile, her joy fills me up and makes me want to be more than I am. I see her and I feel complete. What does she see in me?
I hate to see her sad, the tears pouring down her face. I wish she could see it. Not because she looks ugly or gross, but because then she would understand the pain that appears in my face when she cries. The pain that is so terribly and perfectly etched on her face with her red puffy eyes and swollen nose, breaks my heart. The downturn of her lips plunges an icy dagger into my heart. The tears that blacken her cheeks make me feel lost and useless. I wish she could see the terrible power of her sadness, so that she would understand my pain. I want her to see the effect she has on me.
I want her to see. | 42 | A world without reflections, images or videos. | 56 |
It's the size of the crater that always gets me. I never really realized how big a mile and half was. I'm standing in this crater and there's nothing for a mile and half. There is nothing. How insane is that? There is nothing! In the distance, I can see the scattered destroyed buildings that once made up Goldsboro. My geiger counter continuously whines in the background, as I take in the enormity of the destruction.
I've come here every year for the past 15 years. I check on the levels of radiation and wonder what the town must have been like before. I imagine it was a nice and quaint place with mom and pop stores in a tight-knit community. I imagine it was the kind of place where most of the town would try to show up for the high school ball games. I imagine peopled walked in the nice city park and men tipped there hats to each other as they walked on by. I imagine an ice cream truck coming down town square with kids chasing after it.
Then I imagine the bomber crashing. The detonation. The incineration of everyone near. The cloud. Those people at the ball game, the moms and pops walking about, the children chasing after the ice cream truck, all gone. When I think about that moment, the rage grips me. The burning hot rage that makes me want to physically strike out at anyone near me.
However, then I think about all the good that came from that moment. The end of Nuclear Proliferation. Who could support the making of more bombs after that moment. The peace with Russia after the terrible realization of what would happen if we truly went to war. The International Disarmament Agreement. I hear the last nuke will be disassembled by next year.
Here I stand among the dead.
Here I mourn the loss of thousands of innocent lives.
Here I honor those who brought us peace.
| 10 | In 1961, during the height of the Cold War, a US bomber crashes and accidentally sets off one of its nuclear warheads obliterating Goldsboro, North Carolina. Now it's 2014. | 17 |
Frank was wiping the rest of the shaving cream off his face when he saw it move on the wall behind him.
“-the fuck?” He turned around, only to see his shadow hadn’t moved as he turned. Confused, Frank glanced up at the window, half expecting to see a flaming asteroid streaking across the sky.
“The light… the light makes me cast…it falls…“ Frank mumbled his thoughts out loud, hoping to make sense of what he saw. The thoughts came too fast to be verbalized, it was all so nonsensical, until the voice cut him off.
“No, the light gives you color.” The blurry shape on the wall moved again. Frank was sure of it this time. Then, to his surprise, it sat down on the toilet, Frank even heard the thud. What Frank didn’t notice was the wet washcloth as he dropped it in front of his feet.
“Excuse me?” Frank said as he turned to face his shadow.
“You’re excused.” The shadow said and turned away from him, facing the shower curtain.
Frank took a step toward the toilet, but slipped on the dropped washcloth. He saw stars and when he opened his eyes again, the blur was inches away from his face.
“Are you ok, man? That was quite a knock!” The blur wiggled a little bit as it spoke. Frank instinctively reached toward it. “Whoa! Easy there, Frank, don’t go breaking up my shape.”
“You can talk?” Frank managed to groan out and he slowly sat up.
“Yeah, well, we’re not really supposed to. But, you saw me moving there… And they say all reflections have ‘The Great Realization’ one day. You seem like a cool dude and I didn’t want to leave you hanging.” The blur sank back against the wall and slumped to the floor, sitting across the bathroom floor from Frank.
“Uh, hi, I guess.” Frank stuck his hand out and the blur laughed. “Oh sorry,” said Frank, “it’s just that I’m used to-“
“Other reflections?” The blur asked.
“Well, people.” Frank said."
“Yeah, you guys call yourselves ‘people.’ But, to us, you’re just reflections. You are the expression of my mind.” The blur reached for Frank’s jeans, laying on the bath tub and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
“Uh, but I have a mind,” Frank said as he rubbed the back of his head.
“Yeah, you do and it sure does take a beating. All the bright light and falling down that reflections do. It’s a wonder you and I are still linked at all.” The blur sparked up a cigarette and threw the pack at Frank. “I’m Knarf, by the way.”
“Knarf?” Frank asked. “Like that noise Pinky used to make on Pinky and the Brain?”
“Not sure what that is,” Knarf said as he exhaled. “We don’t do television in the real world. We created television for reflections. It’s an easy way to help us process ideas without having you reflections act on them. We just stick you guys in front of the TV. Before TV…” Knarf took a long drag and laughed. “Well, it was difficult to stop you guys acting on every single thought we have!”
“But, I act on my own thoughts.” Frank stammered. “And, right now, my thoughts say ‘Have a smoke!’”
Knarf laughed. “You want a smoke because I’m smoking one. We’re connected, but that whack you took must added a bit of delay to our transmissions. But, go ahead, it’s not like we can get cancer twice!”
| 13 | A man suddenly gains the ability to talk to his shadow. As they converse, it becomes apparent the shadow is real and the man is what the shadow casts. | 32 |
EDIT: Some swearing below.
He slouches. He stokes the fire. He searches the coals with eyes of flint, scrying deep. Like a witch gawking into a crystal ball. He looks for flaws. He seeks imperfections. *Tells*, he calls them. *Tells and bugs*.
Unfirth watches the man watching the fire. He dips his chin. Feels the weight of his club. He throws back an earthenware cupful of mead. It pleases his tongue. He exhales from his stomach, through his nostrils. The tavern is full of a dark, dim din of clattering, chattering idiots. But this one fellow by the fireplace -- this skinny, mellow fool -- he catches Unfirth's eye. Something sparks in the ogre an, an itch or an urge. He *hates* this fireside watcher. Wants to take his guts out his middle, and patter over the rest of him with the hard side of the club that nestles his left thigh. Smooth everything out into a fine paste on the floor.
Unfirth eases from his seat. His drinking pals take notice after a drunken delay. One slurs, "Uh oh."
The rest hiccup with laughter.
Unfirth towers before the fire and its watcher. He taps the head of his club on the stilted floorboards. Granules of dried blood meet the grain of planed oak.
"You," he says, pointing one fat index finger.
The man stares into the fire, deeper. Transfixed.
"I don't like you," bellows Unfirth. Spittle lands in a spread beneath his gaping maw. He cocks eye, sinks his shoulders. "You hear me, little fool?"
The fire-watcher leans back in his chair.
Unfirth raises his club. The tears in his leather vest reveal the taughtness of his muscles.
Finally, the accosted man stands. He is short and bald and pale. He wears a strange, low-cut fabric from another land. He speaks a tongue both strange and familiar. "Who are you?"
The warrior roars with laughter. "I am Unfirth. Son of Hectar. Weilder of Samirar, slayer of the beast Ummayad. And who, pray tell, little thing, are you?"
The man by the fire merely smiles a thin smile. "I knew you would say that. I am the programmer," he announced. "I created you."
Unfirth gives another volley of laughter, this time so severe it seems his diaphragm might burst out his chest.
The man by the fire speaks again. "Soldiers, bounty hunters, merchants, kings, demons and gods. It doesn't matter what you are, you're all just chess pieces to me. I made you. Me and the other artists and coders and writers. And guess what? It's my night off. And here I am. I don't want to go home and hug my wife. Because I've been working 60 hours a week minimum -- and we had a fight. And I'm sick of this shit. I'm sick of this fucking game. And you know what I want to do? You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to take that club from you. That's what I'm going to do first."
Unfirth grins. He shows his yellow teeth like they were somehow trophies. He pulls one elbow back, readying a strike.
"And I'm going to bash your fucking brains in," says the fire-watcher. "That's what I'm going to do."
| 15 | "soldiers, bounty hunters, merchants, kings, demons and gods. It doesn't matter what you are, you're all just chess pieces". | 30 |
There was a knock at the door followed by a patient pause.
“Enter”, her face brightened up a little when she saw who it was. “Hello Ba’al, please, take a seat”, The Devil was as svelte as ever, dressed immaculately - black-on-red leather, black lipstick on her lips, framed by her flushed, red face. Probably just got back from a lava bath with the new souls.
“We’ve got an interesting opportunity sent down from the man upstairs. He wants to do a little swap. A little tit for tat, and I know you’re all about the tits. I’m sending you up there for a visit – see how things have changed”.
Ba’al hadn’t been to heaven since The Fall all those millennia ago. He was nervous as well as a little happy at the prospect. Being an OD (original demon) meant that he remembered his time as an angel, and therefore heaven in all its glory, but there were few to share any reminiscing moments with between his acts of torture in service to The Devil, or Lucy as she preferred to be called. Sometimes he saw Kkkzzacht when they were rota’d on the same shift. Usually it was when Hitler received his week-long anal-pineapple insertion torture. Those were good times.
“Thanks boss, but what’s the reason? As fallen angels I thought we were never allowed to return to heaven, for any reason.”
“Well, those are His rules to make and His rules to break I suppose, but you know how I like to condone rule making and rule breaking.” The coy look in her eyes, and the smirk on her lips made Ba’al uncomfortably shift his weight from hoof to hoof. “Anyway, I want you to do a little sabotaging for me – for the team. It’s going to only be for a week, so I need an inventory – numbers, ages, colours, that sort of thing. We may need to rebrand Evil. Think of this as a marketing strategy. There’s a job in HR if you do well!”
Even demons despise HR and all those who work in it but Ba’all knew that refusing Lucy would mean she would have at his rear with the hot poker again.
“Sure thing boss, when do I go?”
“Just waiting for the confirmation from the big man on who he’s sending down. I’ll let you know. Oh, by the way, you’re on genital mutilation from three”.
************
The office bell rang out a harmonious, charming sound.
“Come forth!” said a voice so deep and booming it rattled peoples insides.
An angel entered meekly. It wasn’t every day you’re summoned before The Lord Creator. If he had an arsehole he would probably have crapped his pants out of apprehension. God was floating above his desk as if in a hammock, dressed in a golden robe that cut off rather too high up the knee whilst, what appeared like cloud-hands, caressed his shoulders and inner thighs.
“Angel Paul, you are going to hell.”
“B-b-buh?” If Paul had an arsehole, it would definitely be working with optimal efficiency right now.
“Yes. Quite right. I need you down there immediately to keep an eye on that jezebel. We’re getting no new entrants up here! Haven’t had any for years! This place is a me-awful wreck. We have everything anyone, any*thing*, could ever want and there’s no one here to use it! It won’t do - can’t do. Find out what’s so alluring about that harlot’s little furnace down there and report back to me. You have one week, that’s all, so don’t worry – it’s not like you’re staying there. Oh, I didn’t mention that did I? Chill out Paul, take a breath.” God reflected that for creating all of everything he wasn’t much of a people person. *’Probably should have lead with that’*.
Paul didn’t really know what to do with himself. He was being taken off his cushy harp duty to go down to Lucy’s domain to find out what ‘evil’ really was. His wings limped in defeat.
“Of course sir, when do I leave?”
“As soon as this Ba’al fella gets here – haven’t seen him in a good long while. Glad Lucy sent him, he’s an OD you know! Older than you by quite a bit! Now, off you pop, and whatever you do, DO NOT accept any of *her* offers. She’s almost as me-like as me in her realm, and she’s a stone-cold fox, so beware”.
The angel had absolutely no idea who Ba’al was, or what an OD was for that matter, but God seemed rather pleased for having a fallen-angel back in his camp. He had no idea how to deal with The Devil, or Lucy, as she was mentioned. As an angel who had access to everything he wasn’t really sure what she could offer him to gain his trust.
Before Paul got to the door God shouted out “wait a second Paul, here you go”, tossing a bottle of factor Googolplex sun cream at him, “you’ll need that. Apply it thick!” | 34 | Heaven and Hell have a worker exchange week | 45 |
Every day in Intro to Philosophy the bell, which was more of a beep really, went off at the precise time the second hand tolled 1:00 p.m. and Mr. Hunter wouldn't be in yet, still taking a few seconds to talk to the other football coaches over his lunch break.
This morning, when the students walked in, he was already leaning on his desk next to a stack of exams and a cup of clear water.
*Beeeeeeeep.* 1:00 p.m.
"I hope everyone's ready," Mr. Hunter said, handing an exam to each student one-by one and upside-down, "it's May, and as I wrote on the syllabus this exam will count for 50% of your final grade. That means even if you missed attendance you can still redeem yourself *today.* Yes, even you, Mr. Nicks."
"Yeah!" Pasty-faced and huge, Barry Nicks threw his hands into the air.
Mr. Hunter finished handing them out. "Don't flip the sheet over and begin until I leave the room."
Dorrie raised her hand. "You promised us a surprise twist, Mr. Hunter? Last Friday, I have it here in my notes."
He smiled. "I did. On my desk is a glass of iocanium dissolved in water. It's a highly toxic poison--odorless, flavorless, and utterly undetectable. You students can choose to ignore it." There were a few nervous giggles. "Or, you can choose to drink it. Or you can choose to force it down the gullet of one of your classmates."
Barry smiled. "Why would we do that?"
"Because," Mr. Hunter said, "if one of you dies, I will pass the rest of you."
Mr. Hunter left and closed the door without another word.
Dorrie went to work immediately, filling out the answers as quickly as one could hope. Most of the students sat their a while before turning over their tests. Kevin muttered "he serious?" to Janie before turning his own over.
Barry stared at the glass.
"What the fuck?" he finally said out loud. "Is he serious?"
Dorrie gave him the evil eye. "Just finish your test. He wants us to think about the philosophical ramifications of the ends justifying the means."
Barry ignored her, standing up, walking to the desk. "But I mean--if he's serious? We all pass?"
Kevin spoke up. "He's clearly not serious. We're not going to *murder* someone to get a good grade."
"Talk all you like, Kevin." Barry picked up the glass. "You don't need any extra credit."
"There's no poison," Dorrie said. "It's a ruse. Odorless? Flavorless? Sure, Mr. Hunter, just like water. Just sit down. You're making too much noise and some of us want to get into college."
Barry's voice deepened. "Someone want to drink it? Find out?"
By now no one was working on their test; they were all watching Barry. Dorrie tried to ignore him, but finally she slammed her pen down to her desk. "Fine. I'll drink it if you'll just be quiet so we can do our test."
She stood up, walked to Barry. He handed it over with nary a word. Dorrie held it up to her nose, smelling for something out of the ordinary. There was nothing. Finally she raised it to her lips, prepared to take a swig, and--
--she couldn't. She put it back on the desk.
"Go on," Barry said. "Drink it."
"I'm not going to drink it. You drink it."
"You're not the one who needs someone else to die so they can pass this class," Barry said. "I have a scholarship to Ohio State. I need this passing grade. You're going to Braniac University no matter what you do on this test."
Dorrie ignored him, walking back to her desk. "Why don't we just leave it alone and pass the test on our own hard work?"
Kevin spoke up. "*Your* hard work, Dorrie. I didn't study."
"I didn't," Barry said.
Janie shrugged. "I tried. Last night. I have a bunch of notes in my phone but I'm afraid Mr. Hunter will come back in."
"It's simple," Barry said. "We're all gonna fail except for Dorrie unless someone drinks this. Dorrie, drink it."
"It's not poisoned," Dorrie said. "It's a lie. It's a moral test."'
"Then why aren't you drinking it?"
"*You* drink it."
Barry laughed. "I'm the one who needs help to pass."
"Yeah? Well maybe I shouldn't be punished for studying. You can do us all a favor and drink it."
Barry looked at the glass. For a moment he may have even considered it. Then he sit it down.
"No," he said finally, his voice deepening. "Dorrie's gonna drink it."
Kevin stood up. "You should really drink it, Dorrie."
"Yeah," someone else said.
"Come on," Janie said. "If you're so confident it's not poison, drink it. If it's poison, you die and we all pass. You don't need any help."
"No," Dorrie said, but her voice shook.
Barry looked at Kevin. "Come on."
The two big men, stars of the football team, went over to Dorrie, holding her arms down. Janie got up and took the poisoned glass from the desk. Dorrie started shaking, screaming, but more of the students came upon her, and soon she was on the ground, convulsing, trying to kick out of their grip.
"Hold her mouth open!" Barry shouted.
"No! No!" Dorrie shook her head around. But Gunther, quiet little Gunther who always sat in the corner, held her head down and risked his fingers around her jaw. Kevin poured the water into her mouth, and she gagged and some of it squirted up, but some went down.
Then it went quiet.
Nothing happened.
"Is it working?" Barry asked no one in particular.
Dorrie sat up. "I told you it was just water. It was a moral test and you all failed."
"You looked pretty scared for a second."
"I was being held down by half the class. I'm going to report all of you."
"No, don't," Barry said. "I can't have another write-up. It's my third strike."
"Then sit down and do your damn test," Dorrie said.
It was quiet when Mr. Hunter returned, five minutes before the end of the period. Dorrie had already turned her test in. She used her phone to look up WebMD, but she had no symptoms to enter.
"The glass is empty," Mr. Hunter noted, his eyes wide.
"Yeah, I guess we failed your little test," Barry said with an eye roll.
Mr. Hunter held the glass up. "Who drank this?!"
"Whoa, ease up, Mr. H," Kevin said.
"I told you this had *poison* in it. Who drank this?"
Dorrie held her hand up weakly.
"Okay," Mr. Hunter said. He checked his watch.
Dorrie collapsed to the floor.
Mr. Hunter smiled. "Congratulations. You all pass." | 11 | If someone dies during an exam then everyone else passes. Someone considers acting on this information. | 18 |
"US Powerball winning numbers for March 4: 9,14,35,37,41,46"
@predictions had posted its first non-disaster related tweet. It has posted a yearly status on February 28th of every year since 2016, and as of February 29th 2028 it averted mass casualties on 10 natural disasters.
"Earthquake, Istanbul, 8.6, July 8."
That was the first one. A brand new twitter account with a single tweet that everybody started noticing after the earthquake, which killed an estimate of 25 million people.
"Meteorite, Caracas, center, December 16."
The next year sparked political and religious debate all over Venezuela. When the meteorite hit, only 600,000 were saved.
"Tornado, Cat EF5, Denver, August 23"
The tweet came while were were still finding carbonized corpses from the Venezuelan disaster. The government asked for patience while they assessed the situation. Everyone who had family outside of Denver left within a month and by the time the tornado hit, the city was almost bankrupt. Although this time "only" 10,000 people died.
Then came the real disaster. Religious leaders all over the world debated whether it was God's twitter account or the Devil's. Twitter claimed that each tweet originated from different devices on different parts of the world, Travel records were reviewed but no one found the identity of the owner. Theories of time travel, parallel universes, seers and whatever any pseudo respected person on any subject were formulated. Never proven. Year after year the tweet broke records of most retweets ever and countless lives were saved, even if no one understood the mechanism.
The Powerball numbers took everybody by surprise. Within 3 hours, a total of 10 million tickets with those numbers were bought. By the next day, 56 million people had a winning ticket in hand. The lottery declared that ticket sales would be suspended and the grand prize frozen for two weeks, but quickly had to rectify their position after protests against the corporation spiked. They then claimed that they would remove one of the winning numbers from the ballot, but a Senator accused them of mass collecting money knowing they would not win, so they were forced to settle for a standard draw.
On Thursday evening the Lottery revealed that, if the numbers were right, the total prize per person at that moment would amount to $1.03. If they weren't, nobody would win. No other combination was bought. So any lottery winner would eventually lose about 3 dollars + taxes. This sparked nationwide protests, and international ones (why didn't the account send numbers for other countries?)And on Friday night the riots began. Angry mobs raided the lottery, banks, the IRS, looking for their "Honest Winnings", the government was forced to send the National Guard to control the mobs, at which point militias were formed to fight the army. The Powerball incident sparked issues with all that was wrong with the economic model of the US. Russia Quickly reacted when they saw the US weak, declaring war on the Imperialist government and finishing the firs government, effectively starting the first revolution.
By the time of the draw the country was in a state of civil war. No draw was ever held, but the very structure of society started to crumble. Within the next 9 months the US had gone through 14 governments, 35 million people were dead, the US had declared war to 37 countries, costing a total of 41 billion dollars, all derived from 46 hours of riots over a lottery prize. The disaster was complete. And we have less than 3 months to rebuild before the next tweet.
| 91 | A twitter account accurately and inexplicably predicts natural disasters for years. Today, it makes a prediction of a completely different kind. | 60 |
“No way Sir, with all due respect I’m just a contest winner.” Tommy said in disbelief. God put his arm around Tommy’s shoulder and began to speak: “Come on! It’s only for a while and you can’t really mess up! Anyways I’ve been answering your silly questions about the meaning of life, love, and all that other junk; you owe me.” God was a likeable fellow but there was no way Tommy was getting sucked into this one. “Dude, I’ve seen Bruce Almighty, I know the way this goes.” He stated. God rolled his eyes, “Do I look like Morgan Freeman? Do I sound like Morgan Freeman? Come on Tom! Think with your brain! Remember Christmas ’94; the year all you wanted was a puppy but dad said no and then out of nowhere one sparkling yellow lab moseys on up to your doorstep Christmas Eve and it was a ‘miracle’” God gestured towards himself as if Tommy didn’t already know. Tommy shook his head: the poor guy was trying so hard and just wanted a vacation but Tommy knew this job wasn’t for him.
God grew impatient: “You call me up every night Tommy. Every single night and I always listen. This isn’t some freak opportunity: I chose you!” Tommy didn’t even know where to start: “I won a contest!” he yelled. He couldn’t understand why God was still smiling. “Tommy, I can bring life and death with the snap of my fingers and you think that I can’t rig a contest? I knew the results of the contest before your mom knew the results of the pregnancy test.” Tommy didn’t know whether to feel infuriated or honored: God could have chosen Mother Teresa or Gandhi but he chose Tommy Minnesota from New Windsor, New York.
Tommy’s moral compass was spinning out of control. God seemed so desperate that Tommy yearned with every fiber of his being to help him but at the same time his mind ached at the thought of having control over who was alive and who was dead. With this power he could help his cousin, Marcy who was in the hospital with cancer, he could grant acceptance to Mount Saint Mary to his nephew who studied every night to no avail, he could even help out his jerk neighbor who had lost his dog recently. He could apologize to his parents; something he wished that he had done five years ago before it was too late.
His eyes stung but once again he rejected the offer. “Please, can I go home?” Tommy asked sadly. God looked to the stairs silently. As Tommy descended the stairs, he felt a sudden wave of pride. He had just stood up in the face of the most powerful being that ever existed. As God watched his creation exit, he felt like a proud father. He snapped his fingers and with that small gesture a bunch of cancer cells vanished, an acceptance letter was sent, and a dog returned home.
Little did Tommy know that a fruit basket had just been delivered to his home and in this basket was a divine apple marked specifically for Tommy with a “Love, God” tag. Although he had served since the beginning of time, he knew a test of character would be needed before a promotion and he had a strong feeling that Tommy would pass with flying colors. Tommy was going to be the perfect replacement.
| 20 | "Take my place." | 27 |
"Goddamn, LT! This shit is OLD!"
Special Forces soldier Sergeant Lopez looked around the first room of the old missile bunker, and commented on it's age to his commanding officer. It was musty, cold, and full of the smell of.. death. The five of them- Lopez, Nijima, Smith, Jones, and of course, Lieutenant Halstead, were in full MOPP-4 gear, their anti-biochem, anti-radiation suits. And they had weapons for this "milk-run recon mission."
Sgt. Lopez didn't trust the desk jockies- never had, never would- and when the orders'd come in, he had a chill at the base of his neck. It came from being a point man. You just had that danger sense, the knowledge deep inside the lizard part of your brain that some **bad** shit was about to go down. That was exactly what he was getting right now- this place didn't smell right, look right, or sound right.
However, the Lieutenant insisted they push on, deeper into the bunker. Those were the orders- take a look around. Take pictures. Get every inch of the bunker, just to make sure none of the old ordinance went off suddenly. But this wasn't even a goddamn ordinance bunker! Lopez and Nijima had looked the shit up on Google, for godssakes. It was just a survival bunker, one of those hardened ones, for a high ranking government member.
So why were they here?
They all proceeded down the stairs- pitch black shadows, cut into deeply by the bright lights on the front of the guns- and then Lopez held up his hand. The sign to stop. He'd heard something.
He whispered very quietly, and at that moment, everyone knew, this was no simple recon mission. Lopez only whispered on combat ops.
"There's something down there, at the bottom. Do you see?" he said, pointing his finger at a silhouette that blended so easily into the shadows. Was it even there? They'd have to get closer to know.
"Lopez, just keep moving," Halstead whispered back, "we've got you covered. No squatters in here we can't handle."
He looked conflicted for a moment, and then the squad kept moving. The smell of flesh, of death, got stronger as they got closer to the bottom of the stairwell, and their lights seemed to cut less deeply into the darkness. It was as if the darkness was eating the light, absorbing it, keeping it for itself- a snack for later.
Lopez looked back to Halstead as they got to the bottom- nobody was there. Three doors stood in front of them; one in the front, and one to each side. The Lieutenant grimaced, and then nodded to the front door. Lopez took his breach and clear position in the front and then pushed the door open-
And then the lights on the guns went out. One by one, each about a half second after the other, they all flickered once and went out. The darkness was smothering. A rush of air passed all of them. Then a scream. The sounds of pounding footsteps- a flash in the dark- and then the bunker's lights came on, the ancient generator rumbling in the distance. There was only one thing left to hear it.
The shadowy figure seemed to smile for a moment, though you wouldn't know it, and then all the bunker's lights went off- they started at the entrance, and with massive clicks, they enveloped the entire thing back into darkness.
*Click.*
*Click.*
*Click.* | 11 | A US Military Officer is sent to inspect an abandoned Cold War bunker. Everything goes horribly wrong. | 19 |
I fell over in pain and gripped my stomach. The bullets had cut through me so easily. I could hear the German man coughing on the other side of the low stone wall. I looked around and realized my allies had deserted me, continuing to push onward. They'd missed the lonely German who coughed and shouted what I figured were obscenities.
"Fuck, shit!"
English, "You know English?" I asked curiously. I wasn't expecting to have much of a conversation.. I could feel myself slipping away.
"I.. yes.. I do, I used to live in America, when I was a boy." He coughed heavily and I smiled slightly, thinking about my own childhood.
"Really? I can hear the American accent, you don't sound like a German." I asked as a pushed myself higher up against the wall, trying desperately to sit up.
"Yes.. I was taught well, spoke English all my life."
"So why'd you come back to Germany?"
"My father wanted to help his homeland.. I was drafted."
I felt myself fading away as I clenched tight on the bullet wound in my stomach, my voice ached to speak and I could feel my tan shirt growing wet with my own blood.
"How bad are you hurt?" I asked weakly.. barely getting out the last word.
"Pretty bad.. I managed to slow the bleeding, but I don't think I will last much longer than a day, it will be a slow death if the medics don't find me."
"I don't think I'll make it through the hour.." I shook as I spoke, a realization as the gunfire grew distant that they wouldn't be walking back here for a long time. It was only me and the German.
"Just stay with me.. slow the bleeding.. calm down.. I can hear you getting excited, that won't help anything. Would you like to hear a story?"
I listened to his slow deliberate response and already was beginning to feel slightly better, at least I wouldn't be alone, "I would like to hear a story, if you could."
"I can, it is one of my fondest memories of America. I got there when I was only a little boy, maybe 8 years old, all I did was draw pictures and sit in the backyard. Well this other little kid was on the other side of the wall kicking the ball. I don't know how he managed but he kicked the ball over this 10 foot high brick wall and it landed right next to me. I heard him say something in English, which I was still trying to get a grasp on, but I assumed he wanted his ball back. So I threw it back to him, again I didn't even attempt to communicate. Well he kicks it back over the wall. Eventually, I'm kicking the ball back and forth over the wall with this kid. Well, next thing I know, I kick the ball too hard and I hear glass shattering. Then I hear the kids mother come out, screaming at the top of her lungs at the kid and he's just laughing and shouting back, probably trying to blame me and I froze, not sure what to do, so I ran up into my house, second floor window and looked down at the most stereotypical mother looking figure I've ever seen. Hair net, big arms, wooden dough roller in hand, swinging it around as the kid is dodging the mother. He's pointing at the wall and blaming me. The mother eventually shows up at our house with these obnoxious pink slippers and I think my Dad ended up paying for that window, but we moved out shortly after and I never even got to meet the kid who I kicked the ball around with. I don't know why but it's my favorite memory, one of my first too." I could tell he was smiling on the other side of the wall, he let out a low *ahh* sound as he finished his story.
"So you're the jackass that broke my window." I chuckled lightly, but I was telling the truth.
"You're kidding me."
"Nope, I have the exact same story, except I was trying to hide my little brother's ball from him by throwing it over the fence. I got into a fight with hi-.." I coughed violently, and looked down to the blood on my hand, "I.. kept throwing it back because I didn't want it anymore.. but.. that was me, pleasure to meet you, what's your name?"
"Hans."
"I'm Chris.. I'm gonna go to sleep now."
"I'm glad I got to meet you Chris, sorry it was like this."
"It ain't your fault, ain't no one's fault. I wish.. I.." I felt myself trailing off, falling into a void. I smiled at the odds, to meet someone in war that I had met as a boy and now, to die next to him on opposite sides.
***
Sorry this is really weak, something popped up mid-writing so I had to rush it. | 25 | Two soldiers in a chaotic battle are bleeding out next to each other. To ease the pain and grief, they share their funniest memories before dying. | 25 |
"What do you *mean* we don't technically exist?" the newly elected President exclaimed, practically rising from his chair.
The Secretary of Defense leaned in, grabbing President Nelson by the cuff of his jacket.
"Please remain calm, sir," he replied dryly, barely lifting his head from the black file sprawled on the table.
"H-how can that be? The revolution? The War of 1812? I thought we won..." Swallowing deep, the President slouched back into his chair. He rested his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. The SecDef glared up from the file and continued.
"Those were staged operations. Two of the most successful large-scale clandestine operations in military history. The founding fathers were in fact compensated operatives under His Majesty's employ."
President Nelson couldn't help but laugh. He raised his head from his hands and clasped them below his chin. He tried replaying all of American history through this new lens.
"What about all the wars? All the politics of the past two hundred fifty years? T-The culture, the movements? What was all that?"
The Secretary reclined in his chair, almost unable to hide his boredom. "All these things are still uniquely American. With that being said," he added, tapping the desk with his index finger, "the United States is still a protectorate and part of the United Kingdom, so 'uniquely American' is somewhat of an overstatement. We do what we're told by Her Majesty, and are rewarded with a certain level of autonomy."
The President stood and faced the portrait hung at the far end of the table. The stern, stoic face of George Washington stared back. The eyes seemed to have a newfound emptiness.
"Am I still the President?"
The SecDef grunted and flipped the file closed, removing his glasses from his suit pocket and sliding them over his nose.
"That all depends," he said, pulling a King James Bible from his briefcase and plopping it next to the black file.
"Are you ready for your second Oath?"
------
Edited for grammar. | 177 | You have just been elected President of the United States. You're at your introductory security meeting. You learn that aliens never crashed at Roswell and Lee Harvey Oswald really did shoot JFK (etc), but you learn something astonishing that shocks you to your very core. What is it? | 99 |
"How may your humble servant make amends for her grave offense, whatever it may be?"
Lu Yi tried her best to kneel. The chains that bound her to the wall were making it hard to properly debase herself before the cousin of the Empress.
Song Sheng, the Minister of War, stood ill at ease under the light of sputtering torches. He had taken to pressing a sachet of sweet scented herbs directly to his cheek in a futile effort to ward off the dungeon's many foul odors.
"You are a Captain of the First Rank, a member of the Eight Thousand Worthies. Is this correct?"
Lu made a gesture towards kneeling again. "Your humble servant is undeserving of such honors."
"Clearly," the Minister scolded. "Keep your answers precise, Captain. I have little time to waste. Now, the Worthies place duty above even their own lives, for they have already pledged their lives to the Empress. Is this correct?"
"Yes, your lordship."
"And is the honor of the Worthies above reproach?"
"It is, your lordship."
"So tell me, Captain of the First Rank and Worthy servant of the Phoenix Throne, why did you profane the presence of our August Empress by bringing the head of Xu Wei Er in a box?"
It took all of Lu Yi's effort to not spit at the man. She had heard that dismissive tone of voice before. Not often, for she was not a regular attendant at court, but enough times to know that it invariably lead to some official suddenly finding themselves in fatally career ending disfavor. Such were the ways of the court, of course, and she would not bother with useless pleas for a quick death. Thought it upset her greatly that after years of loyal service, she could still be thrown into a cell and consigned to a torturous death for doing exactly as she was bidden.
Well then, she thought, the least I can do now is die with a measure of dignity.
So she told Minister Song the tale of her journey to Mount Tai, complete and unvarnished. She spoke plainly on the impossibility of her court assigned task to challenge the southern rabble rouser Xu Wei Er to a fair and honorable duel in the heart of his own accursed mountain stronghold. She spoke not with false humility, but actual pride, at recruiting sympathetic locals to her cause, at using stratagems of fire and smoke to send the rebels into a panic, and at cutting down the belligerent southern chieftain in his own tent while surrounded by his top generals. She cursed the ignorance and callousness of the court's silk bedecked fools, not with words of unmeasured rage, but with honest appraisals gathered through years of observation. She only stopped short of disparaging the Empress, for that would be blasphemy, and it would not do to insult the Will of Heaven when Lu herself was so close to death.
Something suddenly struck Lu between the eyes. She jerked her head back and looked about in confusion. A tiny bag of spilled herbs had inexplicably emerged between her feet.
"You fool!" cursed Song, at once angry and disappointed that he had nothing else at hand to throw. "As much as I would enjoy sentencing you to receive the thousand cuts you so richly deserve, I cannot. Truly, the Gods have a cruel sense of humor."
The Minister smoothed the creases of his robe and spoke with rote solemnity. "Lu Yi, First Rank Captain of the Peacock Gate, Worthy servant of our August Empress, your are hereby promoted to General of the South. You are to assume command of all forces arrayed against the southern barbarians, and are to put down the Liao rebellions with the utmost haste. May you serve our Empress, whose reign shall last ten thousand years, with honor and distinction."
Lu Yi slumped slack jawed against the wall.
"I do not understand."
"Of course not," said Song. "Unlike you, the Liao are a virtuous people. Sometimes their barbarous ways may lead them astray, such as when the father of Xu Wei Er declared himself emperor of his own dynasty and ceased to send us tribute. But the son, the man you slaughtered like a dog, knew he had inherited a war he could not possibly win. For the last six months, he has personally sent secret memorials to the throne begging for an honorable end to the conflict. Our mistake was to believe that a deceitful miscreant such as you could deliver it."
"You did not choose me to kill him," said Lu. A sharp pain was gathering at her temples.
"No," the Minister replied. "We chose *him* to fight one of our best. Face to face, as warriors should. Win or lose, honor would be done to both sides, and all of us would have considered the matter settled under Heaven. The slain would be received in ritual into the royal tombs, and either the chieftain or his heir was to be granted appropriate rank and riches by the throne. The war would have been *over*."
"Instead," he continued, "news of your so-called heroic deeds have spread far and wide. Now we have a traitor we cannot kill, who has started a war we cannot end."
The Minister crouched down to stare Lu in the eyes. His face was filled with such rage that she wondered if he would strangle her then and there with his own hands. She would have preferred that he did.
"If death comes for you on the battlefield, General, try to embrace it with a measure of dignity." | 16 | "You are NOT the one we chose. You KILLED the chosen one." | 28 |
I light the end of my cigarette to celebrate my new accomplishment. My wife knocks on the door. “Are you smoking in the house?” She asks.
“I’m celebrating.” I swivel around in my chair to face her. "You know how NASA has been on my ass about designing a space shuttle that can carry four men to Mars? Well I just finished the blueprints!”
She walks over to my desk and glances over my shoulder. “That’s wonderful," she says. "But I thought you gave up on that. Every time you got frustrated with those designs, you would drink yourself silly and waddle around the house shouting ‘if man was supposed to live on Mars, then God would have put us there!” She laughed.
I smiled and took a drag from my cigarette. “Imagine where the world will be in a few years. The birth rate is higher than the death rate. Eventually, Earth will be overpopulated. If you ask me, it is rather brilliant to live life off the planet. With us, we will bring our knowledge. We’ll continue to build monuments, grow food, explore the universe...”
My wife struts around my chair and studies the blueprints. She picks one up and holds it close to her face. “There’s no doubt that we will also be bringing with us pollution, war, and disease," she says. "Who’s to say we won’t destroy Mars too?”
I drop my cigarette in the ash tray and stand up to stretch my arms to the ceiling. “We haven’t destroyed Earth. It’s just getting too...cramped.”
She shuffles through the blueprints, inspecting each one closely. “And what will happen when Mars gets too...cramped? Are we just going to hop from planet to planet until everywhere is too overpopulated to live?”
I laugh and walk out of my office. “Sweetie, that’s somebody else’s problem.” I enter the kitchen and grab a beer from the fridge. I take a long chug when I hear the sound of liquid being poured in my office. I laugh again. “Pouring yourself a drink too?” I walk back to my office to see my wife dumping my brandy all over my desk.
“Maybe I wasn’t making myself clear,” she says. Before I can speak, she drops my still lit cigarette on the blueprints . The whole desk lights up in a blaze.
“Julie, what the hell are you doing?!” I scream at her. I try to step forward but before I do, Julie raises the revolver that I keep in my top drawer and fires. The gun doesn’t make a sound, but I feel the cold bullet push through my gut. I slowly raise my hands to my stomach. The shock brings me to my knees. I open my mouth to talk but no words come out, only blood.
Julie lowers her arm and turns to watch the blueprints burn. “I will not allow you to bring your selfish ways to other planets. You will not be destroying them with your war and pollution and sickness.”
I fall over on my side. I can feel the carpet beneath me begin to soak. My life slowly drains out of me and into a puddle. I don’t have the strength to look at her. I can only see my designs burn to ash.
Julie slowly walks over to me. She places her hand on my cheek. “Im not asking you to understand. After all...” She leans in and whispers the last words I will ever hear:
“You’re only human.”
| 19 | Advanced alien life exists, but Humanity has never found any. This is intentional. | 15 |
Paul pulled himself from sleep he didn't remember starting. As he blinked the sleep from his eyes he took in his surroundings. Since he'd left home he was used to waking up in areas he didn't recognize, and today was no exception. As he sat up, his backs audible groan stood testament to the fact he slept on pure foundation. He shivered from the cool touch of asphalt on his bare skin, and found his tattered, stained shirt slipping it over his head. He finally rose, taking himself in the mirror. His hair had grown long and matted as a rat's nest in his time on the move, you could hardly even tell it was blonde at this point. His once luminous eyes were sunk, a dull reminder of the ice blue they had been. His bones seemed to protrude at odd angles, he was slipping further and further into his addiction. As if on cue, a draw from deep within that spoke of ravenous hunger began to poke at him. Time for a fix.
Sally was in a hurry, she hated being late, hell she hated to be on time. She epitomized the idea of being early is being on time. Like a well oiled machine, Sally was always reliable. Leaving her posturepedic mattress had proved especially difficult this morning, and her snooze button finally saw some attention. She looked at her made bed now, longing for it's soft support. She turned back to the task at hand, deftly pulling her hair into a tight bun. She shut the bathroom door, and took herself in the full length mirror that adorned it's opposite side. She was dressed sharply in a neat two piece suit. Ever the professional, pants were her only option for bottoms. Her mascara truly stood in stark contrast to the soft sky blue that was her eye color. Her once blonde hair had grown dark with age eventually turning brown, and nearing fifty she assumed it would start graying eventually. With a sigh, Sally realized she was truly sad. She had been a career woman her entire life, and slowly she was starting to regret it. She was truly and terribly alone. They say it's never too late, but at the time they could not be more wrong. With a start, Sally saw the time. Time for work.
Her heels clicked on tile as she walked out of the lobby of her building. Sally had to admit to herself, that audible *click click click* like an over side clock spoke to her of power. Dressing like this, heading to her towering office building, leaving her high rise apartment, Sally felt *important* and like it that way. It was easy to see why she had pursued career advancement so diligently. She opened the door of her building, and emerged to a beautiful day. The sun and breeze caressed her face like the soft touch of a lover. She decided today, that maybe being late was worth it and took a slight detour through the park near her building. As she drew deeper into the shade she remembered why she didn't frequently pass through the park. The destitute were out in droves, grown adults ruining the beauty of this park by harassing the wealthy people who could afford to live in the area. Disgusting. She knew her best option was to keep her head high, avoid eye contact, and show no sign of relenting.
Paul was muddled, after using it was always hard to keep his thoughts straight. He remembered leaving wherever he had woken up, but how he had gotten to the park was still sorting itself out. He took in the passing men and women, looking for a mark. These people were rich, and many felt guilty. Spotting the guilty was the goal, like some perverted game of cat and mouse. Suits were good, meant money to spare and probably a sense of urgency. Nobody proper wanted to talk to people like Paul for like, he found they would pay quickly for silence. He lifted the Styrofoam cup in front of him, and heard the jingle of change like keys on a ring. That sound brought him back to the last time he had to use keys on a door. Back when he was still at home, living with his mom. Now he realized his mom would be the perfect mark. She even wore suits to work. The morbid irony began to set on him, but Paul drew on his high washing the thoughts from his forefront like high tide would a sand castle. Paul once again began to prospect. From far away he spotted an older woman, walking quickly. Her head was high, and she seemed to be avoiding eye contact, perfect. Paul stood as she drew near, and began to stumble his way to a collision. Holding his cup with his palm flat over its mouth, he stumbled right into the path of the woman as she drew too close to react.
Sally should have been looking more forward instead of at the treetops. She bowled into one of the hapless so hard the man fell over. She had no choice, she turned to offer her hand to him to help him up. As she looked at him, their eyes met. She could see the need in him. He was obviously addicted, but this wasn't the need she saw. This was hardly more than a boy, and you could tell he would cry out if he could. His were a shocking blue, and she could tell he was once handsome, but was now a shell of his former self. It was like a sucker punch to the gut realizing all this. Wanting to do something, she quickly opened her clasp and handed the young man the cash she had. Staring into the boys eyes she continued to hold out the bills when finally he croaked, "No thanks ma'am." Sally was left standing with her hand out, feeling more alone than ever. She couldn't even give to those in need.
Paul made his way from the park, stopping only to drop his gathered change into another mans hat. As he made his way out of the protection afforded by the tree canopy the warm embrace of sun and breeze caressed him like the soft touch of a mother. | 40 | Write about two completely different people and their lives right before they happen to meet and never see each other again, an event which changes their lives forever. Keep the reason for why their meeting might change their lives completely implied. | 64 |
My Dearest Abigail,
The war is over. We lost. The brass won't want to admit it, but this will go down as the most embarrassing defeat in our history.
Remember when the attacks against us first began? It was quite the genius strategy -- attack our farms, and we don't have food. Theoretically, one could kill an entire city without firing a single bullet. Everyone would simply starve to death.
Our commanders were wise to mobilize the Army quickly. But they severely underestimated the enemy. If we had a military division with their bullet-carrying capacity it would face any army in the world. They can face machine guns with the invulnerability of tanks.
They don't fight like men. These creatures don't bloody give up. Shoot it and it will sprint and make another pass.
But imagine... what if the men and women of whatever futuristic world our children inherit could *tame* these beasts? We would be unstoppable! No longer would men be slaughtered in trenches like they were twelve years ago -- we could just unleash these birds upon our enemy! The British Empire would be more powerful than ever!
But that day may never come to pass. For now, there is going to be hell to pay in Canberra. The politicians are going to wonder why we wasted so much time and resources on this.
Future generations will look back on this moment and laugh -- for Australia has lost the Great Emu War.
Yours,
G.P.W. Meredith
Campion, Western Australia -- 5 December 1932
*The [Emu War](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emu_War) was a real event in which Australian soldiers were dispatched to kill as many emus as possible. The emus has been overbreeding and running amok on farms.*
**Addendum:** A tip of the hat to whomever gave me Reddit Gold! | 135 | Mankind is fighting its first war against a non-human opponent. You are a soldier station on the front line and you are writing a letter to your sweetheart back home. | 91 |
"So," she whispered in a soft voice, "who were you?"
I tensed up. She felt it and eased off of me. Closing my eyes, I thought about what to say for a second.
"What does it matter who I was?" I gave a weak laugh, but she must have known it was fake. "I'm me. You're you. Past is past."
I felt her hand come up my chest again. "No, baby. They found out that we usually turn into our past selve's personality. Who were you?"
Would she stop asking me that?
"Truth is, I don't know."
I felt her sit up in bed. "You don't know?"
"No." I felt a surge of anger, but I held it down. I've been feeling those a lot lately.
"Check right now!" She sounded excited. "Just close your eyes an-"
"I know how to check," I interrupted her, but kept my voice low. "If it'll make you quiet down, I'll check."
I felt her lean harder on me. I closed my eyes and thought about that damn dot they showed us in school. Concentrate on the dot and think and it'll come. Yeah right, jack shit was coming to-
I felt names flash by in the darkness. I opened my eyes and looked at them. I didn't recognize most, but some were bigger than the others.
*Jack the Ripper*
*Ted Bundy*
I immediately closed my eyes and thought back to the present. I didn't feel the names anymore. I looked up. Nothing.
"Baby," came her voice. "Are you alright? Who were you? You're shaking."
"I'm not like them." I said.
"Like who?" She asked.
She always asked questions. It was her damn fault I knew who I was. Stupid bitch...
I got up and put my hands around her neck, clamping them tight and choking her as hard as I could. It felt good. Pure ecstasy, letting the anger out. I felt strong as her arms flailed weakly against mine. Like a fish flopping against a dog.
"I'm not like them..." I whisper as I felt her fading out of consciousness. I felt my cock pressing against her thigh, harder then it has ever been. I kept my hands around her neck as I repositioned myself to be in between her legs.
"I'm not like them..." | 40 | When you die, you are reincarnated with no memory of your past life. It is, however, possible to view the list of people you have been in past lives. You find out you were someone unspeakably horrible. | 19 |
Francisco crouched in the darkness, his pale body pressed against the wall and his sensitive ears on alert. A daytime hunt was a high risk. So much could go wrong, but it had to be done.
He heard the girl laughing long before a human would have and he stiffened. Black eyes glared in the darkness as if he could burn a hole through the basement door and out into the black heart of the creature outside. If Francisco still had living blood in his veins, it would be boiling.
A key turned in the lock, and the door opened. The little girl was babbling on, unaware of any danger. By her voice, Franscico guessed she would be about 4, but it had been so long since he’d held a child, he couldn’t be sure. The door closed, and a deadbolt slid into place.
“How about that ice cream?”
“Hooray!”
Heavy footsteps followed the happy girl toward the kitchen.
Francisco resisted the urge to burst through the door and sink his fangs into the monster’s neck. He didn’t want to scare the girl, and the windows let in too much of the bright summer sunlight. He had to wait.
While he listened, the vampire turned his gaze back down into the basement. Even in the darkness, he could see the shapes he didn’t want to see: a stack of stuffed animals, a row of dolls, a bed with chains, and a dozen locks of hair pinned along the wall like butterflies.
When he was alive, it would have made his skin crawl. Now, it just solidified his determination. Marcus had been write to send him this tip, even if it had a higher risk than the prey he usually hunted, evil men who roamed the streets at night. This was a special breed of evil. He couldn’t screw this up.
“You like it?”
“Mhmm.”
“Good, now I have some toys here too, even a doll that looks just like you. Want to see her?”
A slow smile crept its way across Francisco’s face as the footsteps landed before the basement door. The key went into the lock. The door knob turned.
Fransisco caught one look at the girl’s face as he yanked the man through the doorway and pulled the door shut behind them. Her wide eyes locked with his and the strawberry ice cream fell to the floor. He could hear her scream through the locked door as he threw the man down the stairs. Each thump of his body on the stair case satisfied an urge deep inside Fransisco.
The man started to rise, but the vampire grabbed him from the shirt on his back and tossed him onto the mattress as if he weighed nothing, like an adult throwing an innocent child. He pulled the leather cuffs over the man’s wrist and pulled them tight. The man’s head swiveled from his restraints to the creature above him.
“What? Who? How? What?” he stammered, straining against the forces. The metal headboard started to creak and bend under the effort. Francisco clicked his tongue and shook his head.
“We can’t have you doing that. That little girl upstairs is going to go home.”
“How? What?”
“Not a very good listener, are you? Well, it doesn’t matter now.”
Francisco bit down, and the thick, rich blood flowed into him, sating both his appetites. He worked fast and was dabbing a Kleenex over the corner of his mouth to catch the last drop of blood when he heard the sirens pull into the driveway.
“Oh, good. The girl called 9-1-1. Well, that will save me some time.”
He picked up his cell phone and hit re-dial.
“Hey, Marcus, tell me that’s you out in the driveway.”
“You got it, man. You ready?”
Fransisco looked over at the gray corpse, the empty eyes staring into the ceiling as if he still didn’t believe he was dead.
“My business is complete… Did you remember the extra body bag?”
“Of course. We can’t have you getting a tan now, can we?”
“That would be most unpleasant. Bring them in.”
Franscico slipped the phone into his pocket and slid into the closet.
The walls shook as the police crashed against the front door, knocking it from its hinges, and he heard them take the girl outside.
Francisco smiled. Some monsters didn’t deserve to live in this world.
---
-143
Response to [this prompt](http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/26921o/wp_a_dark_story_in_a_bright_setting/chow6iz) that's been bothering me since I wrote it. | 11 | A nice, good-hearted vampire who must kill to survive, so he targets and kills criminals. | 18 |
BIOSPHERE 1 || STATUS: CRASHED
The Sun. I think that's the worst thing about Earth. Feels like no matter how many layers of UV-proc I put on it still burns. How do people stand it? How can they handle not being able to look at half of the sky because of the Sun?
Bugs take second place. That buzzing noise is *awful*, especially when it's right in your ear. George stepped in a Hornet's nest a few days ago, and half the team had to be sent back to A-7. I have no idea why people here leave dangerous insects where anyone can step in them. Seems to be a disadvantage, really.
Christine's voice buzzed in my intercom.
"There should be a clearing up ahead. We can rest there, for a bit."
The idea of spending any more time outside was an unappealing one, but my legs were getting tired already. Fort Garlik was a few kilometers out, and I was seriously considering giving up.
"Are there any bugs in this clearing?"
"Well, yeah, there's bugs everywhere."
"Right."
Christine was a space kid, born and raised. We had gone to the same classes on the ship, but rarely talked. She had her group of friends, and I had...well, George. The few times we had talked, I would mutter something before falling silent, and she would eventually leave. Still, when you're trapped in the forest with your crush, you've got to say *something*.
"So Christine...what do you think of Earth?"
"I think I'd like it better if we weren't trapped down here."
"Oh yeah, that...that does kind of suck." Wow, where was I going with this again? An audible *click* noise indicated that she had turned off her intercom.
We arrived in the clearing a few minutes later. As expected, a loud buzzing sound could be heard from all directions.
"Guess you were right about the bugs."
"Yeah..."
She turned her intercom back on and started talking to...*someone*. I sat with my back to a tree, trying to look cool and indifferent. After a while, I realized Christine has stopped talking and was staring at me with a look of muffled revulsion.
"Uh, are you okay?" I asked. She pointed at my shoulder, and with a growing feeling of dread I turned my head. Some sort of giant fly was perched on my shoulder.
The rest of the journey was miserable. Me and Christine hardly talked, bugs kept landing on me for some inexplicable reason, and the Sun was a constant source of exhaustion and suffering. We eventually reached a ledge overlooking Fort Garlik. The Sun was setting in the distance, and a vivid array of red and orange light filled the sky.
"Wow," Christine said, "That's beautiful."
It really was. I had seen pictures, but to actually see it happen...I guess it sort of makes it real.
"Almost makes up for the bugs." She actually smiled at that one.
"We should head down to the Fort. I think it gets dark once the Sun goes down."
||||
The sight that greeted us was upsetting, to say the least. The Fort, despite looking perfectly fine from far away, had caved in on itself. An entire section of wall had collapsed, and the entrance was caved in.
"What the hell happened here?" Christine asked.
You didn't see stuff like this on the Biosphere. Earth was wild, untamed, and places like Fort Garlik were swallowed by the planet.
"I think it's fallen apart." was all I could get out.
"How are we going to stay here for the night? How are we going to contact anyone?"
She had more questions, none of which I could answer. All I could do was run my hands along the ruins, tracing out patterns in the dust. Earth could be beautiful, yes, but it was savage and primal as well. Night falls, and I realize why we once made monuments to the Sun. | 115 | A young person from the first generation of humans to be born and raised in space (on stations or ships), visits earth, their first time outside of a climate-controlled environment. | 158 |
For an eternity I've travelled up and down this valley of shadows unaware of the implications. I go about my being bringing these things from one side to the other. I do not understand the reasons of my purpose, and to be honest I don't care. I have my job, my job has been my purpose for as long as I remember and I don't know anything outside of it.
I don't have a physical form like the things I accompany through the valley. They're deformed beings, twisted and weak looking. So easily breakable. For some unknown reason they persist in coming into my realm, I've never understood it but I've never questioned it. Their purpose is to come here, and my purpose is to accompany them.
They never look alike, sometimes they're missing parts of their bodies, some look grey and frail, others young and bright, some white, some black. I cannot conceive how they are the same things but all look so different to one another.
I wish I could meet one, communicate with one and ask what they're doing and where they're going; but they all ignore me when they pass through, a vague and distant look in their eyes. It's sad to see such an existence being so dull and meaningless. They don't do anything for each other or try to stray from the path. I don't know if they even realize I am here or worse, if others of their kind are. They just walk foreword with no apparent goal.
For millions of years they have come and gone, I do not know why and I do not want to. I feel nothing when they come as they do not feel for me.
It is a sad existence that they live, if their sole purpose is to walk on a pre-destined path.
One day I might go to where they come from, I might stray from my path and visit their physical world. See if their existence really is so mundane. Until that day comes I will continue to watch them come and go. Maybe one day one will acknowledge me. | 16 | The Angel of Death doesn't know they're the Angel of Death | 34 |
Steven wasn't anyone special, in fact, the opposite of special in his opinion. He was 15 years old and a freshmen in high school. It's not that he was nerdy or unattractive, but he was just simply average. Not overly intelligent, not a stud the ladies were after, not even one of the more athletic kids, no, Steven was just simply average. He was mocked constantly by other students, students he had never spoken to, never done anything to, and yet they still berated him for something he couldn't control. Perhaps the only thing that wasn't average about Steven was his height, standing at 6'5" he towered over the other freshmen and most other high schoolers, but of course, he was only average at basketball.
On May 15th, 2014, however, Steven, along with his entire school realized his amazing ability and potential. After a faulty pipe burst within the school's wiring system causing an electrical fire that soon engulfed the school Steven along with his classmates were evacuated. Luckily, due to the school's ridiculous amount of fire drills, all students were safely standing outside, watching happily as their beloved 3-story school began to crumble. Their expressions quickly shifted to horror as the exterior of the school began to waver and then fall. It was chaos as students and teachers alike pushed and clawed to escape the massive piece of brick about to crush them.
All but Steven.
You see, Steven was not a hero, nor was he being brave, rather, Steven had contemplated suicide many times, whether it was as a result of the jokes kids had been making recently, or the fact that he found no joy in living anymore, it didn't matter, this was his way out. He could feel the warmth of the fire on his skin as the wall came closer. He closed his eyes, happy with the way he would go, without the sadness of a teenager killing himself, but simply a tragic accident. Of course, his family would miss him and he was sorry, but this way he would just be one of the many students who couldn't escape the falling piece of rubble, no specific ceremony just for him, just an average way to go.
Steven felt and heard the wall just about on him, accepting this as his fate. But then there was silence, other then the gasps from the students who weren't in shock. You see, Steven, being the tallest of the kids still in harms way, and one of the few standing up, had accepted the full force of the impact on his head. However, Steven wasn't dead, quite the opposite in fact, Steven was still standing, looking silly wearing an entire brick wall around his neck. He put his hands on the wall and pushed up, shockingly able to lift what must have been over two tons. "Move!" He yelled at the other kids still crouching and watching in awe. They scurried away as Steven threw the wall back at the school.
About 10 minutes later, the entire fire station arrived, the cops, the news stations, but Steven just wanted to go home, he was tired, and needed to think. As he walked to his moms car, the children he had saved, although they looked grateful, gave him condescending looks of disdain. He wondered what he had done to deserve this from them. Why he was being punished for something he had no choice in.
He got in the car and cried, not because he was happy he was alive, or sad, or because he was confused about his strength, but because even after all he'd done for those kids, saving their lives, they still couldn't get over the fact that he had chosen boys over girls.
Edit: Edited out "gay" and replaced it with /u/ilikeeatingbrains 's idea. Also changed the cruelty of the teens as /u/testreker advised and formatted my wall of text with /u/crymodo 's help. | 13 | Instead of running, a man calmly holds his hand up to a falling wall, stopping it like cardboard. He has inadvertently discovered a latent power that potentially every human possesses. There are witnesses. | 45 |
"I just don't think it's a good idea, that's all."
God frowned. *Well, this is unexpected.* He cleared his throat and scooted closer to the girl, turning down the glory of hallelujahs and trumpets He had been playing in the background. The girl smiled politely.
"Listen," God began with a sigh. "I know it seems an awful lot to take in. But sweetheart- this might be the *best* break you'll ever get." Mary was nodding, but God had the unpleasant feeling she had already made up her mind. "Your son will be the messiah! He will be the savior of mankind!"
In the stuffy confines of Mary's home, his voice seemed shrill and feeble. God winced. The words had sounded a lot more magnificent in his head.
Mary looked down, wringing her hands. "I- I don't want to make any decisions I might regret."
"Oh," he blurted out, "you'll still be a virgin." He tried to hide the desperation in his voice.
The girl was beginning to look miffed. God blundered on. "Just give it some thought, okay? I know you don't want rush things." His face was burning. He started to depart, leaving a faint haze of golden light in his wake. "I'll talk to you later!"
Mary gave a weak little wave, and then sat down, shifting closer to the kitchen table. "And that's God," she said to herself.
| 15 | Mary refuses God on the basis that they've only just met and she doesn't want to rush things. | 22 |
"Would ya look at all these wrinkles?" Susan remarked while probing her eyes in the bathroom mirror. . Her once flawless skin was now marred with evidence of her age.
"You know I can't look at them, darling. " Steve said as he walked into the bathroom. Steve had been blind his entire life.
"I'm sorry, Dear. Here, I'll show you." she said while reaching for his hand and guiding it toward her face. He didn't need her to guide him. He had his wife memorized.
As his fingertip reached her eye, Steve began, "Susan, I love your wrinkles." Susan released her husband's hand.
"I'm getting old, Steve. Even you can't look past this."
"Let me finish." She resigns herself to her husband's will. "To a blind man, wrinkles are beautiful. That's one more way I'm able to see you." His fingertip gently moved back and forth across her wrinkles. "They don't take away from your beauty. They add to it. They are God's answer to my prayers when I beg him to let me see you."
A tear falls from Susan's eye. He wipes it away before easing his hand to her waist. "So you've been asking God to give me these?" Susan smiles.
Edit: I was typing on my phone. I couldn't read the post and forgot about the blind since birth part. Thanks so much. It means a lot that you all like it!
| 308 | A man born without sight tries to convince his wife that she is still beautiful | 387 |
The hours are bullshit. There isn't really much to complain about aside from that, but fuck these hours, man. I don't even know how I ended up with this gig, I've been down here a long time. Kinda sad to forget how you died, but I guess it could be worse.
"Hell's Kitchen". That's the name of place. I couldn't be joking if I tried, that's cliche as fuck. Telling people I work at a place called "Hell's Kitchen" should be eternal torment enough, but nah, it gets worse. We're in the "cooler" part of hell, in more ways than one. For one thing, the big shot fuckfaces of history hang around this place. For another, it's about a hundred degrees cooler than the surrounding torment plains. I guess that actually is a good thing, and hell, it's air-conditioned inside. The waitress, Martha, tells me it's the fart gas of some evil frost giant though; you can never be happy here.
Hitler came by earlier. Quiet guy, until her gets a couple jaegermeisters in him, then he's a fucking annoying bastard. He can't get over the whole World War 2 shit. Can't blame him, he managed to do quite a bit of work there. Goebbels tried keeping him in control again, but Adolf ripped his arm clean off. They fought for about an hour, demons cheering and shit. Both of them finished as bloody messes on the floor, but they'll reconstitute in a week, then they'll be back.
New guy, Kim Jong-Il, started coming in recently. He sure loves his Hennessy. Can't understand a thing he says, but I usually never do with anybody. He just sits at the bar quietly, but I think he tried hitting on Martha. She shot him.
Not gonna lie, Stalin is a good looking son of a bitch. He's been pretty happy here considering there aren't any social classes in Hell. There is the whole torture thing, but I'm sure he's had worse. He got into a pissing contest with Chairman Mao the other day. How they even had a conversation, I don't even know. All I know is somebody had to clean the body parts off the dancefloor and Martha wasn't having any shit that day.
I could have had it worse. I'm not getting butt-raped by demons whilst getting hacked by swords down on fifth, so I have that to hold on to. The hours are still bullshit though. | 17 | There is a special section/bar/club in hell where history's most ruthless and despotic leaders all go to relax and socialize. You are a bartender at said establishment. Describe your experiences. | 25 |
Jerry and I had been running for months, doing what we could to stay hidden while doing our part.
Why on Earth would they want us in the Army? Two pasty nerds on the front line. We were much more useful to our country doing what we do best.
You see, we're security specialists - what you would call hackers. With two backpacks full of equipment and a few hours of time, we were easily able to hijack the enemy's drones, reprogram them, and turn them back on the enemy.
Even if the powers that be allowed us to continue our work, the time spent in "basic training" would cost our country more lives then any foolish army general would possibly believe.
We are, after all, the only reason that America is going to win this war.
Yes, we're on the run. Yes, we'll eventually be caught. But by then, we'll be the reason for America's victory.
We tried to explain all of this before going on the run, but the grunts at the draft station refused to listen. So now we're draft dodgers, cowards. And doing the best we can.
Tomorrow, we release the drone worm. When the worm goes public, our names will be broadcast over the internet on the video of the enemy's drones taking out their own armed forces - and then crashing full-force into the enemy's most secure military facilities.
Then, once the war is over, and the enemy has surrendered, we'll turn ourselves in. Either we'll be war heroes or we'll be despicable hacker draft dodgers and war criminals costing millions of foreign lives.
At least we knew we did what we felt was right. | 14 | There is a war between X country and the US, fought on US soil. There is a draft. Two men try to dodge the draft by going to Canada but subsequently win the war. | 26 |
I looked at him, disbelief filled my eyes. "What could possibly be wrong?" I asked.
This was the last thing I wanted to hear from a doctor. That something was wrong. Had my wife cheated on me? Was my son retarded?
"We ran some tests at the request of Ann, and your son has Tay-Sachs. Your child will not make it past four years old. I'm so sorry."
"What? How did this happen? Is there a way to cure it? I'll do anything."
"Tay-Sachs is genetic, so unfortunately there is no cure. We could prolong their life, but they will have to remain in the hospital and be placed on life support..."
"No.... that's no way to live..."
I never wanted to see my own child, my own flesh and blood, connected to machines. I didn't understand the disease, but what I was told hit me hard. There was no hope. It would have been preferable if the child was another mans, at least then I could raise it like my own. If the child was born developmentally delayed, at least they could live a normal life. But Tay-Sachs... there was no hope. From the sounds of it, it would be a gradual death, but death would occur regardless of what I had done. None-the-less, the medical expenses would be too high for only a few more years at best, if I was lucky. Even then, I couldn't play ball with them, I couldn't take them out camping. Everything I had wanted to do was suddenly taken away from me. Everything we could have done suddenly became just another dream like they originally were. I couldn't do it. I couldn't watch him slowly waste away to nothing.
"The chance of it happening again is really low. There is only a 25% chance each time you have a child. When you and your wife are ready you can try again." The doctor said, interrupting my thoughts.
"Why would i want to try again? Just for this to happen to another one, just to endure this pain all over again? What if it does? It has already." I snapped back angrily. "Sorry." I apologized after realizing my tone.
I knew he was trying to reconcile for what had happened, to bring back some hope for my dreams of when I became a father. I knew he had pure intentions. It dawned on me. If I were to have another child and they make it by some chance, will they go through what we are? I couldn't do that to them. I couldn't make them lose their potential child, my potential grandchild at such a young age.
"Can we... just leave it here? I don't want to go through it. I don't want to watch them die. Would it be okay if we were to pretend it never survived, that it died minutes later after childbirth." I asked, hoping I didn't sound like a horrible parent.
"You could. It wouldn't reflect on your own ability to be a parent. It is your wife's and your decision to make."
"It's not that I don't love them... I don't want to endure this all over again. I don't..."
He nodded. "When you come to a decision, let me know. At least you're aware of it, some unfortunate parents are not. Talk it over with your wife and we can discuss alternative options if it's what both of you want."
He and his team walked away, leaving me standing there in the hallway, filled with emotions, yet feeling completely empty. This bundle of joy we held in our hands, to be told that it would only be temporary. To know that the moment we were anticipating would be a double edged sword and cut both of us in ways that were unimaginable, unanticipated, was too cruel. I sat down in a chair, head in my hands and for the first time in years, cried. | 24 | Your wife has just given birth to a healthy baby boy. Upon exiting the ER, you're startled to find yourself encircled by a group of men in lab coats. The most senior of them approaches, and in a hurried tone says, "Mr. Carlisle, there's something you need to know about your son..." | 25 |
Pa never had much faith in me. I don't think Ma did either, but atleast she acted like she did. I was the oldest. I was supposed to be looked up to and given respect and freedom and..and... the words aren't coming to me again. Maybe this is why ma and pa don't put their faith in me. John always knew what to say, even as children.
He still does. I'm a fly and he's a lion.
I think there's this word for people like him, he told me actually. See, even though he is younger than me he is smarter too.Character? Charming? That's close but not quite..Charismatic. That's the word. John is charismatic. I'm not. I'm not too smart either, if you ask anyone I know. Ma will tell you I'm perfectly alright but even then it's obvious she's lying. She flicks her eyes and fumbles her dangly earnings in her hand whenever she lies. It's a good thing to know, really.
One day, John was on his way to our house when his car broke down. He was just outside of town and had no way of fixing his car. It surprised me that 20 years into life and he actually had things left unlearned. I figured by the time he was 20 he would have known every fact, even useless ones like what an interrobang is and that the dot on an i is called a tittle, silly stuff like that. I guess if he majored in English those facts could be useful, but how should I know? Ma and Pa couldn't afford to send me to college and there was no way I was ever able to earn a scholarship like John.
After he called in saying he would be a bit late from the time he planned to be here, a weird thing happened. Ma and Pa asked me to go see if I could help him. How could I ever help John? He knows more than me.
You've fixed plenty of cars, they insisted. It was true. I occasionally helped them fix their cars after it broke down for free and even helped Mr. Jackson down the street with his car when the mechanic was out of town.
So, into my old beat up sedan I got. I noticed the gas gauge was nearing 'empty'. I had a few litres of gas in a can luckily so I filled my car up. I made it a point to stop and fill the gas can back up while I was on my way to him.
Hello, how can I help you? Just $20 on pump four, please. Will that be all? Yes, thank you.
If nothing else I was polite.
A few red lights later I finally found where my brother had broken down. I opened up the hood of his car, the car that was nicer than my house, and checked the oil. Easy enough. The whole time, John went on about how he had his car serviced every month and that he was getting a refund for this month and that he couldn't believe his car still broke down after all the precautions he took and on and on. I wanted to ask him to shut up but I knew that would be rude and was always told to treat him right, with the respect I never seemed to get, so I didn't. After tinkering around under the hood for a bit I got in his car and turned the key. The car whined like a horse with asthma.
He was out of gas. I couldn't believe it. He was just out if gas. I took the can out of the trunk of my car, the same red can I filled up earlier and emptied it into his tank. I told him to go ahead and call the tow truck driver and tell him not to come. He made it seem like I was just buzzing, an annoyance. The look in his eyes was great. We made it home in time for dinner.
I guess us flies do have our place, right along side the lions.
| 29 | Some people are born with great souls and will achieve greatness in life. You are the insignificant sibling of one. | 39 |
'She looks like an angel sitting there, reading her book.' Hanna thought to herself. 'Her hair is such a pretty color, so soft around her face. Her eyes are the colors of sapphires.' The woman was sitting a few seats away from Hanna, she could smell the sweet perfume on the woman's skin. 'I'm close enough to see how long her eyelashes are, man I wish I could say something. She has everything I wish I had, and more. She's so elegant and beautiful.'
'Damn she is sexy. Just look at those legs! And I can see her cleavage from this angle.' Greg thought to himself as he stood, holding the bar of the subway, looking over the woman in front of him. 'I bet her breasts are fake, they look fake. But whatever, I'd still have sex with her. I'd rip that white shirt off, and that skirt would slide off onto the floor. She probably has sexy ass lingerie on. Blonds always have more fun right?'
'I am the luckiest man alive to be married to this woman. Everything about her is perfect. The way she uses her slender fingers to turn the page of her book, the way her eyebrows furrow when something exciting happens to the characters, the way she turns to me and smiles when she notices I've been staring.' Shaun smiled to himself as he sat next to his wife, Amy on the subway. 'Her smile is the greatest thing about her. She gets a sparkle in her eyes that makes my heart skip a beat. I'm so happy that I make her smile like that, even after all these years of being together. I couldn't ask for a more wonderful wife.' | 16 | Describe someone on the subway from 3 distinct and separate viewpoints of people that are all attracted to this person. | 34 |
"Hey Larry!"
"What?"
"Russia's got a new player. Issued a challenge to you directly."
Larry finished chewing his food and swallowed carefully. The last time he'd tangled with the Russians things hadn't ended so well for either side. News reporters had a field day broadcasting the all out destruction caused by the drones over a civilian zone. At the time they'd been forced to speculate on who the pilots were, but a leak from one of the superpowers and soon seen to that. Now Larry found himself on the recording end of a dozen challenges a day.
"So? Why should I accept?"
The Scorekeeper shrugged. He was standing at the foot of the barrack's table with one a tablet, reading out the latest news from the front. "Says here the new guy had flown in three Conflict Sessions and.... Oh."
"Oh?"
"You're no longer top of the leaderboard. I'm sorry, but if you're going to want to keep the championship..."
That was unthinkable. For years Larry had been top of his class, then top of the training group and - finally - top military pilot since the Drone
Wars began. Every conflict session he had flown in ended with him emerging the winner.
But only a fool would call Larry the perfect contender. He had lost more drones than he cared to mention, leaving a scattered trail of debris across the entire Conflict Zone. The reason for that was his pride.
"How many points?"
"Thirty two. It's almost enough to capture and entire sector of Zone beta. If they get that oil we won't be able to field as many drones either..."
"Don't worry. The beta zone right? I'll take a compliment of three Shark drones to this one. Could you set it up?"
"The Russian already did. He's in the area now waiting for you. Cocky little man."
Larry left the room with a smile, swinging the keys to the simulation chamber around his finger.
--
It was a standard death match. Larry was up by one kill, skilfully bringing his drone around at the last minute of a corkscrew pursuit to rake the Russian with gunfire.
That was the thing about drone warfare, most people in the simulator would be fooled into thinking they were there. No matter how chaotic things got, Larry would always force himself to remember that none of it was real - he could turn on a penny at ninety miles per hour and not feel it.
--
Round two and the Russian came at Larry with everything he had. An entire compliment of missiles in one go. Ammo conservation didn't seem to be something this guy was big on.
The Shark exploded over foreign soil and the score moved into a tie.
--
The next round Larry played cautiously. Machine gun bullets raked his craft but he scored a well placed hit in the reloader, leaving the Russian's drone with nothing but decoy flares and the standard under slung canon.
The game was being played out in a giant room filled to the ceiling with monitors and simulators. While Larry was settling a grudge match an entire major northern offensive had been launched. Constant gunfire marked then repeated death of allied drones. Larry heard hem dying and quickly opened up a communications link while the Russian ran and hid.
"What's going on?"
"Larry? They know our best pilot is occupied so they're pushing on all fronts. They won't be able to keep the pressure on if they don't get the oil though, so please, please win that one."
The Russian drone hit Larry's, destroying both.
--
Final round.
Half an hour of action. Larry's hands were dripping with sweat. His headset was coming loose. Every move he made the Russian predicted it, but Larry was gone before his failed attack would lead to him being hit.
The other games had been lost, sacrificing a lot of ground to the Russians. Only Larry's Conflict Session was holding the front line together now.
Ten more minutes went by and both drones were clinging in for dear life. Bullets were running short, only the missiles remained.
But then, Larry spotted an opportunity. He dove for it, screaming in excite-
Connection lost. Reconnecting.
His drone plummeted.
--
Somewhere in Russia, a young man pushed his chair back and looked toward his supervisor.
"The best soldiers are hackers."
--
Edit; autocorrect needed manually correcting. | 11 | A new breed of soldier is here. That breed is gamers. | 22 |
My eyes are open now, open to the ceiling. It took some effort to get them that way, and I'm not entirely sure why. The strange part is, this ceiling isn't my ceiling. No, my ceiling is some bullshit fucking popcorn crap that looks like hell from the years of someone else smoking in the bedroom followed by... me... smoking in the bedroom...
Jesus, my fuckin' head hurts and this pillow is damp for a reason I'm not sure I want to know, but I do know this... when I took my first breath upon waking up I sucked a big nasty blood clot down into my mouth and the options were swallow it or choke to death because I couldn't manage to move my body.
Way to start the day on a high point, Jenny. Good fuckin' job.
If this is what I think it is, I'm going to be pissed off. These sheets are familiar, for one thing. Silky, soft, and most definitely not my own. The bed too... who the fuck still has a water bed? One damn person I kn-
Hey, I just wiggled my toes. Fuck yes, progress has been made.
It takes me a few tries, but I manage to get my legs to move, and then my arms. Moonlight is filtering through the blinds and my night sight is... crap. Can't see shit. That's disconcerting, but corroborates my theory that I'm not myself right now.
"Liz... I swear to... fuck... my voice. That's not my voice, that's your voice. You unbelievable bitch..."
So I can talk now, which is a major improvement over the startled clicking Grudge broken neck Japanese ghost noises I was making when I first got to the ugly stage of consciousness where I was aware that my head felt like someone was driving an ice pick... into it...
I, lacking much coordination, reach over to the bedside table and deftly swat an alarm clock off onto the floor before finding the lamp and managing to turn it on.
Blood.
The iron stink of it, I can smell it now... nose is clearing up some... and the blood is all over my hands and there's crusty shit on my face and...
Nosebleed. The pillow is wet with blood from a nosebleed, and a pretty intense one. Alright, so that's pretty terrible. But!
Boobs.
Jesus I'm a lecherous loser, but holy hell I had forgotten how nice Liz's are. I'm definitely not me, and since I don't know anyone else who I would sleep with who has naturally darker skin and these... really gorgeous dark nipples...
I'm Liz right now.
Well, fuck me sideways. This is strange.
I sit up and look around, and take note of a... well, a note. Her beside table is something expensive and vaguely designed to fit in her modern house's style. The air smells like burnt incense and there's a picture of the two of us on the night stand from that time we were at that club for business. She's wearing a lovely dress, I'm wearing a suit and tie as always. Dresses do good for her because she got the bonus of wide hips and being born female. I'm too square framed and muscley to be good in a dress, sadly, plus there's the whole 'transitioned when I was sixteen, what is self esteem again?' horse shit that years of therapy still hasn't fixed.
Note. Note on the night stand, bed side table, fuck if I know what furniture is called.
"Don't get yourself killed, I need that body back," I read, frowning deeply. "My lungs are like yours, so you can smoke all you like, but if you do it in my house I'll throw your body off a building. Food in the fridge is fresh, made it while you were sleeping, you'll need to eat... oh, and check the closet. I know you have stuff to do, and I wish I could tell you where I am and what I'm doing, but it's classified."
Bitch.
Take my body, and then you throw your classified crap in my face to explain it away.
That's what I get for getting serious with a Body Jacker. If she took my body instead of one of the Clone Stock, then she needs the plating in my abdomen and the whole 'hard to kill' aspect of the things our employers did to me. Skull plating, muscle density upgrades, bone durability enhancements... she's in trouble, probably.
Wait, if she took my body and I have hers then... I have a vagina.
... oh god. Please, please do not... be Shark Week...
I tug the panties out and glance down and let out a sigh of relief. Nothing going on down there but natural lubrication and a shock of well trimmed dark hair and...
Okay, I like having a penis, but...
"... I need her to plow me when I track her down," I mutter, grabbing the pack of cigarettes off the dresser and standing up. I stumble on the first step, my mind trying to figure out how her nervous system works. She's got the damned stealth upgrades and the reaction time enhancers...
My hand drifts up to the side of my head and I find her control panel. Amphetamine injection implants, pain medication injection implants... CrystalVeil invisibility system integration suite, targeting reticle calibration system...
I forgot she's just as upgraded as I am.
Sighing, I flick the pack open and drag a cigarette out, then set it between my lips because god damn I want a smoke but the craving isn't there, it's just a habit at this point. She isn't a nicotine addict like I am. I head for the bathroom and look in the mirror and...
There's my lover, or I guess there I am. Insanely pretty, not at all boyish like my normal face and figure and-
I should stop groping myself, but god, these are nice.
My face also has dried blood all over it and my hair is matted with it as well. So a shower it is.
The hot water feels good, better than the icy white tile floor did beneath her bare feet... my bare feet. At least my soap is still in her shower, and my shampoo. Her stuff smells nice on her, all floral and shit, but it ain't my style, no way in hell. I like my sandalwood stuff, good and masculine and...
I sigh.
Being pretty is weird and uncomfortable.
Regardless, I wash my hair out, finish cleaning off my face and upper chest, and climb out to dry off with one of her nice fluffy towels. Looking in the mirror again, I realize how damn pretty she is without makeup. If I wasn't so into the whole 'do whatever makes you happy' schtick, I might try to talk her out of wearing the stuff all the time, but... eh. In her medicine cabinet, my hair gel.
It takes only a minute to get her hair slicked back, nice and neat and not in my damned face all the time. She might laugh at me keeping the high and tight going strong, but I sure never miss a shot because an errant strand of hair decides to make sweet, sweet love with my eyeball.
Check the closet, she said.
Her room is way bigger than mine. I shiver as I walk across the plush, dark carpet. No wonder she wears padded bras, though... if she tried to wear a normal one she'd be at risk of putting someone's eyes out the first time a stiff breeze got her a bit chilly.
Which... would be hot.
Stay on point, Jenny.
In the closet are all her clothes, mostly dresses and tight fitting, uncomfortable stuff I wouldn't be caught dead wearing that she somehow manages to look like a goddess in. Off on one side, some of my clothes hung up. I make a note to tell her we should just move in together and stop paying for two apartments, and then I find a suit and tie in a dry cleaner's bag hanging up at the end. It's fitted for her and when I pull it out, hanging on a heavy wire hanger is a thin Chimera vest and a pair of similar pants.
"I had no idea you owned a two hundred and fifty thousand dollar armor suit, Liz," I murmur, grabbing it and pulling it free.
She keeps all fucking two dozen of her bras in a top drawer of the dresser near her bed. This is surreal. I've never been body jacked before, and jeez does it feel weird. I wonder why she needed my body, in fact. Maybe I should just call her on the WhisperNet implant and ask her what the sweet jumping fuck she was thinking not asking first. I bet she has a good reason.
Bra, on. She has some damn strong back muscles though, otherwise I'd be in a hell of back pain from which I could never escape. Panties next, socks laid out right on top of the drawer after that, the Chimera suit after that, then the suit and tie. Sitting on the floor near the end of the bed is a harness and a pair of magnetic accelerator pistols, silenced, nine mm.
Small for my tastes, but she's not as muscular as I am. Hell, my usual cannon might break her damn wrist.
Now, shoes.
She's so sweet, buying a whole suit tailored for her just for me to wear. She also planned this ahead of time, clearly. Regardless, I'm dressed and looking sharp so I step out into her hallway and head for the front door. I'm uncomfortable and I feel vulnerable as all hell.
Alright, I gotta c-
My implant, her implant, is ringing. Speak of the she-devil.
"Good morning, beautiful," she says the second I answer.
"More beautiful than ever, in fact. I need to ask you something, Liz. Why the fuck am I currently a big titted Asian woman?"
She laughs. It's strange hearing my own voice talking to me.
"Because your beautiful, loving girlfriend is borrowing your beautifully scarred body to talk to a person who knows our employers intend to scrap us and he knows my face, but not yours, because we work different divisions?"
My heart would skip a beat if it wasn't a synthetic replacement, but... it is. I don't even have a heartbeat, the pump cycles too fast for that.
"You didn't tell me about this ahead of time... why?"
"Because I have a tech in my division that records false memories from my brain when I swap into a coma body, but every time you go under for maintenance, they probe your mind and get real ones?"
Well, shit. Lying to me to protect me. That's my girl.
"God damn I love you. So, do I have a mess of people to kill?"
"Oh, god yeah. We got a regular massacre ahead of us, sweetheart. That's why I said 'don't get yourself killed.' I'm glad I caught you before you left."
"Tell me what to do."
"So submissive for such a big girl. All you gotta do is survive until I'm done here, but... they might know already."
"Got it. Love you."
"Love you too. Time to go to work." | 117 | You wake up in someone else's bedroom and a body that does not belong to you. Your hands are covered in dried blood. A small piece of paper on the nightstand reads "Don't get yourself killed. I need that body back!" | 140 |
Screaming, in a red haze, an icy bath.
Please stop. Please.
------
"Bubblegum, Bubblegum, in a dish, how many pieces do you wish?"
It grates.
"One...Two..."
The rope slapping the sidewalk, like nails on a chalkboard.
"Three...Four..."
People everywhere. What do they want from me?
------
Please stop touching me.
------
"You talk funny."
"Why don't you ever say anything?"
"Oh God, do you ever know when to shut up?"
------
They are sending me away.
------
A child. What's wrong with my child? Oh God, no.
------
A funeral. Snow on the ground. It's freezing. I can't leave her here, alone, in the cold...
------
I wish I could believe in God. All these religions. Someone make me believe!
------
Why can't I be normal?
------
"You're fired."
------
I look up and time has passed. Days. Weeks. Years.
------
"You're going to have a baby."
Not again.
"Your husband was killed in..."
Not like this.
"It's a boy."
Not alone.
------
Moments of clarity in a haze of apathy. Now I must be on. All the time.
Is there a God?
My child smiles.
------
"Your son is autistic."
It will be easier for him.
------
I am autistic.
It will be easier for both of us.
---
####
new year's challenge:
-017 | 36 | Can you tell your life story in just 200 words? | 31 |
7 pm. Jeopardy time.
Before I can even look over to ask, Dad's already changing the channel. It's a reflex at this point, a nightly family ritual. He and mom are huddled there on the old faded love seat with the floral pattern, with me perched anxiously on the edge of the brown recliner. Mia, as usual, is crouched apathetically on the floor, hunched over her smartphone. Disinterested, but at least present.
Alex begins reading tonight's first set of categories and I instantly feel the familiar static of electric excitement buzzing in my arms and legs. This is my time to shine. This is *my* show. I roll up my sleeves and set to work.
The first segment is usually the shortest, and as is typical, features the easiest clues:
"What is Aurora Australis."
"What is Madagascar."
"Who is Pythagoras."
I only miss one. Something about some celebrity named Jeff or something... shake it off… I'll make up for it in the next round.
I look over to mom and dad for some sign of approbation, but I don't get it. Mom's eyes look old and tired, like the grey windows of an old house where no one lives. Dad seems a million miles away. Mia remains hunched.
No matter... the show's back now. I blaze through an entire category of state capitals and correctly identify all 5 "Triple Consonant Words" before getting hung up on a full celebrity category. Not my strong suit, but I fuddle through. Next up are philosophers and Latin etymologies. Easy-peasy. Surely this is enough for at least a thumbs-up from Dad…
But nothing. Not even a glance from the love seat. As the second commercial break begins, mom fidgets uncomfortably for a moment. Dad takes a breath as if to say something, but then lets it out in a long, wispy sigh. For a second Mia looks back with a concerned expression… then returns to her phone.
Double Jeopardy begins and promises excitement with intriguing categories like "Abrupt Endings" and "D - composers". Should be a good round. But just as I begin to heat up, I hear mom sniffling wetly. Suddenly I realize those empty grey windows are turned toward me now, and they're filled with tears.
Mia jumps to her feet, "I hate this fucking show! Why do we do this??"
"Honey, no…"
"No, I'm serious! I can't stand it anymore. I can't pretend that this is a good idea any longer. This isn't helping anything!"
"But…" mom begins softly, "It was… *his* show."
The room falls dark and quiet. Trebek's voice recedes back into a bottomless chasm of nothingness as the tingling in my arms and legs fades first to a dull vibration, and then to a numb nothingness.
"He's gone, mom." Mia pleads, gesturing to the empty brown chair where I once used to sit on nights like this. "It's time we all try to move on."
| 13 | A family member tells a weird secret that they have been hiding from everyone. you are the only one to think it's strange. | 19 |
The strangest part of knowing we're not alone is how normal it has become. See, I was barely fourty years old when the first signals were picked up by Ska [*SH2CA - Scattered High-Capacity High-Distance Communications Array*]. Now I'm 112 and we're already having a cosmic dialogue going on as if it's the most natural thing in the world. There are retirees who grew up not even once asking if there's something out there. They just knew. The information was freely available to everyone, from the very beginning. But that's not even half of it.
Of course there are people out there who follow the politics, the intrigues and little rivalries present in any complex civilisation - it's just that they're bored to death with what happens on their own planet, yet hold an unquenchable thirst for any information regarding some distant rock circling a blue star more than 6 lightyears away which surprises me! In some sense, I understand them. But I was and will always be more interested in the scientific, the artistic, the philosophical implications of what we found. After all, anything else is too temporary to have any consequence for a conversation where a single exchange lasts about 12 years.
*Interviewer: Do you recall what first contact was like?*
Do I .. do I recall? Of course I do! How could I not? But you're asking a difficult question here, young man.
*Interviewer: I'm already 51, madam.*
So? You're still a puppy to me.
*Heartful laughter*
Anyways .. what was first contact?
Let me elaborate so you can understand. When we first collected the data, I was angry and mad. We all were. There was this gut-wrenching feeling that we must have had messed up something in the calibrations. Or maybe some tiny particle destroyed a stabilisation exhaust, or some idiot dropped a little paint on one of the mirrors. You know this nearly destroyed Hubble back in the day? It did, yes. We were all so convinced there was a fuck-up either in the hard- or the software that nobody ever thought of "first contact".
For many, this project had been the central theme of their entire scientific careers. As a mathematician, I was lucky. I only worked with some of the basic theory at the very beginning and was invited to lead the assessing process at the very end. For others, it wasn't that easy. To have screwed up at the very end when the array was already out there in solar-stationary orbit. Just when we were about to be able to start playing with our little toy, after decades of research, engineering and nerve-busting orbital construction .. oh, the thought of it alone was too much to bear for some. Luckily, nobody got hurt or hurt themselves. We were worried about some, though.
So I guess you could blame scientific honesty for the reason that we only realised we had made first contact three years after the fact. Even then, it took another two years to verify the data, a year and a half to organise a response and another twelve to receive an answer.
That is the day I remember! That is the day I would say we made first contact.
After all those years - I was older than you are now at that point, you might realise - the world finally knew. By then, all of humanity was already sitting on the edge of their seats waiting to hear the final verdict, for better or worse. And at March 21st, 2061 we were officially convinced that there was something, someone out there talking back to us.
Because there simply was someone talking back! What we got was absolute evidence!
*A short interruption of the interview as the medical monitors demand Mrs Barbrite to rest for a few minutes due to symptomps of heigthened stress and excitement.*
Now that those annoying people who want to stop an old lady dying .. where were we?
Ah yes. May I ask you and your friends at the history department: what was first contact for you? When we collected the initial data and had no idea what we were doing. Or when we, as the first human beings ever, held the unambigious proof in our hands that yes, we were not alone. That we did not only discover the remains of a civilisation, but a true, full-blooded sister to ours.
And what a sister she is!
If you don't mind, I'd like to elaborate on the easily most haunting discovery our friends gave us. It was right in the first, still automatic and unspecific message. Let me correct this: we still put in some questions about this in our first response, which were answered masterfully. So maybe the automatic message didn't suffice all on its own.
In any case: do you know some Geometry? It doesn't matter if you do. You can still grasp the concept that, as humans, our primary sensory organ are the eyes. Hence 'shape' to us, as a species, usually means something we can visualise and manipulate as such.
Not so for our long-distance neighbours. From what we have understood from their messages, they do not have one primary way of sensing. For some reason, their less-than stable environment favours a dualism of smell and sound, deeply integrated with each other. I mean, it doesn't come as a surprise that light-sensing devices, biological or not, aren't that important on a water planet around a cold star, where most energy comes from black smokers and random vulcanic eruptions. But, who am I to judge. I'm no xenobiologist.
So .. why is this important?
Well, for two reasons. The first reason is that geometry is the central mathematical 'tool-box' to understand the universe. I'm not talking about such fundamentally flawed concepts as modelling space-time as a smooth manifold, but the more sophisticated non-commutative version developed around the time I was born. Don't worry if this doesn't make to much sense. Let's just say that we use geometry to gain deep insights into the structure of our universe. So knowing geometry, you know a lot about the world which surrounds you.
The second reason is that most of its roots lay with a kind of geometry that was mostly influenced by our primary sensory organ. What we could visualise, we deemed intuitive. What we deemed intuitive, we declared natural. What was natural became the central basis which any geometric theory must encompass, and where we could make progress the easiest.
This was both a blessing and a curse. It made some problems easier, while restricting us to always judge based on our intuition. It didn't matter that we formalised mathematics at the beginning of the 20th century. Our formal theories were still historically created from intuitive insights, and not even the abstract movement going strong from the 1950s onward could change that too much.
Our friends had it a tad easier. They might never had experienced sight. Indeed, to them it was little more than a theoretical possibility, at least in their subjective reality. Yes, they did manage to use light to investiage the universe. We know that they have telescopes because they send information about Earth back to us which they couldn't have gotten otherwise. But we use lots of machinery to do the same with sound or smell, etc.
Their advantage was that they had intuition for smell, for sound and that both are deeply connected. While sounds patterns might be far easier to understand for a brain, it also gives one of the most beautiful reasons to study a field in mathematics called 'analysis'. It's one of the primary foundations for our modern geometry, or any mathematical physics we ever had. They have superb intuition for this. So this lay the foundations for an incredibly good understanding of 'the basics', so to speak.
And their smell?
Well, if you've ever tried to analyse a cloud of molecules that is inhomogeneous to the extreme, you know that it's not an easy problem. But they had, again, intution. Blessed with two well-developed sensory organs, their physical theory would have been centuries ahead of ours if their environment would have been just a tiny bit easier to handle. As it is, we were just about equal because building a LHC and shooting up telescopes demands far easier collective action from a civilisation if it happens on Earth rather than, say, Jupiter.
Yet their point of view was entirely unknown to us.
Before the contact, mathematics stagnated. Oh, it sure didn't look like it at the time. From year to year, more papers were being published, of course. But in hindsight the content is so unoriginal it hurts to even think about it. Not only did their intuition guide them to vistas we couldn't even conveice, the fact that both their senses are so deeply integrated turns what was already a potent weapon into a true game-changer.
It's a whole new mathematics, so to speak.
With contact came this new information, this new way of thinking about problems. Of course not only in mathematics. I'll remain chauvinistic in my attitude here. I think this is the most important aspect, if not for the pure insights we gained but for what followed. Metamaterials, synthetic intelligence not based on human brains, a full understanding of prime numbers, the first proper quantifiable theories of medium scale complex systems, both a means to unify quantum phyisc and general relativity, as well as to detect and maybe solve the Eschberg paradox .. the list goes on. Chances are, you point out any technology or scientific discovery of the past 60 years, and it'll be based on The Contact in some way.
And each 12 years, we refine our ways of talking to each other. Each 12 years, there occurs a revolution in its own right. There is so much to know about each other, so much to learn. I am gladdened that they appear to feel the same, even though their physical theories seem more advanced. There's some talk going on about a universal theory of cognition some people in Shanghai want to set up. Maybe what we needed to understand ourselves was something which wasn't us.
Shakespeare is quite the hit, so I've heard. So is music. Oh, they do love music.
*Database of the Historical Faculty of the University of Paris-Sorbonne. Written excerpt of the final interview with Yvonne Barbrite, leading mathematician for the S2HCA project during The Contact [Primary Source, The Contact, 21st Century]. Audio- and Videofile available. English translation in accorance with EU directive 02024-3341-892TRL, rev. 02102.*
Edit: Rewritten a bit and made it more coherent. Fixed some typos.
| 14 | Humans find an alien civilization a few light years away. We can communicate to them, and they can communicate to us, but neither have the technology to physically reach each other yet. | 18 |
Jenita ducked into an alleyway to catch her breath. Running in human form was difficult because she was so used to moving on all fours with wings to counterbalance. A brave new shape for a brave new world. That world seemed to involve an awful lot of running and hiding.
She had been happy for a while in South America. Among the trees of the rain forests she had been able to live something close to a normal life. But immortality was a curse, and she had slowly gotten bored. One day she simply started flying north. Her seven foot build, scaled skin, capable of walking on two legs but preferring four, had been around the world for so long that when the border control saw it an ancient, almost primordial, fear had resurfaced.
Not long after she had gone to ground and started seeking out the last male of her kind.
A helicopter passed over head, no doubt running a thermal scan. The fire in her soul meant that she would show up as a bright pin of light in an otherwise drab world. If that was the case then she didn't have long until they got close again.
There were two doors on either side of this alleyway, both made of metal, and a fire escape. She melted both doors with her hand and kicked them open.
When the police rounded the corner they didn't bother looking up at the fire escape.
Jenita stayed hunched over, letting the rain pour off her, watching the armed response team chase through the doors. Quietly she let herself into the empty room.
It was a relatively cheap apartment. She scouted around - two bedrooms and a bathroom. The living room and kitchen were the same space. It was this kind of place where she had seen her partner gunned down by the people who were chasing her. Dragons were known for being difficult creature to kill, but all those stories came from a time when a sharp metal stick was the cutting edge of warfare.
She wished it had stayed that way. In these times of bullets and guns her kind was as vulnerable as the people who used the guns.
There was sound outside the door. No doubt thermal imaging had betrayed her again.
Realising she was going to have to fight, Jenita extended her claws and warmed her fire. Mothering instincts told her to flee, to find somewhere safe and warm. But that had become an impossibility.
The door exploded inwards.
The first police team member went down to a burst of flame. As the fire spread the second two charged in, and Jenita met them with claws. They were wearing some sort of armour, but it left the neck exposed. Hot blood spilled into burning flame.
She jumped, her wings powering her high, and a stream of lead shot beneath her. On the way down she roared again, fire coating the doorway. The final man tried to protect himself.
It was no use. She tore his helmet off and raised him off the ground.
His neck snapped.
She was about to run again when's gunshot sounded from the window. It was quieter than the rest. A red dart stuck from her shoulder.
Darkness took her.
--
*Target secured. Escorting to facility. Tell the Americans to stand down.*
--
It was warm. She rolled over again, telling herself that it was all a dream. Pain and suffering had chased her for too long, all she wanted was one morning of peace.
The intercom denied her that.
"Good morning."
Jenita was on her feet instantly, claws out, ready to fight. Instead of finding herself in a lab, like she expected, she was lying on a sofa in a rather expensive office. Behind the curtains she could hear the every day humdrum sounds of a large city.
Bookshelves lined the walls, and plush leather armchairs were squared up against mahogany tables. But there was no one to be seen anywhere.
She made her way to the window and looked out. Disappointment took her as she realised the sound was fake. The curtains hid a blank wall.
"Where am I?"
The intercom clicked again. "This is where we bring the prime minister if anything goes wrong. It's set up to closely emulate the city we're trying to protect. Honestly, it was the closest place we could find to hold you. After all, your time is close."
"My time?"
"To lay eggs. The British Government has gone to a great deal of effort to protect you from both the other governments of our world and the threats from your own."
"What are you talking about? What threats?"
This time the pause was longer. Eventually the intercom clicked again. "The things that hunted your race to extinction. You're the only one who has actually fought them and won. Well, we need your help. They're coming back. And this time humanity is on their list."
--
Edit: Wow. Uhm, okay, seems this one was popular. It appears I went out for the day and when I came back I was obligated to write a novel lol. Good news is that I know where this one is going. Bad news is... it may take me a while to finish as I have two (maybe three) novelettes approaching the final draft phase. I'm hoping to have them done in the next fortnight which should free me up for other things.
So, take that how you want. Jenita is a character I'm really interested in spending a lot of time on when I get spare time, especially as there's enough material in that story to go for a much larger story than I'm use to writing. Just keep your fingers crossed that I can hold the ship together long enough to get you all to the end of the story :) | 55 | The last dragon in existence is trying to find a safe place to lay her eggs in today's modern world, but several governments are in pursuit. | 56 |
It is the *injustice* of it that, above all, strikes me. I'm not an evil man. Right now, as I jab the trembling gun in the little lady cashier's face, I already feel remorse. A sense of shame, for causing another human being such overwhelming terror. *Sorry*, I want to say. *But I have to.*
This emotional shitstorm pales in comparison to the literal one brewing in my gut.
"Look." My teeth and ass are clenched tighter than a vise. " I don't want to have to hurt you. Just give me what's in the register, okay?" The girl is pale faced and damp eyed. A sharp cramp strikes my belly, and I wince. "Maybe some Imodium while you're at it."
The girl gives a quick jerk of her head. "Store policy," she whispers. She's pretty, in a mousy sort of way. "I'm supposed to hold you off for as long as I can. Until the police arrive."
I stare at her. "Is that even allowed? Your manager is a dick." I gesture at the little racks of snacks and energy drinks that clutter the convenience store counter. " Is this worth saving? Would you throw your *life* away for a freaking-"
I pass wind. Noisily. "Ah, fuck," I mutter, and the girl looks like she might pass out. That abominable pressure in my rectum is gone, though. For a moment I am relieved.
Then a warm, soggy feeling is spreading through my boxers, then jeans, then the girl really *is* passing out. The stench hits me like a tank a moment later. I stagger backwards, knocking over a stand of fitness magazines behind me, and then turn and waddle towards the exit.
"Fuckfuckfuckfuck..." I stumble unevenly forward, the smudged glass of the front door within spitting distance. My pants are hiked up above my waist.
Then I see the flashing blue and red lights of a cruiser barrel up ahead. I quit, then. | 21 | Someone is about to commit a crime, but really has to take a shit. | 20 |
'I'm sorry'
The words came out of nowhere, or rather, they came from inside the heads of everyone on the planet. It was a strange thing, to hear with the mind and not the ears, ones innermost privacy violated; to have that familiar, personal voice, conjured by oneself, replaced by the tone of a stranger, internal audio wholly outside ones control.
Walking, talking, strolling and rolling stopped abruptly. Sounds of motors dying, screeching tires and the silent yet very real collective gasp. Everyone turned their faces to the sky.
'Well, I guess... Not really, if truth is to be told - which I imagine it is, since I am here, finally. In hindsight, probably should've planned for this monologue; I'm not a very gifted public speaker... Ehm... So, I am God. You may have endured a great deal of pain and trauma over the last... Eh.. Ehm, couple of millions of years? Whatever, well, I'm back now. I apologize - as said - for this, but I got a bit carried away with my other creation, those super intelligent crab-like beings I made a few hundred million light years from here... Much more interesting than you guys, but I guess I shouldn't be so hard on myself, I mean, you can't expect to be good at something the first time around, right? Well, there you go. Anyway, I thank you for your patience; you no longer have to wait, I'm back and I'll get to the termination stage in just a minute... You were great practice, and for that, well, thanks I guess...'
No one spoke. Everyone was quiet. | 51 | God returns to Earth. Before any questions are asked he says two words, "I'm sorry." | 36 |
Last words.
It was hard... at first. It became easier over time. The first time, I went to the bar. I'm thin, I have silky long brown hair and a nice smile. That's really all I needed. To be female with a nice smile. So I brought the first one home, lured him to the basement and drugged him. I needed to know why the vaccine wasn't working. I injured him. He felt nothing. Then I gave him the vaccine. I did this multiple times and each time the vaccine was less effective. He healed slower. Finally he didn't heal at all and died. So I needed a new test subject. Back to the bar. I wore something low cut. I picked up another one, easily. I lured him to the basement and drugged him like I had the first. He healed slower with each injury and dose and then his body finally expired. Was my sample large enough? I did the same with five more just to be sure.
That attracted attention. It was on the news. A serial killer. Me? I was only trying to help save people. I stopped going to bars. I know that each dose was less effective but I still had to know why. This time I stalked the laundromats. I'd invite them out for coffee. I got a lot of information out of them just in casual conversation. Family history, everything. I documented all I got. Then I experimented. But I couldn't drug them this time. I needed clean subjects. Their screaming would get noticed so I would lure them out to a rural farm where I could do my work.
I did find it. The reason why our miracle vaccine was slowly turning disaster. In the old days we would have a vaccine against a specific virus. In modern times, our vaccine didn't hunt down and destroy any virus, it would boost your immune system and the body's healing processes. Our vaccine did this using the body's stem cells. The problem was, each time this would happen, we would have less stem cells in our bodies to work with and once we ran low the vaccine didn't work as well. Eventually our bodies would run down and we would die.
If only we didn't need the vaccine so often. It was true, the vaccine was becoming useless. I knew why. The last piece, how do I fix this?
Well I did find it, you know. The fix for the vaccine. But I got caught and your laws. Your laws state that you cannot use the data from my research because of those that died. You say I tortured and killed so many. I say it was research. I have the fix you need but instead of being heralded, you lock me up? You say I am a serial killer? I torture people? I say I am Jonas Salk. I say I am Louis Pasteur. I say I am the savior of billions. | 21 | It is centuries after the miracle vaccine that can cure everything was spread to the world. Doctors only know how to set bones and deal with other such injuries, and of course, administer the vaccine. One young doctor notices that the vaccine is slowly becoming less effective. | 30 |
"Oh my!! A child!! It's been a while since we've had such a young winner!!" exclaimed the announcer. "Now don't be scared young lady, what's the power that you've always wanted?"
"Well," the young girl began, "I want the power to make things come to me."
"The power to summon things? I think the judges understand what you are saying, but please give us a little explanation so we can be sure."
"Hmm, well if I want my teddy, I can call out for it and he will come to me."
"Ok then! A fine choice young lady. So now that you have the ability summon objects, what are you going to move to you first?"
The little girl then called out "Come to me teddy!" A soft white teddy bear came flying out of the distance and deposited itself next to the new winner. The little girl then burst into tears.
"What's wrong?!? Didn't your wish work?" asked the announcer.
"I'm just so happy that I can finally see my mom again and show her my teddy!"
"Why couldn't mom see your teddy before?"
"She went away after daddy and I went a place called a hospital. Then daddy said mommy had to leave us and go to the moon. So now I will finally be able to see mommy again!" exclaimed the young girl through tears.
"WAIT!!!!" shouted the announcer. But he was far too late, for the little girl had already begun her next call.
"Come to me, Moon!" | 129 | Once a year the world hosts an annual superpower lottery, where one lucky person gets a superpower of their choice. This year the winner was dumber than a bag of rocks. | 74 |
Greg lowered his head wearily. There wasn't much else he could do. In thirty-years of hostage negotiations, this had never happened.
He wiped sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his flak jacket. It wasn't very effective.
*Answer the phone,* he pleaded inwardly.
They'd sent out a disposable cell on an RC, hours ago, but the lunatic wouldn't let go of gun or "hostage" to retrieve it.
His partner raised the bullhorn again. "Come on Dave," he said, for what seemed like the millionth time. "You don't want to do this."
Dave sat in the middle of the square, his hair teased by the wind into an unkempt mass on his head. Like wildfire. In his right hand he held a Ruger SR9c, the sun glinting off black and chrome. He waved it wildly as he shouted obscenities at his companion.
Dave's companion, "Toulon" he'd said, after some old movie, was a puppet. About 23 inches tall it sat on Dave's knee, it's back supported by the man's arm.
"Twelve *years*," Dave ranted, "A lifetime. And for what?"
Toulon's head turned. It was like watching a scene from a horror film. Greg almost believed the thing was alive. "I'd never hurt you, Dave."
"You planned it all along."
"I've done nothing but what you asked me to do!"
Static crackled in Greg's headset. Then a voice. The guy's therapist was on the way.
"...lost my wife, my home, my job..."
"I told you we needed a break, Dave." Toulon's arm raised in a desperate plea. "I always..."
Greg tensed. The moment was charged, electric. It was wrong. He opened his mouth to scream.
"I always loved you, Dave."
The gun, no longer waving wildly, came to rest on Dave's temple.
"Goodbye, Toulon."
"No!" Greg shouted.
Dave pulled the trigger, and Toulon was no more.
---
####
new year's challenge:
-020 | 14 | A desperate man has been holding his puppet at gunpoint for hours, surrounded by police, the puppet pleads for its life. | 20 |
The ancient wooden door to the Temple of Althar bursts into splinters. A great cloaked beast at the gate turns it’s burning eyes to the living skeletons in the room. They grip their lances and prepared for battled, but of course they were little match for Cronar the Mad. Within seconds, the minotaur sent the cursed souls back to their maker.
The staircase down to the catacombs had crumbled, but he was not one to be discouraged. With a quick glance around the room, he found what he was looking for: a chest. Pillaging it was no great task, and within he found an Unveiling Scroll. He placed his last Lightning Dust tincture on the scroll in the center of the temple, then drew the Vultangar, the brass battering ram of strength, high into the air. The necessary incantations to Wruthlin the Chaos Father were said and he brought the ram down.
The ensuing explosion leveled all eight floors between him and the catacombs, but his Ring of Major Weightlessness guided him down to the floor with ease. And in front of him was exactly what he was looking for: Five elves in strange clothes.
All were in either tan jackets and pants or short sleeved bleached shirts and blue-dyed riding pants, a combo known in small circles as “Jeans and white tees”. One of the two she-elves was going for the indescribable “Scene” look, and pulling it off surprisingly well. At the head of the table was a tan skinned Breilin wood elf, still in an ordinary Blessed Cloak.
*“Son of a bitch.”* said the Breilin. The phrase and dialect he uttered were both foreign in the Altharin capital. Cronar let Vultangar fall to the ground.
“Kinsmen, please hear me out! I swear on Wruthlin and all the Great Changes that I’ve been practicing. I will hold my own in battle this day!”
There is a universal groan amongst the elves.
“Cronar, You come out of character, you aren’t dressed for battle and you’re complete shit at the game. So listen: Earth. Does. Not. Need. You.”
With that, Cronar tears off his Blessed Cloak. Three elves rise at the sight: The sleeves and collar have been ripped off his Red, White and Blue tunic, turning it into a tank top. His jeans and spurred boots are red with white accents, his blue helmet has a white star on the top, and as he reaches into his bag to pull out his trench-coat in the design of the American Flag, they all saw the Lady Liberty tattoo on his bicep. Throwing the coat over his back, he locks eyes with the Breilin and in the most flawless Hardened Texan General accent they’ve ever heard he softly demands one question:
“You’re talking to Colonel Jack McDonald, son. Since when did we let the Limeys start speaking on behalf of Uncle Sam?” The Elves all glance at each other and lightly nod, with the exception of the Breilin, who has not broken eye contact with Cronar, or rather, Jack. He smirks and replies in the same accent he did earlier.
“Limey? You need to work on your ear for accents, Yankee.” Jack’s eyes narrow. “ I am this evening’s Beach Master and I would never speak on behalf of your foolish mascot. I speak on behalf only of Mein Fuhrer!”
He sheds his cloak to reveal his perfect Gestapo uniform, blazing red Swastika armband, and Nazi flag cape. Finally he dons an SS cap. He hastily mutters Brylosha the Night Sister’s illusion incantation and the room shakes, churns rocks and sways.
The Gestapo Breilin vanishes, as noise comes from the wall behind Jack, and all turn to face it, realizing they are now armed. Jack groans, his starting weapon is a Level One Tactical Knife. The noises are of guns and German voices. All around them is the sound of water, engines. Finally there is a slam, and the wall of their petty Altharin Dungeon comes down to reveal the location of their battle: Normandy.
Instantly two bullets ring out through the sky, and blow back two of the elves: The White-Tee’d boy and the Olive drab girl. The other two hit the deck. Jack charges for the chest high wall in front of him, tackling a nazi to the ground. He opens the cache in front of him to find the weapon he was hoping for: Huskie, the Great Rocket Launcher of Explosion. Behind him, he sees the girl attempt the Health Blessing of Valia the Day Mother, to no avail. There is no magic on Earth, and her wound is mortal. There is nothing they can do for her now.
Explosions and gunfire and screaming ring from all sides, the land is quaking, but Jack is trained for this. He has to focus, calm his nerves and think: Why are we here? All Allies are trying to take down the Axis of course, but what is my units mission? He does not know. Hastily he pulls out his Journal. Sure enough, there is a single line penned in: “Bring down Officer Johan Maurer aboard LZ 186 Normandy.”
As the two surviving Elves caught up with him, the ship they were just on is blown to oblivion, from above. They begin to fire back at the German soldiers (All Levels two or three, but it is the sheer quantity that makes them a menace). Looking up, Jack sees the airship that released the bombs: The Luftschiff Zeppelin 186 Normandy. Aiming Huskie at the ship, he fires. It comes down in a massive explosion, that momentarily distracts the Nazi soldiers, and the Allies do not waste the opportunity, charging forward. It is only Jack who holds back.
His eyes stay locked on the zeppelin, and then, THERE! A rubber safety pod plummets into the ocean. He charges for it. A Crazed Soldier attacks him, but his level four Bullet Proof Vest catches the bulk of the damage. He uses his last Squeeze Their Fucking Eyes Out ability, before casting him aside and diving into the ocean.
The pod bounds back up and the Breilin, Officer Maurer bursts from it, wielding his Wehrmacht Flamethrower of Burning. Jack, reaching the canister, comes up from below the water, and grabs onto the ship. Maurer uses Wehrmacht on Jack, who dives back underwater after losing half his health. He is out of abilities and ammo for his weapons. There is nothing left to use on Maurer aside from his Level One Tactical Knife, but he’d never reach him. Unless…
He plunges the knife into the rubber pod, and it goes through. carving out a hole, the ship quickly fills with water. Within a minute, it goes under.
He, the Minotaur American Colonel Jack McDonald and the Breilin German Gestapo Officer Johan Maurer float side by side in the wreckage. Bullets whiz by them. The other two elves have completed their missions but died before reaching the escape boat. The Wehrmacht of Burning has been destroyed by water damage. Rage is in Maurer’s eyes as they grab at each other’s necks, but Jack proves to be the more powerful.
Within moments, it is all over. They are back in their old ordinary enchanted dungeon, as the other players begin to cheer, patting Cronar on the back. Finally, the Breilin speaks.
“You’ve gotten better, Cronar. Or should I call you Jack?”
“Thank you, Johan. You’ve gotten… kinder.”
“You know, I wrote many more levels for this beach, it wasn’t supposed to be so easy.”
“You’ve got to do a little more reading up on Modern Earth Mythology, Johan. If you had read closer, you would have seen that Nazis stopped using Zeppelins in 1933 after the Hindenburg disaster.”
“Oh, don’t be a prick, the Encyclopedia isn’t the word of Wruthlin, I can make my own alternate timelines.”
“I know, dude. I’m just saying that strategically it was a pretty amateur move.”
“What, you think you can do better?”
“…Maybe.”
“Alright then, next week, you can be the Beach Master. Sound good?” The Breilin holds out a hand to Cronar, and smiles. Cronar smiles back and grabs it firmly.
Cronar the Mad has joined the party.
| 24 | A Non-Magical Battle Game". | 32 |
"Hey kid, come here."
I awkwardly shuffle towards the homeless man..I'm a little nervous, but I'm trying to learn how to treat everyone the same.
"What's up?" I nonchalantly say.
He seems grateful that I actually approached him. He's really eager to tell me something.
"Kid.. kid. Did you know.." He starts off really hyper and seems to trail off in his thoughts.
"Did I know what?" I respond.
He snaps back to reality and his eyes pierce into my soul with a gleeful kind of look.
"Oh, I'm just warning you, did you know everything saved shall be lost."
...silence.
I kind of agree and stumble away. My head just can't wrap around what he said. He's so right. Everything saved will eventually be lost. All my hopes, dreams, accomplishments... I seem to be walking for eternity; I vaguely hear the man's cackling in the background.
*So everything ever built, discovered, and invented will be lost in the shadows of time? Why do I even try then? Why do I go to school? Why do I bother to work? Why am I not living my life to the fullest?*
I enter the store I was originally trying to get to. It's bright red sign shines harshly into my empty eyes.
I've made an important internal decision.
Fuck the Nintendo Wii, I'm getting a Playstation.
End.
*For the confused reader, [this is what I'm referencing.](http://www.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/1lbldn/reddit_what_is_the_most_unintentionally_profound/cbxnv91)
I'm still a new writer, and any c&c is appreciated. Was this a lame attempt at humor??? I tried my best! | 15 | A homeless man tells one lucky passerby the meaning of life | 30 |
I love looking back at old pictures. They remind me of just how much I've changed.
There's me when I was twenty. Tan, long brown hair, white teeth. Perfectly ready for swimsuit season in my itsy-bitsy-teenie-weenie-yellow-polka-dot bikini.
Next page. My twenty-fourth birthday, out with my old best friend, Maggie. We were two peas in a pod. Haven't seen her in a while.
I flip the laminated page of my heavy, brown scrapbook. There's me and my ex-boyfriend, Damson, jogging a half-marathon across the Brooklyn bridge. I look just as fit and healthy as before, only then, I was past thirty. Damson and I were successful surgeons in New Jersey. Back then, my friends used to call me lucky because of my looks.
I flip through a couple more pages. I see me a couple years ago on a cruise in South America. Stunning, I guess you could call me. Partying with a handful of male companions by the bar. There's not a wrinkle in my skin. But, I know I'm seventy-one years old in the picture. Maggie had called me Devil spawn, Damson had left me. I've been all around the world looking like I have since I was eighteen.
I know there are others like me. But, I also know what happened to them when the government found out about them. I met a guy in my second trip to college, Charleston University, at a small party when I was eighty. He was kind of drunk, so he opened up to me. It started off with us laughing about our classmates behind his car. It got dark pretty fast.
"Claire, I don't know if I can take this any longer. James isn't even my real name. It's Ed."
"What?" I had gasped. "You mean you're..."
"You know I... I haven't seen my sister since she was fifty? I still looked like I do today. Yeah. That's what I'm sayin'," he continued. My eyes widened at this. "She could be dead now. I think I have to go see her." He had left his family when people initially started to get suspicious, he told me. He didn't think he could stand being away from them any longer.
"You're not going to believe this..." I started telling him.
We talked about our shared condition for hours. I wished him luck on his adventures early the next morning. He got the earliest flight he could. I saw what happened on the TV that next evening. He was from Britain, I found out. It made the national news.
I don't want the same fate. I've narrowly escaped trackers on four or five occasions. I can't be an experiment.
I lift my handgun to my temple for the third time. I won't hesitate this time. A life like this is no life, always living in fear. Living without love and acceptance. I pull the trigger. | 11 | Age is a disease that affects 90% of the worlds population, you're one of the lucky 10%. | 19 |
"So.. do I get rich? What job are you?" Ten asked curiously.
"Well, I don't know the rules of this 'game' very well, but just in case, I'll not tell you our occupation, but we do live quite luxuriously." replied Thirty.
"Oooh.." Ten pondered in marvel, scrolling through his various ambitions and wondering which of them he had chosen later in life.
"We also get married to a wonderful woman, one who has been closer to us than you'd expect!" Thirty hinted excitedly, clearly unable to contain the love for his partner, and the prospect of his younger self never to expect such an outcome. In his hastiness, he also conveniently forgot how he was trying not to shatter the fabric of his existence less than a minute ago. Luckily for him, he wasn't one to grab on quickly twenty years ago.
"Eew, gross." Ten stuck his tongue out, obviously not enthralled by the idea of marriage.
"Anyways, don't you smell something weird?" Thirty asked, whilst sniffing in a very exaggerated manner.
"Oh," Ten replied. He pointed to the other unoccupied chair at the table. "One minute before you came, a smelly skeleton slid down that chair over there."
---
Edit: Formatting | 16 | The 10 year old you, the 30 year old you, and the 70 year old you have dinner together. Who comes out the most impacted? | 20 |
Mark shuffled through the desk's drawers searching for that vital piece of evidence. Who had killed his father? Who was the mysterious "X" who kept leaving him clues? Who had kidnapped his missing co-worker Elliot?
"Stand back and put your hands up." The shadow of a gun came from the darkness, making Mark jump. The voice was familiar. Who could it be? "Foolish Mark, very very foolish." The face was shrouded in silouette, only the shape of lips could be seen.
Mark took a deep breath. This must be it, this must be the man who killed my father. "Did you do it?" Mark pleaded. The face moved forward "Yes." Light struck the curves of his face. Mark gasped. "Elliot...but...you killed my father?" Elliot smiled. "Of course not. It would be impossible for me to have killed your father...for I *am* your father."
Mark's brow creased in confusion. "But you're only..." Mark paused to do the math on his fingers "...5 years older than I am. How could you possibly be my father!?" Elliot pushed the gun forward angrily. "Silence. Ok, I'm not your father...but I am the man who has been leaving you clues. I am X!"
With more confusion and an ever creasing brow Mark interjected "But...why would you be leaving me clues to find if you were the one who has done the crime? It doesn't make sense!"
Elliot's face went a dark shade of red. His cheeks shook. "I said 'SILENCE'" Elliot shot into the wall but it wasn't enough, Mark continued. "And why the hell did you go missing? Surely if you're the killer you couldn't have kidnapped yourself!"
The statement made Elliot cough and splutter. Suddenly he stopped. He'd had an idea. "Actually, I am but a figment of your imagination. **You** are in fact the killer. **You** are X. **You** are your father. It was all in your mind."
Mark shook his head "But what about that time when the killer was chasing me and **you** saved me by opening the office door?" A warm smile came across Elliot's face "That was all in your mind." Mark nodded. "So really...*you* don't have a gun in *your* hand. *I* have a gun in *my* hand?" The smile vanished, Elliot looked down to find his hand empty. The gun was now in Mark's hand.
Mark continued "And really...if I shoot you...I'm not really going to kill anybody since you're just a figment of my imagination." Elliot's hand shot forward. "Now wait a second, wait a second." With a nod of the head Mark allowed Elliot to continue, to try and save himself. Elliot shook his head slowly "You don't understand...you don't exist either. We're both the figments of somebody else's imagination. Somebody far greater than you or I. Neither of us exist really." Mark laughed "Don't play games, I know I exist. I have free will, I can do as I please." I think therefore I am, Mark thought to himself smugly.
Then I stopped writing the story and he was no longer. | 1,343 | Write a story with a large, illogical plot hole, then have the main character discover it. | 1,009 |
Ryan's phone buzzed, jolting him out of his deep concentration. He looked over and saw once again that it was another text message from Jewels.
*Can you come home early?*
**I'll be home at the normal time. I can't leave early, Calvin has been riding me lately.**
He set the phone back down and returned his gaze back to the program he was working on. His phone buzzed again. It was beginning to agitate him; he was beginning to wonder if she was the cause of his headache that morning, but he loved Jewels, so much so that he moved her into his apartment just three months after meeting her.
The two clicked beyond belief; they both had the same interests and loved doing the same activities. No matter how annoying she had been the past month, it didn't do anything to dent his love for her.
The cellphone buzzed again.
*Please come home before 3PM*
**Is everything okay?**
She had gotten up an hour before him that morning, and spent it trying to convince him to stay home from work. Despite the pleading, he ignored her and left for work, apologizing profusely with words of "I can't, I have a huge meeting today."
Every time he denied her, she muttered "You always do this." He didn't know what it meant, but it didn't matter. He had to make sure he was prepped for the meeting.
But now Ryan was beginning to wonder if something really was wrong. He thought back to how the past week had been. Jewels had been outright mopey. He even caught her crying on a few occasions.
*Something is definitely wrong,* Ryan thought as he closed out of the program he was working on. He brought up his email app and sent out a notice to his coworkers and boss. He sent out one last text to Jewels before he began his drive back to the apartment.
**On my way**
He keyed in to the apartment to see her sitting on the sofa, clutching a pillow. Her eyes were red from crying.
"Hey," she softly whispered.
"Honey, what's wrong?" Ryan said. He sat next to her and put an arm around her shoulders. She was shivering.
"Ryan, I need to tell you something," she said without looking at him. Instead her eyes kept bouncing around the room, often landing on the clock they had on the wall. It was 2:27.
Ryan's mother had always told him she was cheating. He never believed it then, and he didn't believe it now.
"Just tell me what's wrong," he said.
"Neither of us did anything," Jewels softly spoke. She leaned back into the crouch and let out a deep sigh, the kind of sigh that was always the prelude to a crying fit.
"Jewels, just tell me," Ryan said.
She sat back up on the couch and looked him in the eyes.
"Babe," she said, tears welling up in the corners of her eyes, "you're going to have a brain aneurism at 3:01."
"What?" Ryan said, backing away from her.
"You always have one at 3:01, May 26th, 2014. A year from when we first started dating," she said, voice on the edge of cracking.
"Babe, you're not making any sense, I'm not going to have-
"You'll get dizzy when the seconds hand reaches 47," Jewels interrupted.
Ryan stopped talking and looked to the clock.
44
45
46
47
48
"I don't feel-
And it hit him like a freight train. He tottered back into the couch. "Oh God," he muttered, "I'm going to throw up."
"No you're not," Jewels said.
Ryan looked back to her. "What's going on?" He slurred.
Jewels raised her arm and pointed to her watch; the same watch she had since they first met. She never took the damn thing off.
"You never believe me," Jewels began, "I can send my conscious back in time with this."
"You, *fuck*, you can, time travel?" Ryan said, raising a hand to his right eye. There was a searing pain behind it, as if someone were drilling into his skull. "Never mind," Ryan said, attempting to stand, "you need to, you need to drive me to a hospital."
"No," Jewels said, pushing Ryan back into the couch. "You never make it.
"I've tried everything. Exercise, diet, I even convinced you to move us to San Francisco one year because I thought the change in location would help. But nothing ever works. It always hits you at 3:01."
Ryan's vision began to blur to the point that he was seeing two of Jewels.
"I never make it?" He asked.
"Never," Jewels said.
"How, how many times, *aghh*, how many times have you repeated it?"
A tear rolled down her cheek. She grabbed Ryan's free hand and held it to her chest.
"I lost count."
"Fuck, this hurts," Ryan sputtered.
"I know, it always does," she said in between sobs.
Ryan didn't know if he were hallucinating or not, but he did know that if what Jewels saying was truth, he had to help her.
"Stop," he said softly.
"Stop what?"
"Just, just bury me, and move on. Stop reliving this." Ryan said. He dropped his hand away from his face; his arm went completely numb.
"No, no, no, I can't do that."
"I want you to be," Ryan grunted, "to be happy. There's no way you're happy doing this."
She smiled through the tears. "You always say that to me, and that's why I love you so much. I'll find a way to fix this. I'll find a way to save you."
She kissed him on the cheek and stood. She looked down at her watch and pulled out the stem as if she were going to change the time. She rolled the stem back several times.
"I'll see you soon," Jewels whispered as she pushed the stem back in. | 23 | You've been dating for exactly one year when your significant other reveals to you their time machine. | 16 |
Sunshine filtered through the ivy on the porch, and dappled the wooden deck with yellow patches. It might have been a beautiful day – particularly for autumn, as the season had been miserably wet so far – but the chill wind kept most residents inside. Only Tommy had requested to be outside. He liked to watch the London skyline shift and change as the unpredictable weather flitted from sun to shower. He didn’t know why, but some of the nurses speculated that the view reminded him of home.
The sliding door hissed as it was pulled back, and the sound of wheels against wood disrupted Tommy from the doze he had slipped into. The nurse positioned the new man’s wheelchair so that he too could see the view, and murmured a few words into his ear, about returning in a minute, or something like that. Tommy’s hearing wasn’t what it used to be.
The other man turned to him and raised one trembling hand. “Hello,” he said in a thick accent – it sounded brash, like Wiltshire or Somerset, but it certainly wasn’t from London like Tommy’s.
Tommy smiled and raised his hand in return. Neither could lift theirs above a few inches from the armrests of their wheelchairs. “Goo’ morning,” he croaked back. He hadn’t seen this man’s face before. “I’m Tommy – nice to meet ya.”
“Good mornin’, Toh-mmy,” muttered the other man. “I’m Henry.”
“’Enry?”
“No, Henry.”
“’Enry,” said Tommy decisively.
Tucked into the arm of Tommy’s chair was a mottled walking stick, chipped and scratched all over. A series of little, shining plates had been pinned to its main shaft. “Wha’s tha’ then?” he asked slowly, pointing to the metal pieces.
There was a pause, and Tommy didn’t look up. Henry repeated the question.
“Ah, sorry,” Tommy replied with a jolt. “Didn’ realise you were ‘ere. Those are the medals I brough’ back from the war.”
“Wha’ are?”
“These fings.” Tommy gestured to his walking stick.
“’Ere, I got some of those me-self,” Henry responded, pointing to his own stick. It was covered slightly by the blanket that had been draped over him, but the glinting medal could still be seen when the sunlight hit it.
Tommy smiled. “Blimey,” he laughed. “Looks like we’ve bof been through the wars a bi’, ain’t we?”
Henry gave a loud, croaking laugh, and then wheezed his way through a cough for a few moments. “How’d you get yorrs then, eh?”
Tommy couldn’t remember the man’s name or how he had ended up on this unfamiliar porch, but the scenes of war had been preserved by time and recollection, and he could recite them almost unthinkingly. “I’ was in Normandy, you see,” he began. “I was paht of the Iron Division. Yeah, I remembah it ver’ clearly, ver’ clearly indeed – there wos I, makin’ my way up the beach in Norman’y, givin’ the ol’ Gerries what for, an’ I saw this poor sod stuck in the san’. Well, I says to myself, I ain’t gonna leave nobody in ‘Is Majesty’s uniform to rot here, am I? So I pick’d the poor sod up and took ‘im with me to the medics. Reckon he’d been sho’ two or free times by the blahdy Huns! Couldn’t stay there tho’ – wanted to, but those flippin’ nurses pushed me back aht into the battle. Didn’t fink I’d ever get back to ol’ Englan’, did I? But I go’ out of there a few manths la’er, out on sick leave ‘cos the Huns finally got me – righ’ in me back, too! – and me mum told me I was gonna get a medal for savin’ the poor git.”
Henry looked back at Tommy and frowned. “A medal for savin’ who?” he asked quizzically.
There was a pause.
“How’d you get yours, ven, ey?” asked Tommy.
“Me what?” asked Henry.
It took a moment before the answer came back to him, but Tommy eventually replied, “Dose medals, on ya stick.”
Henry pressed a shaking hand to his head and flattened down his thinning white hair, wiping a stray spot of dribble from his chin. “I was in Frah-nce. I’d been in the Summer-set Ligh’ Infantry since nine’teen-forry-three, and almos’ got out of the whole bloody thing af’er D-Day. Almos’ got meself killed, too, ‘cept I some’ow found me way to the medics and got out of it for a couple o’ weeks. When I got bahck, they sen’ us to some li’l village off the Gurrman border, kickin’ the lahs’ of the Gerries out o’ Frank-rike, or wha’ever they cawlled it. Well, I wen’ into one o’ those quain’ li’l houses they got down thair, and found some Bri’ish chap in there alrea’y, havin’ chased the Huns in. He was so full o’ sho’-holes in ‘is back, he almos’ rattled when I trie’ to pick ‘im up!” He paused to laugh, wheeze, pat his hair. “O’ course, I couldn’t take ‘im awll the way back to me superior, so I jus’ had to wait for somebo’y else to come along, and figh’ off all the Gerries ‘til then.”
Tommy looked back at Henry after surveying the London skyline for a while. “War, ey?” he remarked with a small laugh.
“War.” Henry looked out to London and sighed. If he’d had his own way, he would’ve been back at his grandfather’s farm in mid-Somerset, looking out at the rolling fields as his grandchildren ploughed the fields. But they didn’t want the farm, and he didn’t want to be alone after Mary died, and that was where the compromise had been made. It seemed a filthy deal now that he felt the first few splashes of rain beginning to hit his head, and the nurses slid open the door to fetch the two of them back inside. He turned back to Tommy. “How long ‘ave you been ‘ere, then?”
Tommy didn’t look back. “I dahn’ know. I dahn’ keep coun’ any more.”
The two nurses who came to fetch them shot each other a knowing glance, and wheeled their patients away, down separate corridors to separate rooms. For Tommy, it was the redressing of old war wounds on his back, which had recently got infected after a bout of malnutrition. For Henry, it was the physiotherapist, to massage the legs kept confined to a wheelchair ever since he had defended that unknown soldier in France. The rain continued, and over dinner that night, the nurses briefly agreed that tomorrow, the usual routine would have to take place inside, as the deck would be wet. | 16 | Two vets, riddled with Alzheimer's, exchange stories about being saved by an unidentified soldier in the heat of battle, unaware they're speaking about each other. | 40 |
Mark and Daniel stood by the water cooler as the stretcher, surrounded by ambulance personnel, made it's way past their empty cubicles. The medical officers weren't in any rush; they all knew there was nothing that could be done now. As they passed by each section of sale representatives, the mood around the rattling stretcher grew dark and angry as people realised what had come to pass; you'd think after a lifetime of this, everyone would accept it as a part of life and move on. But it was always a jarring event, and like most deaths, it always seemed to happen when everyone least expected it.
"Apparently it was his promotion that did him in," Mark shared, shaking his head with an all-knowing sadness. "The big man in upper management finally noticed that Jake had been smashing his sales out of the ballpark this quarter, so he put everything in place to send him up to corporate, and...well..." Mark trailed off. The rest seemed obvious.
"That's all he needed in life. That was his Furaha. Just the simple recognition for his hard work," Daniel marvelled. How he wished his was that simple. He'd tried doing everything he could think of to fulfil it: the many years of ill-guided drugs, parties and alcohol. A lengthy extreme sports period followed after that, but a nasty Motocross accident finally weaned him off it. Finally, he spent many years travelling. He figured that the least likely place to find his Furaha would be home, so he set out to actively search for it. But after what felt like eons away from home, it soon become apparent that even that idea had failed. He came back home without so much as a sliver of an epiphany.
He yearned to find that ever-so illusive thought that was his Furaha, the thing that would give him that fabled sense of self completion that would send him onto the next world. Nobody knew what it was or whether it was different for each person, but everyone did know the Furaha was some sort of deep seated understanding of yourself and the world around you. After achieving it, you no longer suffered a place on this worldly earth.
Mark's nasally voice cut through Daniel's day dreaming: "Dan! I'm talking to you! How long have you been working here again? I can never remember."
"Ah, sorry mate, always a bit distracting when they're carrying dead bodies through the workplace. Let's see..." Daniel pursed his lips in thought "...I do believe it'll be 196 years next August I think." He tried to smile as he said it, but he failed.
Mark smiled sadly at Daniel. He reached over and patted him on the shoulder.
"Nary a worry mate. I'm only 20 years behind you. We all find our Furaha eventually though, and we're definitely due for ours I reckon." With that reassurance, Mark left the watercooler to go back to his desk. Daniel looked down at his styrofoam cup, still half full of slightly-less-than-room temperature water.
He hoped Mark was right. | 21 | A world in which people only die when they think a particular thought, but no one knows what that thought is. | 34 |
*"Where's the Fairie Tonic!?"* shouted Albazel from the kitchen.
*"It's in the Frost Crucible, duh!"* shouted back the Game Master, Xzavier. "Okay, does everyone have their character sheets?"
The group cycled back to table with their pencils, dice, and character sheets. Eliza, the Tiefling, wrapped her tail around her glass of wine, her teeth holding her pencil by the eraser, and furiously reviewed her at-will powers. Drake's black hair bellowed in a non-existent wind (probably something his Elven glamour cooked up) while twirling his Oak wand and adding up his remaining skill points. Albazel, the Dragonborn, rushed back into the living room.
"Okay," began Xzavier, the Human wizard. "I know we've played a lot of these before, but this one is something new. It uses the old system, but there are a few new rules. Like, to use a power that has the 'WI-FI' keyword, you need to be in a WI-FI zone. Also, there are no Daily powers anymore, but the feats are so much more powerful than the old games."
"I don't know what half of these skills do," said Drake. "What does Computer Proficiency do?"
"It's like their system of technology," Xzavier answered. "A lot of their spells and powers are based on these devices called Computers." He pronounced it 'KOMP-ooh-taarz.' "If you're playing a Web Designer, your WIS and INT are your key abilities. You'll have to make a Computer Proficiency roll to do most of your powers, then you roll damage."
Eliza snapped the Player's Handbook shut and spat out the pencil. "I seriously can't find anything about racial bonuses. Did I fuck up my character sheet?"
"No..." said Xzavier. "I think they took out races from the game and replaced them with something called 'Degrees.' These are like backgrounds, right? Everyone's human in this game, and everyone has a Degree. Albazel's CFO is has an MBA, which means he gets +5 to Bluff and Diplomacy, and once per encounter he can cast *Business Decision,* which gives another player an extra At-Will action."
*"Are there any Secretaries there?!"* yelled Albazel, even though he was at the table.
Xzavier ignored him. "Okay, let's start. Drake, who are you playing?"
Drake answered in a proud, high voice, "I am playing David Bernstein, Director of Accounting! With my Masterwork Ledger, I will avenge my family's bankrupt Telecommunications Business!"
"Okay," began Xzavier, *"David Bernstein is standing in the SpyroTech conference room. The fragrant sent of cleaning agent emanates from the dark wood of the conference table. In the glow of the overhead flourescent lights, you can see an office phone in the middle of the table. It starts ringing*"
"I want to cast a spell!" yelled Drake. "I want to cast *budget compromise.*"
"Why are you casting a spell, there's nothing to attack here."
Drake thought for a second. "I'm attacking the ringing!"
The players laugh for a second before Xzavier regains control. "*You answer the phone. It's Rebecca Green, Vice President of Marketing."*
"Whoa, that's me, right?" asked Eliza.
*"She is dressed in a business suit, and she has blonde hair and a blue smartphone cover."*
"No I don't," said Eliza, "I have a gray smartphone cover."
"What--let me see that sheet." Xzavier take's Eliza's character sheet. She reaches out with her mind and wills it back into her own hands. "It says it right here," she indicates with the tip of her tail. "It says I have a gray smartphone cover."
"Fine, it's gray. You guys can talk now if you want."
*"Hello....."* says Eliza.
*"I am David Bernstein, Director of Accounting!"* yelled Drake.
*"Then why are you casting budget compromise?"* quipped Eliza. The party chuckled a for a moment.
"Okay," says Xzavier, *"You both get an email from Albazel's character, the CFO, Ryan Friedman. He says you guys have to find $100,000.00 in the budget for new project development."*
"Are there any any secretaries there?" yelled Albazel.
Xzavier sighed and rolled some dice behind his screen. "Yeah, there are," he said. He took his wizards hat off and rubbed his eyebrows.
"If there are any secretaries there I wanna do them!" | 33 | In an alternate universe where Wizards and Dragons are the norm, a group of adventurers sit down to play "Faxes and Cubicles." | 55 |
I could hear the footsteps behind me. They weren't the footsteps that we hear everyday, they were those special, singular footsteps that we only hear at those special, singular times. the rhythm was irregular, with a brief pause in between every couple of steps. And there was something in the sound, a harsh, grating noise, the sound of metal on metal.
I stop walking. "Why are you following me?" The figure behind me continues for a few seconds more, until I can feel its hot breath on my neck. "You know perfectly well why I'm following you." I can't think of a response to that, so I start walking again.
A few seconds later, the footsteps start again, but this time they're different. They're much softer, lighter, almost musical. There's still that same metallic ring to them, but the nail-on-chalkboard sound is gone. I close my eyes, and for a second, I'm back to that scene, that day.
It's early summer, the grass is green, the birds are singing, the sun is shining, the whole nine yards. A light breeze is blowing through the wind-chimes hanging off of our back porch.
I open my eyes again. I'm confronted again with the dying city full of crumbling buildings. Though I'm still walking, the footsteps have stopped. I turn around to make sure. The only movement is an old newspaper blown along by the wind. The paper is old and yellowed, and the words have long since been clouded by the snow and rain.
I turn back around and recommence my journey. Every few seconds, I think I hear something. But it only ever turns out to be something inconsequential, an insect skittering across the hard concrete, a can lazily rolling across the street.
I arrive at a house. It's the same as any other house on this street. There's nothing special about it. Around the back of the house is an empty yard. The breeze picks up again, and I hear a faint tinkling sound. Over there, on the back porch, is a pair of rusted old wind chimes.
"How did this happen?" I say aloud, struggling to remember. And then I hear another sound, the sound of footsteps in dry grass.
| 16 | "Once you start asking questions, the footsteps behind you begin." | 24 |
"I don't want to do this." The torturer had his eyes locked with mine.
"Then just stop! You don't need to do this!"
"Tell me what I want to know. Why are the British here? Who sent you?"
My lips felt dry and my tongue was heavy. I couldn't give up my mission no matter what he did. I looked around the room for anything that could help, any kind of respite. The cold stone walls were bare and gave nothing back.
"Cpl. Jack Ly..."
"Enough. I've heard your name enough." My torturer walked around behind me. I strained to hear what he was doing, but there was only silence, followed by the flick of a switch.
"What was that?" I blurted. I got no response.
The torturer moved back around in front of me and up to the door. He knocked twice, the view port slid back. "Bring it in."
Wordlessly, the view port was closed again, there was shuffling beyond the door. Suddenly, the door was flung open and a table brought in by a large soldier, followed by a small cup place carefully in the middle. The soldier left, pulling the door behind him as he went.
"Last chance."
"Do what you must."
The torturer disappeared behind me again. He came round, keeping his back to me, and placed three items on the table. He stood aside, revealing all three items.
I didn't know what to do.
Silently, he picked up the bag and put in the cup. Then, he poured the milk.
I screamed.
Finally, the hot water went in.
"How can you fuck up a cup of tea like that!?"
* has -> had | 25 | you are a P.O.W. who is being tortured in a very unusual or a very ineffective manor. | 21 |
The cat licked her paws as she gazed at her humans through the doorway. The disgusting things were at it again. They had even kicked her off her comfy spot on the bed to do it. Oh well, the cat thought. She would just scratch their new kitchen table for a short while later. She might even cough up a hairball into the shower. Give them a nice surprise for when they've finished, the cat thought. She stood to go and give their new kitchen table a visit, when Rocky the golden Labrador came bounding up the stairs.
“Ctht! Phlay bull! Phlay bull!” He said, trying to speak with his pink ball in his slobbering jaws. The cat retreated a little, disgusted by her furry friend.
“Take that thing out of your mouth.” The cat said, reaching out with a paw and knocking the ball from his mouth. “You stink.” She said, covering her nose with her paw.
“Ball.” Rocky said sadly, giving her his best puppy eyes. That’s when he noticed his owners behind the cat, frolicking naked in the bedroom. His eyes widened to the size of his dinner bowl. “Wha… What are they doing?” He said, looking to the cat for help. She had always been the smarter of the two.
“You’ve never seen them bonking before?” The cat said with a chuckle.
“Bonking? Huh?” Rover tilted his head. “Is he hurting her?” He said, worried for his owners safety.
“Hurting her? No, mutt, he’s not hurting her. They’re playing a game.” The cat said with mock seriousness. But of course, her dumb friend the dog didn't notice.
“A game? Can I play?” Rover said, sticking his butt in the air and wagging his tail. The cat licked her paw thoughtfully.
“Sure, mutt. Of course you can play.” She said with a cunning smile. She stepped to the side and allowed Rover to get a little closer to the door. “Just jump right on the bed, my friend.” She said. “Make sure you give them a good lick.”
“A good lick?” Rover said.
“A good lick.” The cat replied. “*All over*. That’s how you win the game, mutt.” She said with a grin. “How’s about you start there?” She pointed her tail to her human’s bottom, facing them from the end of the bed. Rover wagged his tail playfully.
“Don’t you want to play, cat?” He said, ever the thoughtful and kind dog that he was. The cat simply shook her head.
Rover bounded into the room, tail wagging and tongue drooping from the side of his mouth. The cat smiled as her humans screamed, leaping off the bed as Rover’s tongue probed at them. She jumped back onto her bed, turned three times and laid back down in her spot.
Perhaps she would leave their new kitchen table alone, today.
| 35 | A dog and a cat have a conversation as they watch their owners making love. | 19 |
It was another average day in Sea City and Rick Yeager was driving his bus back to the depot to clock out. "Hope the wife is making beef stew tonight". Rick was so absorbed with thoughts of steamy beef, he barely noticed the road ahead of him splitting in half. "What the hell is this?" Rick jammed on his brakes, turning his bus nearly sideways. A thunderous crack filled the air as the road collapsed totally into the ground in front of Rick's bus. Cautiously, he got out to survey the scene. A gargantuan abyss loomed a few mere feet away from the front of his bus. Rick could not see the bottom nor the other side from where he stood. The entire city before him had seemingly been swallowed up by the earth.
"What's the hold up son?", inquired a little voice behind Rick.
Rick turned to address the voice of his geriatric passenger. "Please, get back on the bus Mrs. Snider", said Rick a bit uncertainly. He was considering his options, when someone cried out behind him: "What's that, up in the sky? Is it a tornado?"
Rick grimaced immediately. He knew it could only be one thing.
"Oh lord, it's that dick with the blender", said Mrs. Snider.
Up in the sky, there did indeed appear to be a small tornado of sorts. Strangely, it was apparent that someone was riding the top of the thing by somehow clinging to the tail end of the twister. As the whirlwind grew closer, the figure materialized as a man in an odd costume clinging to a strange device which was seemingly the source of the wind. He wore a grey one-piece jumpsuit, accented with yellow arrows and a large emblem across his chest depicting the device he bore in his hands. The man rotated around like a ceiling fan blade from the end of the twister, his body held straight out. He was emitting a constant wail as he traveled.
"This is all we need" said a bystander.
The tornado suddenly disappeared and the costumed man was flung unceremoniously to the ground, landing just a few feet away from Rick. The gruff bus driver looked upon the prone figure with contempt.
"Can I help you up Blenderman?" he said with a sigh.
He was moving to do so, when the earth again began to rumble. The earth shook violently and Rick stumbled to the ground. As he shook his head clear, he slowly noticed that he was lying in shadow. Turning his head, a grotesque sight came to his eyes. The thing before him was enormous, it loomed up nearly six stories into the air. To Rick, this thing looked like nothing so much as a giant lobster which had managed to grow tentacles and several extra eyes, one of which slowly moved to hover over him. Rick was paralyzed with terror, the creature was slowly extending a massive pincer toward him. He felt a strong wind blowing across his face and then he saw no more.
Rick awoke a few moments later and blearily looked around. He saw a costumed figure, high in the sky, plummeting toward the massive lobster like creature. As Rick lost consciousness again, he heard these words echoing through the air: "Will it blend?! Will it blend?!"
| 74 | You are an incompetent superhero with a ridiculous power, however you are mankind's last hope for survival. | 65 |
I am awake. I am needed.
Because of this I cease being nowhere and I Become.
I'm on top of a hill overlooking a lake. On the shore, a town sleeps.
It will not awaken.
To these people, death came like a thief in the night. The lake that sustained them, gave them food, and water, and a steady influx of tourists, also gave them their demise.
A limnic eruption it's called. Carbon dioxide trapped deep in the lake's surface was released by volcanic activity and asphyxiated every animal for miles, even God's “chosen”.
I wait patiently for my brothers, wondering why none had appeared yet.
There are at least a few hundred souls, waiting for their psychopomp.
Something is wrong. They do not come. The the call of the departed speaks to me ever more urgently. Still, I wait.
Nothing. Just the silent screams of the dead echoing in my mind.
I call across the void to my brothers. They are silent, asleep.
Eventually, I can no longer deny my nature. Alone I stride the distance to the nearest soul, crossing it in a single step.
A baby. Good. No questions, no regrets, no pain. I anoint her brow and see her to her final destination.
The parents however, are not far. They see me release their daughter's spirit into the light, but they do not understand. They look at me as they look upon death. If I had to guess, I'd say they see the “Grim Reaper”.
The father is paralised with fear. I can see he's already entering denial. Just four more steps to go, and hopefully we can skip a few.
The mother, however, is a different story.
She lunges at me with the ferocity of a mother bear, thinking I killed her child. Her anguished scream causes me pain, so do her nails raking across my face.
But in the end, I am inevitable. I wait, I endure, and I drain her strength until nothing is left but acceptance.
“Why?”, she asks, like so many before.
“All will be revealed in time.” I respond, as always, hoping I'm telling the truth, “Come.”.
Again I release her spirit from the world, and she ascends.
The father remains, petrified with fear.
My approach causes him to fall to his knees and beg.
“Please!” is all he can articulate. Good, we are already in bargaining.
“Your time has come.”, I like this one, simple and to the point.
“Why?”, he quakes, seemingly unable to speak whole sentences.
As I start to utter the pre-programmed response I stutter.
“All ...”, the fact is I don't know why.
And after millennia, I'm starting to wonder myself.
No! This is wrong!
I would never have such thoughts if my brothers were here. Their presence, their song, would reassure me. But I'm alone and I can feel the lost all around me. So many questions. So many doubts.
For a moment, my nature overtakes me and I go back to my job. The father will not be reunited with his family. His spirit is bound elsewhere.
Should I pity him? I wonder. And the moment I ask the question is the moment the feeling comes.
I've never felt empathy for the condemned before. And why should I? HIS judgement is perfect, like nothing else in the universe. This man deserved his fate.
The world wavered around me and I'm next to another soul. This one would die soon even without the carbon dioxide. He lies on a bench near the waterfront, clutching a bottle of cheap wine like a child clutches a teddy bear. Hunger and cold were beaten to the punch this time.
His skin is even redder than expected for a man of his alcoholic habits, courtesy of the poison he inhaled.
He leaves his body and sees me.
“What took you so damn long!”, he says. I see no fear, just anger. Like someone who had to wait too long in the post office.
“You know” I say hesitantly, “you probably won't like where you're going”.
I don't know what's wrong with me today, going off-script like that.
“I know.” he says, “But I don't like where I am either.”.
I can taste the anger in his words, the pain in his soul.
I stretch my hand to touch his brow, like countless times before, preparing to send him to the abyss. At the last moment, I stop.
The voices in the mist scream and babble at me, and their volume is now deafening.
I place my hands in my ears. A pointless gesture, because I'm not really listening through them. Just a reflex inherent to my human form.
I can still hear the man scream at me, “Come on! Everybody tells me to go to hell. It's about fucking time.”.
“Why?”.
This time, the words come from my mouth. I ask the question, and there is no one to answer. No one to tell me its going to be all right, that it's all part of God's benevolent plan.
I touch the man's brow and open a gate within him, but not to the abyss where the fallen ones are exiled. No, I reach into the place where I'm kept when I'm not needed. That place of temporary non existence known as limbo.
For what I imagine is the first time in years, the man smiles. His pain fades away moments before the rest of him.
A feeling of unimaginable wrongness erupts within me. I can't believe what happened. I violated my nature, the purpose instilled in me by my creator, my whole reason for existing.
I can only scream as my very being is torn asunder.
My wings are broken and bloody. My flesh burned. All I can feel is pain.
Then he comes to me. His light a beacon of hope amidst the desolation of the pit.
“Doubt is not a sin.” he says. | 18 | You are an angel of death. You and fifty other angels are assigned to a mass casualty situation. Due to a clerical error, you are the only one to show up. | 17 |
Long ago, there used to be all forms of intelligent species on Earth, but I am the last one old enough to remember this tale. It's been a long time since I have spoken of this long and bloody past, but I fear my time is running out. Anyways, let's get to why you're listening to me.
When the people were living in unison and everything was well, a boy was born. This boy was special and everybody knew it, as his cries were as true to himself as they were to those around him, his color wasn't showing it. In fact, his colored words were white, not the normal colors, as green was what should have been. Now, this was the first time this ever happened recordable history. Not only was it the first, it was also the doom of all but the baby and another being, both being of the same intelligent species.
The child grew, getting to know how he could control his power better and better, using it to his advantage. After 15 rotations, he was making history, showing his own powers to his friends and doing amazing things with them. But with power comes the corruption, and this was the first corruption to strike the global unison, and it was only within this child's mind. He couldn't describe it, as no words of their language could describe such a horrific thing, and the Old Language was outlawed and unspoken for the last millennia by the people. No way was he going to speak such a thing, as it was the things of nightmares for his people. But so was his darkness, and he couldn't stop thinking of it.
After 5 more rotations, after his inner balance was shifted to the dark, twisted side, he snapped. He used his power to wreak mayhem on his people. He first started to deceive, telling people he could do things he really couldn't do. He told them that he could fly if he jumped off of the Great Summit, and they could too, if they tried. Many tried, as they never have been lied to before, and they didn't know any better. The boy didn't know what to do, so he kept on with his corruption, satisfying his soul but destroying it in the process.
As you may think, the unified people learned, but they were degraded too much to do anything about it. He told them they were worthless, and they believed it. After all, they didn't have proof they weren't. They turned into mindless creatures, no intelligence or independent thought left. The only people left were the boy, who took it upon himself to name himself "Adam," as it was his people's word for the most respectable man to walk this planet. Adam saw himself as that, but they didn't know it was true. How could they?
Adam kept deceiving until he met the last female of the broken people, once unified. He realized what he needed to do and named her Eve, which was his peoples' word for reproducer. He had seven kids, and they all shared his power. They were all corrupt, and came up with slavery and more forms of genocide together. Today, that family is dominant, treating the other species as they convinced both themselves and the others that they are worthless and their history is forgotten. This is the rise of the Human species, the last intelligent species of the planet Earth, corrupt and forgotten by the rest of the Universe. If you have read this far, you must spread this story to the rest of the Humans, as it is the last hope for us to purge our souls of darkness and get rid of the many vile languages we speak in.
| 28 | When a person lies, what they say appears above their head in orange. When they tell the truth, it's green. When they say something with a harmful intent, it appears red. One day, a man realizes that he can control what color his words appear to be. He is the only man to be able to lie. | 40 |
"No one visits. No one calls. Dear Lord, if you could send someone, anyone, just to even talk...," Genevieve broke off sobbing. Even God didn't seem to be listening anymore.
A day later. A phone call. A young woman who just needed someone to talk to, someone who was thinking silly thoughts and just needed to hear a sympathetic voice. The call lasts twenty minutes. The women laugh and cry together. The old widow tells of hard times in the past. The young woman shares her hopes for the future. The random caller thanks the woman, "You saved my life today." A perfect moment.
Genevieve Simmerly was invigorated. "What are the odds?" she asked herself. Obviously, God had listened. She didn't have much time to ponder this mystery, however, as the phone immediately rang again.
Five hours later she was mortified. The calls just kept coming. She talked during her supper. She even took the handset into the bathroom. But now she had taken her BIG GREEN PILL, the one that always put her to sleep, and she very much needed to sleep. She told the next caller, "Please call back later." The caller's desperation turned to rage, "The fuck you mean call back later! I don't have a fucking later bitch! You were my last hop..." Genie unplugged the phone. She couldn't take any more of this tonight.
The next morning she tentatively plugged in the phone. Silence. She sighed. Relieved, but also a little saddened at being returned to right where she was before it all started. "The Lord works in mysterious ways" she thought, but it didn't occur to her that her thinking these days was slow and sent along odd paths by creeping dementia and medication which was designed to leave her safely inert in her little pensioner's flat.
The phone rang. "God give me strength," she muttered and dutifully picked up the handset.
Days went by following a familiar pattern. Genevieve plugging in her phone back in when she woke up, and then taking a 14 hour shift as a reluctant conversational partner.
It was inevitable that she would eventually become cross with one of them. The last straw was a rich boy-man who got everything he ever wanted, women, drugs, acclaim, success, money, love. The boy-man was sobbing because he felt that no one truly understood his writing. If they did, they'd know he was a fraud. She scoffed and told him to grow up. A loud pop sounded through her handset and she heard something which sounded like a body slumping over. There was no more sound. She hung up.
They kept calling. Her replies become increasingly coarse. "I can't help you!" "I am sorry, but life is hard some times." "Why are you bothering me?" "Oh, just do it then!"
Finally, one of her callers helped her. "Ma'am, are you OK?" Genie took a breath, "Yes, yes I'm OK." The caller asked, "How many calls have you taken today?" She paused, "I don't know. I've lost count. They're all so desperate. Many of them seem like they've be better off dead. Just don't know what to say any more." There was a long pause and the caller said, "Maybe it's time to take a break. Can I talk to your supervisor?" Genie replied, "Supervisor? Do you think I'd be like this if I had any help?!?" The caller was right, she decided. It was time to take a break. She unplugged the phone.
"Did that man-boy kill himself?", she asked aloud. What about all those poor souls she'd screamed at today? Guilt crept in as she spread marmalade over her biscuits. "I asked the Lord for company and this is how I repay him?" The thought stung.
The black thought, the one which had prompted her desperate prayer, the one which preoccupied all of her callers, was back, pressing itself into her conscious mind. It rolled around in her head taking various forms - "Why not just exit the stage?" "Why lie to these people?" "You know what the future has in store for them."
She needed to talk but no one was left. Husband dead. Children and grandchildren dead, or dispersed or disinterested. Her friends deceased or warehoused in faraway nursing homes. And the only people calling her were preoccupied with their own problems. Who was left?
Finally, she plugged back in her phone, hung it up after one ring, and picked it up again -- dial tone. She called her pharmacist, one of the few people left who were contractually obligated to speak with her, and told her of her thoughts. The pharmacist was busy, but obviously concerned. "Look, Mrs. Simmerly I think you need to talk to someone. I am going to have someone look in on you this week, but for now I want you to call this number. There are people who can help."
Genie dotted down the number, but every time she dialed the line was busy.
Three days later, the pharmacist made good on her pledge to have someone check in on Genie, but it was too late. Genevieve Simmerly, aged eighty-five, widow to Franklin Simmerly Jr., mother of five was found dead of apparent exhaustion in her small East End flat with her telephone in hand.
| 12 | The phone lines for the local suicide hotline and an old widows house get crossed, and now she receives a call/calls intended for the hotline. | 21 |
This inspired me to write a very personal "personal narrative." It helped me get out some thoughts about my own experience with a brain tumor as well as another painful even that is happening in my life right now. I don't know how well it answered the prompt, but I appreciate the opportunity to get some of my feelings out in writing. I apologize if it incoherent. Like I said, it's pretty personal. I should likely leave it in a journal, but it's hard to resist posting when you've written on one of these prompts, so here we go.
***
Brain Tumors, Hard Mode, and Easy Mode.
According to my pre-tumor journals, the world came to an end about every other week in my early twenties. The break-up. The fight with parents. The seven hundred dollar car repair. The extent to which I was unlike others and nobody understood.
When I was diagnosed, I wrote, *Part of me wants to scream, “I just want to be an ordinary girl!” while a smaller part of me whispers, “I always knew I wasn’t just an ordinary girl.”*
It was hell. “Benign and Operable” or no, surgery and recovery were hell. And I’m deaf now, and that’s a forever thing. Also forever is the phrase “highly recurring.”
It has yet to recur.
And now, yes. Life is on easy mode. But it wasn’t the tumor that made it hard, before. IT WAS THE TIME BEFORE THE TUMOR THAT WAS HARD MODE. Not realizing the extent to which time will ease all pain. Not understanding how temporary immediate hardship is. The way, “This hurts so much, and I just want to die!” quickly becomes just a thing that happened to me once when I was younger.
I see my friends struggling. Break ups. Fights. Car repairs. I can’t help them. I can’t give them the perspective I’ve gained (not without seeming like a pompous ass, anyway).
Bad things, hard things happen to me now too still. Right now, my insides are raw and bleeding because my best friend of twenty three years is moving to Colorado. We saw each other tonight for the last time before her flight. (I won't be there. God, I won't be there.) We watched Labyrinth. Again. One last... Held each other and promised, “If you need us…”
I came home. My husband asked how I was. “Astonishingly bad.” I said, and started crying.
But I know. Tomorrow will come, and the day after that, and the next one, and the next one too. It will get a little bit easier, and then a little more, and then a little bit more, until days pass where I don’t think about it. And one day, in so very little time that to consider THAT is its own kind of pain, I will be on a plane to Colorado. In the middle of my new immediate life, visiting a girl I loved from when I was a younger person.
Maybe I am not explaining myself well. I am in what delightful Anne Shirley (who beautifully understood girlhood friendship) would call the depths of despair. And yet not. Because I know that depths have their limits and I’ll see the other side again. Because I have done it before.
I miss her. I miss hearing. But I don’t miss hard mode. I don’t miss every day crisis mode. I guess I have a brain tumor to thank for that.
I don’t know if I’ve made any sense here, but yeah. | 192 | You are a person who has always considered themselves average. After having a tumor removed you find out you have been playing on "Hard mode". | 400 |
He swallowed his eyeball, turned to me, and said, “I can’t see shit.” Then he laughed. That was when I realized we had probably done too many drugs.
We arrived in Jamaica on Wednesday with clear instructions. Miguel needed a port for running the uncut shit into Louisiana. He didn’t like the idea of Cuba because he was a capitalist and it seemed too obvious. “I hired you, you are businessmen, facilitators, and you come to me with Cuba? Are you fucking stupid? They are communists, I am a white collar man, they think wealth should be shared, I think wealth should go to me. No, we go to Jamaica, I know someone, an associate.”
Miguel was not a level headed man. He didn’t trust helicopters because ‘vehicles should need a head start to begin moving’ and he ordered his men to cut down any palm tree within a forty kilometer radius of his compound because he thought his enemies poisoned the coconuts to ‘make them weak and then drop on his head when he walked underneath them.’
Jim was my business partner, we were six years out of college and making a hundred thousand dollars a month. He wore women’s slipovers and had more collared shirts than anyone I had ever met.
We met the associate of Miguel’s on the outskirts of trenchtown. It was a bar with sheet metal malls and strange murals painted everywhere: Jesus in sunglasses, letting a hefty Jamaican ‘back up’ into him, a blockish grinning man with a giant boner and woman perched on top like cockatoos.
The associate had yellow eyes with streaks through the sclera like red lightning. “We need a port, something low key,” I told him.
“Yes, yes,” he said.
In the countries where we did business, everything was always, “No problem, no problem.”
He produced a bag of blow from his pocket and we did rails on the plastic patio furniture we were using for a boardroom table. A DJ showed up and played music so loud it shook my bowels. I asked where the washroom was and Miguel’s associate said it was ‘out back.”
I took a shit in a bucket.
When I came back I felt like superman if superman devoted all of his powers to awkwardly dancing on cocaine. I forgot we were really close to one of the worst slums in the world. I forgot alpha males typically thought every piece of pussy was theirs until they gave permission.
A couple men with hoods drooped low over their brows eyed us from the bar. It was dark. I caught multicolored glimpses of their faces through a cheap rotating disco ball. Scars, beards, bandanas on their throats, like they were just waiting to pull them up over their mouths and reach for whatever they had beneath their hoodies.
We did more cocaine and then we told some girls we had cocaine. We invited them back to our hotel, arguing with the security guards at the gate of our hotel because they thought the girls were going to rob us. They weren’t wrong. We woke up in the morning with two eight balls missing, but we had genital drying sex until six AM, so we figured the trade-off was worth it. I never faulted anyone for wanting more drugs when they were on drugs.
Jim poured two giant glasses of vodka and we downed them before we met the associate and scouted the port. It was good, to the associate’s credit, nice and quiet, water deep enough to almost reach shore in a souped up trawler.
On the drive back to Kingston, oily sweat on our pale foreheads, we climbed the crest of a hill and then saw a roadblock as we came down. Not police. Not unless they wore camo pants and tattered shirts and smoked joints the size of a basketball player’s fingers.
I looked at Jim and he mouthed the words, “Oh shit.”
The associate rolled down his window. The men pointed guns at our vehicle.
I looked at Jim and he mouthed the word, “FUCK.”
The associate conversed in a stilted mix of English and Rasta. I tried to follow along, I always thought it was prudent to pay attention to men pointing guns at you, but I couldn’t understand a fucking thing. Their voices were raising, angry.
I looked at Jim and he didn’t fucking move.
The associate handed one of the men a hundred dollar bill and we drove away.
“The fuck was that?” Jim asked.
“No problem, no problem,” the associate said.
Then he gave us more cocaine and we didn’t ask him anymore questions. We went back to our hotel and showered and put on linen shirts and went to celebrate at a fancy restaurant. I had the cocaine and red wine and Jim had the cocaine and scotch.
The associate left, telling us he had other business to attend to. We walked to a tourist bar and snorted coke off anything with a flat surface on the way. It knotted my stomach, alternating between an airy, popcorn bursting feeling, and a hardened spackle feeling. I had to shit, so I sat backwards on the toilet, the tourist bar was a nice place with toilets, and snorted cocaine off the tank while I shat.
We danced until three in the morning. There were tons of couples there, some from cruises, some from all-inclusives, and they all liked us because we were on cocaine and seemed talkative and friendly.
On the way out, some forty year old with a nice wristwatch said, “Can I get you guys a drink?”
Jim said, “What does that mean?”
And the guy said, “Nothing. It means exactly what I said.”
Jim punched the guy. We had done a lot of coke. The guy fell down and started screaming. “Mike! Mike! Mike!”
We didn’t know who Mike was, so we didn’t worry about it. It’s easy to create a backstory for someone you don’t know.
Well, we found out who Mike was. He was ex-something. Our guesses were military, hitman, UFC fighter, or Jean Claude Van Damme’s trainer. Jim attempted to punch him and Mike easily dodged it and gave him an eye gouge so bad his eye popped out. The place went silent. I’m not sure but I think the music even stopped. Mike said, “Oh jesus christ dude, I’m so sorry,” and then ran away like a ten year old hitting a baseball into the neighbor’s window.
I looked at Jim and he slowly reached for the ground.
| 54 | Reveal the ending at the beginning of your story (however you want to), but still hold the reader's suspense all the way to the end. | 70 |
....
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dealing with loss
grief
death
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leaving depression behind
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guilt
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does the perfect man exist?
is it wrong to feel happy?
what does love feel like?
.... | 13 | - Tell the story of a tragic event through internet search history. | 19 |
"This is going to be no big deal." He said. His voice was a little too loud, and a little deeper than normal. She didn't notice, though. Her heart was hammering in her chest, drowning out the details she should have been picking up. The details she had trained her whole life to pick up.
He led the way, out into the open. Away from the compound. Away from safety. "Darkness and Cover" was the motto the old ones were constantly repeating. Darkness AND Cover - you relied on both. You didn't rely on your armor. You didn't rely on your senses. You relied on Darkness and Cover. You found resources, and you hid. They must know what they were talking about; how else did they become old ones?
So what were they doing so far from the compound, forsaking one and about to forsake the other? Already there was a faint glow. She was getting her first good look at him, but failed to appreciate it. How far were they from home? She wanted to look, but didn't dare. What if she somehow lost him in the growing brightness? What if he left her behind?
Suddenly, the brightness intensified. Was this the sun, leaping above the horizon? No, this dreadful luminescence was not natural. In the dazzling glare she froze, transfixed as if by a gorgon's stare. Part of her was aware that her companion was fleeing. In seconds he would be safe under the cabinet, searching for crumbs, never again to be tempted by the thought of whole loaves of bread. Then her shell cracked under the pressure of the slippered foot, and all fear, regret and love were extinguished along with the terrible light. | 17 | In a nocturnal society, being out after sunrise means trouble, and you're about to find out why. | 17 |
"What does the man with all the guns want the most?"
Warlord Mercedes sat on his throne, medallion hanging from his neck and making contemplative eyes at the travelling salesman. He had pleaded to see the warlord but if he displeased him, his head would meet the hammer.
"Of course I don't wish to speak *for* you Lord Mercedes, but allow me to make a supposition. I believe you want control, and in particular you want to bend others to your control, but, what happens when the bullets are used? What good are the guns as weapons?"
An eyebrow raised.
"If the bullets are used, the guns are worth nothing. They will cease to have the effect of fear and control, you see, it is the fear of *the known* that is temporary to us. When others know there are no bullets, they will know no longer know fear".
Warlord Mercedes shifted in his seat, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees. The body language suggested to the salesman that he better wrap this up.
"What you want then, is fear of *the unknown*. I have a weapon to sell, a weapon of control, and a weapon of peace. It can be used in whatever way the owner needs it. **That** was its purpose before the fall. Great men - scientists, soldiers, politicians, even warriors all used the weapon in their own way, as there was never a clear distinction among the populace as to what it means to use the knowledge contained within - it is limitless. It could be used to inspire good, or to inspire evil under the guise of good. That is it's *charm* you see."
"And what is this weapon? Bring it before me!" The question and command were spat with impatience and venom.
"It is an instruction of life, of living, and of meaning. It is right here in my hand". The salesman pulled out a large black book from the pocket within his robe-sleeve. It was the thickest book Warlord Mercedes had ever seen. "In here you will find answers to your own problems as well as those that affect others, indeed, everyone has a problem to be solved and exploited with this weapon, but it's true majesty are the instructions and rules of *the unknown*." He paused for dramatic effect to allow the warlord to take in his spiel. "In here are instructions from a greater being than any man. His wrath is known, his wisdom is known, and his promises are known. With *this* you will bring people to your side with knowledge of who we are and how we came to be. They will revere you, listen to you, fight and die for you - for there is said to be a place beyond our lives where we live again. Your warriors shall fight with more zeal than the other warlords for they know the truth - they know where they will go to upon a glorious death".
"Hrm. What's your price wasteman?"
"My only price is to remain in your service and to guide you in the meaning of this book. It is all I ask."
"And it is all you receive, but if your words turn to poison in my ear I shall see to it that your ears are filled with lead. Step forward and claim your place".
Archbishop M. Jackson stepped forward, straightening his unique black and white collar and bowing his head. "God is willing". | 44 | In a post-apocalyptic world, you are trying to sell something to a warlord who controls your area. What is it and why shouldn't the warlord just take it | 36 |
English is not my main language, so forgive me for any spelling errors.
There was a ear-splitting beeping noise. It lit up the apartment room on the 25th floor with its periodic, screeching racket. The once stationary man sat up from the bed and turned off the alarm. He stands up and winces; his eyes still adjusting to the "early morning" lights of 12:45 in the afternoon. Stepping over the pieces of glass near the broken window, he draws a line next to other three lines that sit in the middle of his living room wall. He sighs. Rubbing the grey stubble that take up lower part of his face, he grabs his revolver and walks past the bloody knife on the table towards the bathroom. "I really hope this works," he thinks to himself. "other wise, I might just kill myself." He chuckles. He sits down in the shower, knocking over the empty bottle of sleeping medicine, and turns on the hot water. As he closes eyes and lets the water run over him, he puts the gun up to his head and pulls the trigger.
There is a ear-splitting beeping noise. | 17 | End a story the same way you started it. | 23 |
Jerry and Nigel were the best of friends. Both born blue and green striped Hane's crew socks, they were joined when fate (and the hands of a small Malaysian girl) bundled them together and placed them in an assorted three-pack destined for sale in America. From that point on, the two were virtually inseparable.
Life was somewhat uneventful in those early days. They shared their package with two other pairs of crew socks: blue and yellow striped Dave and Francis and blue and red striped Perry and Lance. They all bonded quite quickly, even going so far as to name themselves "The Striped Sox," which they thought demonstrated unity and a common goal. Sure, this name lacked a bit in terms of imagination, but you must remember what brand they were. Hanes' most exciting developement in the last quarter century was an undershirt without a tag.
But a team they were. And a good one, too, for the journey to the New World was exceedingly dull. Relief from boredom was hard to come by. They came to pass the time in many different ways. Sometimes by playing games like "I Spy" and "Twenty Questions." Sometimes by sharing hopes and dreams (Perry and Lance wanted to be sock puppets that entertained children). Sometimes by sharing their fears (all of them were terrified of ending up alone).
"Maybe we will end up in Beverly Hills and become reality TV stars," Lance would say.
"Do they wear sandals with socks in America?" wondered Dave.
"I hope I don't make anyone's calf look fat," worried Frank.
Needless to say, they were all very excited.
After finally finding their way onto the shelf of a Target in Sacramento, California, they were quickly purchased by a pleasant middle-aged woman named Sandy. She bought them for her eleven year old son, Craig. While Craig was a bit hard on the Striped Sox (he was fond of running in the yard while wearing socks without shoes), Sandy made sure to always take good care of them. They were cleaned on the gentle cycle and bleach was kept far, far away. For over a year, they lived the good life. Like most things, it proved to be temporary.
Being in the clothes hamper where dirty laundry was stored before washing was the only time that Jerry and Nigel or the other Striped Sox ever felt any fear. It was a dark, damp place and they were usually separate from their fellows. Then there was the other clothing. Many of them could be quite rude and generally unpleasant, especially the undergarments.
"Class? Whats that?" shouted the wife-beaters to no one in particular.
"That twat needs to keep her lips shut!" Exclaimed the panties.
"No one supports *us*!" complained the bras.
"Get a whiff of this!" offered the boxer shorts over and over.
It was during such a time in the hamper when everything changed for Nigel and Jerry. They had lucked out and managed to keep close during their two days amongst the other dirty clothes. They were almost cheerful when Sandy came to wash them. Only, this time, something was different.
Rather than bringing the entire hamper down to the basement where the washer and drier resided, she instead rummaged around for a few seconds. It seemed she was looking for something specific.
"DId she leave her debit card or cocaine in the pocket of her jeans again?" Jerry thought to himself.
"Um, Jerry..What's happening?"
"Probably looking for her stash, Nigel."
It wasn't her stash. In an instant, Nigel was gone. Taken by Sandy to parts unkown. This was highly irregular. He tried to yell out to the other Striped Sox, but they were at the bottom of the hamper having been worn by Craig earlier in the week. As he lay there in the dark, worrying about hsi best friend, Jerry was struck by a single thought.
"Why wasn't Sandy wearing her wedding band?"
The next ten minutes seemed like an eternity. Jerry was scared. Scared for his friend. Scared for himself, too. What use was a a single sock in a world of pairs?
'Maybe Craig will develope colorblindness and end up pairing me with one of the others? Maybe he'll have a freak accident and lose a foot, which means he'll only need to wear one sock at a time? Maybe..."
Jerry's inner dialogue was cut short. He heard footsteps. Quietly, they scampered over to the hamper. The lid lifted and in flew Nigel. He landed right atop Jerry.
"Nigel! I didn't think I"d ever see you again! I thought I would have to maim Craig with..a..."
He stopped short. Nigel was leaking some sort of goo all over Jerry and the rest of the clothes. It smelled like the fruit of a Chinese Chestnut tree.
"Nigel...what happened to you?"
Nigel moaned, "It...it was Craig. He...he got past the parental controls..."
Jerry broke down. His best friend had been violated. He had been used, then tossed aside like a disposable glove.
For a moment, Jerry looked upon his lifelong friend with a mix of fear and disgust. But it was only for a moment. Jerry loved his friend. He held him and whispered "It's not your fault" over and over until Nigel fell asleep.
"You're my best friend."
| 109 | You are a sock and today is laundry day. Everything is going well until you lose sight of your matching partner. | 107 |
The tray is pushed in front of me.
I frown up at the guard, but refrain from commenting. I may be a cold blooded killer, but since this is going to be my last meal, I expected a little more respect on the matter. However, once you've been caught, death glares and wishful thinking don't hold as much weight as they use to. He blatantly ignores my glare and returns to his post by the door. I turn my attention to my final meal. When they had asked what I wanted, I knew that I would want a little touch of home. I gave them my favorite house stew recipe.
And I must say, the presentation was acceptable. While one might think it is hard to fuck up presenting soup, I know it can be done. My mother was quite the example on how to fuck things up. While people may think I'm the prime example, I don't think they realize how horrible she was in the kitchen. She always ended up spilling food everywhere, especially the soups.
Next I examine the color closely. It's the wrong color. I'm a little surprised. Not that they fucked up my recipe, that's was excepted from a prison kitchen. No, what's surprising is the fact it looks just like my mother's original recipe. Mother's soup was always a little too brown due to being burnt at the bottom of the pot. I feel the side of the bowl and note the temperature, finding it not hot, just warm. That's just peachy. They burned it and then let it sit in the window too long.
I pick up the spoon. Time to taste. The first thing I notice is the overbearing taste, almost acidic. Yep, definitely burned, just like mother's. Mother never understood the importance of maintaining heat. She always burned everything. Mother wouldn't know the right temperature if I had cut it into her forehead. Which I did, but that's beside the point. I mean, really. You can only fuck up my food so much before I have to get rid of you.
The next flavor I notice is flour. I can actually taste the flour through the burnt taste. Great. Fuckers didn't even know how to make a proper rue. You are suppose to cook the flour in the butter and let it simmer. Dear god, they probably used oil. Why won't you bastards just follow the recipe. It is really simple! Hell, I've maimed assistants for a lesser slight!
And where's the nutmeg? I don't taste it. They probably thought it was a mistake and didn't add it. It wasn't a mistake though. That was the newest addition to my recipe, the latest tweak. Truthfully, I haven't had nutmeg since I was 5. But I figured if I was going out, I might as well try it again. Oh well, better luck next life.
I scoop up a piece of potato and eat it. I taste dirt. They didn't even wash them. They must have a death wish. I have lost sous chefs because they failed to clean my vegetables properly. Literally! They still haven't found Luis Peteir yet! If I wasn't currently incarcerated, I'd take great pleasure in hunting these bastards down for this.
In a fuss, I take another bite. I am assaulted by the mixed textures. The celery is overcooked and mushy but the carrots are raw and crunchy. I resist the urge to spit it out. At the opposite sides of the spectrum, I can't tell which is worse. When in a stew, vegetables need to be cooked just right. I learned that the hard way. Ever since that one Duke sent that one bowl back, that's what I get remembered for. Well, not anymore. Since then, I made sure that my stews were perfect, always perfect. And I made sure the Duke would never complain about my food again.
I've lost my appetite. All in all, this is one of the most disgusting things I've ever eaten. How could they butcher my recipe so much! I push the bowl away and sit back. What a horrible waste. It's only as I fume over the massacre of my dish that I notice the raw itch in the back of my throat. Oh. Fantastic. As a master chef and culinary mastermind, I know the first signs of a food allergy. I always thought that this would be the most poetic way to go. I try to giggle, but my throat has constricted too much, too fast.
Allergies are my favorite. I've intentionally killed many people knowing what food would trigger their deaths. The best ones are the foods that you didn't know you were allergic to. Ones that medical and prison screens wouldn't check because of how rare they are. As I hit the ground, I hear the guard call for assistance. But I know that they will come too late. In fact, I planned on it. I'd rather go out my own way, thank you very much.
I'm glad they didn't forget the nutmeg after all. | 23 | You're a world famous chef on death row. This is your last meal, Bon Appetit | 20 |
In a split second, my life flashed before my eyes. Then, darkness.
I opened my eyes and I was standing in a beige waiting room with a tacky fake plant and a few other people sitting in the room with me. The outdated speaker above me played some crappy new wave music as I heard the slow, apathetic clicks of the secretary typing on her old computer. I walked up slowly to the counter. A big, bland sign "New Arrivals" hung above the window.
"Welcome to Hell, name please?" I blinked and sunk in what the woman just said to me. Hell? Am I actually dead? I recall the truck slamming into me as I stepped off the curb exiting the bar, but did it really.....
"Name please?" the woman repeated with an annoyance in her tone.
"Stanley Thompson. I'm sorry, is this...."
"Hell? Correct sir. You have died, this is the eternal pit of despair, it's all in the packet. Please fill out these forms and read through the paperwork, we WILL know if you don't read it, and personally, considering there are certain stipulations in the contract that may determine your punishment, I would recommend thoroughly reading through them." Her voice was nasally, and she was loudly chewing bubblegum like a cow. I grabbed the large stack of forms attached to the clipboard, and sat down. There was a woman, shaking as she flipped through her papers. A larger man, chain smoking, as he filled out his papers. Another slinky man fell through the door I just entered. He was panting as he walked up to the counter. He asked just about the same questions I did. I stopped listening and began filling out the forms. Contact information? I'm dead, who cares where my residence is? As I looked through, I noticed the stupidity of these forms. They wanted a list of all my residences, emergency contacts, insurance information.....this stuff carries out through to the afterlife? After three grueling hours of reading through the paperwork, agreeing to exist in Hell for the amount of time I am to be punished or be exterminated permanently, I handed the forms to the woman at the desk. She smirked, and pulled a ticket from the ticket counter.
"Thank you, sir. Here is your number, please exit to the right to the waiting room." I walk through the door and it hits me. I am surrounded in a room with at least 500 or more people. This room has no windows, fluorescent lighthing, and 50 chairs. There are whiny kids, people arguing, the noise is unbearable. It's cramped and I can barely move. I look down at my ticket.
It says: Ticket No. 23,428,789. Oh God
| 19 | You died and were sent to hell. Instead of fire and torture, you discovered that hell is just a terribly inefficient and pointless bureaucracy. | 36 |
The first thing I was aware of was that it was far too hot in my bedroom. The second thing I was aware of was that I was lying on my side, even though I always slept on my back. Opening my eyes, the third thing that I was aware of was that this was not my bedroom.
I sat up, more alert than I’d ever been in my life, trying to place my surroundings. I was certainly in the room of a female, the room had cream walls, and a rose pattern on the curtains. There was nature photography on the walls, beautifully framed pictures of woods and butterflies. The room was incredibly tidy, the bed pressed up opposite the widow and a large closet and dresser pressed to the adjacent wall. The room was too warm though.
Cautiously, I decided to look around a bit more to discover what was going on. Standing, I realised that I was suddenly much taller than I was yesterday, and reasonably skinnier. I also noticed my head felt warmer. Bringing my hand to it I discovered that, where yesterday I had a short pixie cut, today my hair was halfway down my back, and a totally different colour!
Frantically I looked for a mirror. Spotting one on the dresser I ran to see my reflection, and immediately dropped it in surprise. Slowly I picked it up again, to see if what I’d seen was true.
The person in the mirror wasn’t me. The person in the mirror had chestnut hair and chocolate eyes. She had freckles and a sweet smile, and her ears weren’t pierced.
I had blonde hair and grey eyes, my lips were slightly thinner and I wore earrings constantly. Who was this person whose body I was inhabiting?
I continued to look in the mirror for a long while, trying to learn everything about this new body, until a little thought in my mind got too much for me.
”It is so goddam hot in this room!” I exclaimed in a voice not my own, and paused for a second to contemplate this new sound. After speaking to myself for a bit, and trying to get used to this new voice, I grabbed a hair tie from the dresser to alleviate some of the heat and went to the widow to see if I could let in some air.
I ripped open the curtains, and stopped. Blinking, I tried to process what I was seeing. There was a beach, and palm trees. Actual palm trees! This wasn’t home, I doubted it was even the same country! Do they even have palm trees in Canada…?
My thought process was interrupted by a ringing from the bed. Looking under the pillow I found this girls phone, and it was ringing. I was stuck, I didn’t know what to do, just standing there staring at this phone in my hand. I looked at the number that was calling, and was amazed to realise that the call was coming from my own mobile back home.
Hesitantly I brought the phone to my ear and clicked accept.
”Hello?”
| 44 | You suddenly switch bodies with a random person in the world. The only way to change back is for you two to meet in person | 59 |
Ned supposed it was the part where he should start laughing maniacally, but Ned didn't have a sense of humor.
*Take a deep breath. Is this happening?* Ned asked himself.
*It is.* Ned replied.
He reached with an icy calm and began stroking the magnificently shiny red button before him, as he did he almost found it funny how a single twitch of his finger would obliterate every particle in existence. It would cost all of one calorie. He almost found this funny, but didn't, and sighed instead.
*Wait. This is the moment I've spent years working towards. Shouldn't I give a toast or something?* Ned thought, and began scrambling around for something with alcohol in it. Then Ned remembered he didn't drink, Ned wasn't a very fun guy.
Sighing again Ned meandered to the sink and drew a tall cup of tap-water. "Here's to...the...the..." He began aloud *The end to what?* He wasn't sure. *What's the opposite of a Big Bang?*
"Here's to the Tiny Whimper." He said unenthusiastically and promptly choked on the water.
The Quantum Fibrillator was a fancy device that worked on the principles of Quantum Entanglement. It worked by vibrating particles in a peculiar way, in such an extent that it would effect every particle it had become entangled with over billions of years.
Ned wasn't entirely sure what would happen, but he knew that atoms and molecules all around the universe would have a very hard time trying to keep from flying apart at the speed of light.
Ned reached out and tapped the red button. *In ten seconds, people are going to be very unhappy.* This time Ned finally smiled, but the cheek-muscles became rather confused and so it didn't last very long.
"EXCUSE ME." Yelled the walls, and the floor, and the ceiling, far too loudly. "DO YOU MIND? I'M GOING TO STOP TIME FOR A SECOND."
Ned was curled up in a ball on the floor, peeking out from under his hands.
"OH, I'M SORRY. IS THAT TOO LOUD?" Screamed Ned's eardrums and every bone in his body.
Ned gave a tiny whimper.
"SORry, is this better?" Said a handsome man who was suddenly standing in front of him.
The man had a very nice haircut, and a perfectly trimmed beard. Ned tried to figure out what color his beard was, because it certainly wasn't one he'd ever seen before. He was wearing khakis, a hawaiian shirt, and flip-flops.
"You're Ned aren't you? Well of course you are." He reached out and pulled Ned to his feet. "How you doin' kid?"
To say Ned was shaken would not be an understatement, it would be an exact description. His jaw had trouble closing and he stammered, he would have collapsed again if the handsome-man had not reached out and straightened him.
"Look kid, I know what you're up to. Universal destruction and all that, it's a pretty lofty goal."
Ned found his voice "You're...God. Are you going to stop me?"
"No, no, no, it isn't like that. You already pushed the button, I might pause time but I never rewind it." God began, "But what I don't appreciate is your reasoning, your motivations."
Ned nodded dumbly.
"Correct me if I'm wrong. But you want to erase the universe because you don't have friends, you've never been kissed, and everyone thinks you're an asshole."
Ned nodded dumbly, again. "Well, that and there was this one time when I was a kid, this other kid stuffed gum in my hair...and..."
"Yes, yes, yes. I saw that, it was pretty funny. Look, you're a real jerk Ned. Not the biggest, but still one of my least favorite people that I ever bothered to create.
"Not you too?" Ned felt what was left of his feelings being hurt.
"It's true, nobody likes you Ned. But that's a stupid reason to blow up the universe, you know? Put some more fire into those veins, some more passion, yeah?"
Ned tried to be angry and scrunched up his face. "Like this?"
God looked disappointed. "I spent a hell of a lot of time building this place. Shit didn't take a week, you know? So it's kind of irksome that an ant like you would kill it out of loneliness."
"Sorry?"
"But rules are rules, I never intervene. The funny thing is though, there's no such thing as nothing. You can't really destroy the universe, not forever."
"You can't?"
"Oh believe me, I've tried. A few times actually. Just comes back again, and again. In fact it's rather tiring. If I leave it formless the neighboring deities start complaining about their property values."
"I bet." Replied Ned.
"So here's the deal. I'm not doing this shit anymore." God snapped his fingers. The air in the room began to stir again, time started to move. "In ten seconds every atom in the universe will start exploding. It'll probably take a few trillion years to quiet down."
Ned's heart started to pound.
"There's going to be a hell of a mess to clean up." God said as he conjured up a strange looking object and dropped into Ned's hands.
Ned noticed that the strange object was in fact a mop.
"JERK." Screamed the walls, and the floor, and the ceiling, and every atom in existence, particularly the atoms composing Ned's skull, and God promptly vanished.
Ned laughed, and was surprised.
| 15 | Ten seconds before your plan to destroy the universe succeeds, you learn that whoever destroys the universe will be responsible for creating the next one, because god "Isn't doing this shit anymore." | 24 |
I glanced in amusement at the revolver Wanda was pointing at me. She had ten other guns aimed at her back, maybe twelve, but obviously she didn't care. All that mattered was that I would die. If she gave her life in the process, well, she'd still count that as a win.
"My my my, so the rebels did manage to sneak an agent into my inner circle. I'm impressed. Tell me, Wanda, were you always on their side? Or did they manage to turn you after you became my security officer?" I asked.
"They showed me the evil of your ways," Wanda spat, "they showed me pictures of the bodies from the massacre at Hightower, and the files from the Bluebox Incident. Those were innocent women and children! How could you?"
"Innocent? Hardly. They were rebels. That makes them military targets, and that means my orders were completely justified. The rebels were strapping bombs to kids and sending them into government buildings. They gave guns to women," I glanced at Wanda's trembling revolver again, "and told them to shoot up malls, and schools, and churches. Innocent, Wanda? Really?"
"And you think that makes it all right for you to use the Bluebox virus on them?"
"Absolutely. Six rebel strongholds, wiped out, just like that, while leaving their infrastructure and resources intact. My troops could waltz right in their front gates and take everything, without firing a shot. I don't recall you having any objections when I put you in charge of securing those strongholds. In fact, I distinctly recall you ordering mercy killings for the survivors of the virus."
"Enough!" Wanda screamed, advancing further forward, "Today I atone for my crimes. Today I end your tyranny, once and for all!"
I laughed outright at her, "Ha! Do you really think you'll be able to kill me?"
My security officer's face hardened into a mask of hatred and determination as she raised the gun. "I do."
The trans-warp arrow materialized five meters behind Wanda, then shot forward and impaled her through the chest. Wanda's eyes widened in shock. The revolver tumbled from her hand, and she collapsed to her knees.
The guards swarmed forward and grabbed her. I waved them back. They immediately, obediently, backed away from the dying woman.
I looked pityingly down at Wanda's face, which was growing pale as she lost blood. "Did you really think I didn't have an insurance policy against rebel infiltration? You're my SO, you should know me better than that. I activated the trans-warp arrow eight years ago, when I took the throne." | 577 | On your eighteenth birthday, you shoot a mystic bow that is said to kill whoever is destined to kill you, three seconds before they do. Eight years later, your arrow strikes your SO's heart, right as she says "I do." | 949 |
He stood there in the dark, looking down the fifty stories at the street below, wondering what it would feel like when he hit the ground. Would it hurt? What was the fall going to be like? Would he have regretted jumping, like all the people who leap from the Golden Gate Bridge? Who gives a shit, he thought, if I decide to jump I’ll go. I have to trust how I feel right now, not look ahead to the pussy who’s flying through mid-air fretting about death.
He got up onto the ledge, and prepared to jump when a voice called out to him. “You going to jump, too? I guess we’ll be in the paper tomorrow.”
He stumbled backwards in shock, nearly falling on his behind.
A man, probably in his forties, average height with slightly greying black hair strode up to the ledge alongside of him. The man flicked a roach off the building, and they watched as it was carried by the wind, fluttering gently to the ground.
He turned to the man, his fists clenched, “Why did you do that? I was ready!” he shouted, suddenly overcome with rage.
The man smiled, “Man, you got ready once, you can get ready again. I just thought I’d say hello before you took a dive. After all, kind of a coincidence that we’re up here in the same spot, getting ready to off ourselves.”
“You’re right. Well fuck this, man, I’m out.” He said, striding confidently back to the ledge. When he looked down this time, he could feel his heart race. He began to breathe heavily. His hands shook as he took a step back.
“FUCK!” he screamed, and it echoed off of the other buildings.
The other man gave a hearty laugh and strode to the ledge. The man looked down, and spoke softly, “Sure is a long way. We picked a good building, friend. It’s the right height and pretty easily accessible. I commend you for your intelligent choice of suicide location.”
“Thanks, I guess.” He said dejectedly.
The man climbed up on to the ledge turned around to face him, “Look, pal, you might think you’re ready for this. But, man, one look at you says you aren’t. I’ve been there before, up on some ledge high off the ground. The slightest little thing is enough to get you to step back and reconsider the whole mess, and then it’s over. One time, a bird landed right next to me and cooed at me, like it was begging me to stop and reconsider. I sat down and I cried and cried because right then I thought this life was worth living some more. You think you’re gonna come up here and jump off the building but you aren’t. You’ve already made your decision – you oughta go home.”
He could feel the anger rise up within him, the redness of his cheeks. He lashed out, “What the fuck do you think you know! I’m going to jump off this building, I’m ready to take my life. I’ve thought about it a lot, God damn it!!!”
The man chuckled, leaned back and fell off of the ledge.
He cried out as he watched it happen and ran to the ledge. Looking down, he saw the body flail in mid-air, a look of horrified calm on the man’s face. The body smacked into the pavement below, splattering blood across it like paint, the final artwork of a human life a crimson Rorschach blot. He sat down next to the ledge and began to sob. It occurred to him, as his chest heaved, that perhaps this life was worth living some more. | 52 | Two suicidal adults coincidentally meet atop a building and have a discussion. | 38 |
"So, its musical skill?" Satan raised one fiery, evil eyebrow at the pathetic meat sack that sat in the middle of the summoning circle. "I have made this deal many times with many people. You remember Elvis right? Yea, all this guy right here." Thunder crashed as Satan pointed his evil finger at his very evil chest. The meat sack nodded and smiled.
"So I can rule the musical world then, man? Cool. Sign me up." The meat sack grinned wide, showing his mortal teeth proudly.
"Yep kid. Just gonna need your soul after ten years. That's how this thing works as I'm sure you know. You get fame and fortune, I get a new toy to play with for eternity. Hows it sound?" The meat grinned wide again and extended his flabby mortal paw. The deal was struck. Lightning crashed, young children woke in terror and screams. Somewhere a man walked into a bathroom to shit and only farted.
Ten years passed. The music world had been rocked thoroughly with hooks and beats from the musical mind of Satan himself. It was time to collect. Fire flashed evil and wicked. The meat had grown and looked nervous. But Satan had been thinking.
"I've been watching you kid." The meat cowered in the corner, surely expecting the worse. "You make evil seem even more fun than I do. Ill tell you, not a single person who has ever made a deal with me has made my job easier. I mean, kid, you just don't give a shit do you? Its like I made you myself! You know, how about we make a deal? You live out the rest of your intended life with the same benefits we worked out ten years ago, and when your done and gone why don't you come work for me? No torture, I promise. You, you might just end up running the place. Trust me, the benefits are good. Really good. And, boy wont that God guy just be pissed? Hows it sound?"
Justin Beiber got up, pushed his shitty hair aside and shook the devil's hand. Somewhere in a small rural town, a lonely metal guitarist hung himself with a guitar string. | 68 | Satan makes a deal with someone for their soul, only to realize he likes this person very much. | 25 |
"Hey, ma'am, can I help you with that?"
She smiles a grateful smile as she clutches her son with one hand and several brown bags with the other, clasped against her small, narrow body.
"Thank you so much!" she gushes and allows me to take them off her, fumbling awkwardly. I smile back at her as she rearranges her purse and then picks up her son.
"Hey there, mister," I murmur, smiling brightly at the kid too. He chortles and deep dimples wink in each cheek. She pats his hair affectionately as she leads me over to her car. She settles the kid in his seat as he wriggles around and burbles. Such innocence.
"Thank you so much. It's all a bit of a struggle at the moment." she tells me as she loads up the bags in the trunk. "The wheel came off Sam's stroller after something snapped off but I desperately needed groceries. He's walking now anyway but I forgot how good he is at escaping."
I nod patiently as she continues her story. Her name's Cathy. Her no good rotten, cheating scumbag of an ex husband left her when he found out she was pregnant. Just like her own father.
"...now it's just me and him." There's a pause and I realise I'm expected to speak.
"My sister's kid has just grown out of her stroller," I mention. "She's trying to get rid of it. I could get it for you."
Cathy's smile grows.
"Oh, that'd be wonderful!" She grabs an old receipt and a half chewed pen from her bag and scrawls an address. "I'm in most of the time. I don't have much time for anything else but Sam at the moment."
As though on cue, he starts squalling. Her eyes flicker towards the back seat.
"I've gotta go, but I owe you! Thank you so much!"
"No worries," I tell her. "Just doing my good deed for the day."
----------------------------------------------------------
"It looks almost brand new," she says. I shrug.
"Deena took good care of it, I guess." She hears the defence in my voice and pats my arm.
"Hey, sorry, that sounded ungrateful. I'm just amazed. I definitely owe you."
"Not to worry," I reply, returning the pat on the arm and giving the little boy in her arms a quick ruffle of the hair. I can feel his warmth under my fingertips as the wisps of angel blonde hair dance under them. "Anything for this little man, right?"
"Right." She gives me a satisfied smile, as though I understand. I understand, alright. How precious and wonderful and innocent children are. Oh, I understand. "Well I owe you a drink at least. I've got coffee, coke, juice, beer?"
Her eyes roam nervously over me. It's been a while since she's had a man in the house, I can tell.
"Coke would be great. Carrying that stroller up four flights of stairs is thirsty works."
She giggles and is surprised at the sound of her laughter. I follow her in, past the grubby white door into the small, dark apartment. She sets Sam down on the ground. She looks embarrassed as she grabs a can from the tiny, whirring fridge in the corner of the room and passes it to me. There's toys and plastic balls and cheap magazines everywhere. A tired old TV stands to the side.
I take a slug from the can and warm, cloying sweetness hits my throat.
"I can fix that, you know," I say. Her back is to me as she makes up a bottle of juice for Sam. She turns back, her eyes big and wide. I get the feeling she's not used to kindness. "I know how to fix fridges. I can bring round my tools some other time."
"Why?" she asks, almost angry. "Why would you want to do that?"
I'm never gonna understand women. Dogs and cars and children are simple. Women? Whole 'nutha planet.
"I need to find some way of doing a good deed a day, right?" I try to keep my voice light. She relaxes, her shoulders sinking, and offers me a quick smile before bending over and giving Sam his drink, which he grabs greedily.
"Sure. Sure. How does Thursday sound?"
------------------------------------------------------
"You okay there?"
I bite my lip to try and prevent cursing.
"Fine, thanks." I'm pretty sure she can still hear the frustration in my voice.
"Hey, I really appreciate this. Me and Sam both. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't helped me with my bags that day."
I remove my head from inside the fridge.
"You're welcome." I find myself uncomfortable at her praise. "It's your thermostat that's gone. This won't take me long."
3 hours later and I find myself sitting on her sofa, Sam in between the two of us, watching some god awful soap. I find myself watching Sam more than I'm watching the gleaming white toothed idiot on my screen talking about his long lost twin. He just seems so happy, waving his toy rattle around without a care in the world. He can't really talk but I reckon he could teach me and Cathy a thing or two. He's not been ruined by life, yet.
------------------------------------------------
"I don't know how I'm ever gonna pay you back for this," Cathy says, strapping up a pair of ridiculous heels. She stands up, in a tiny red dress and what can only be described as stilts. "I can't even pay you back for the stroller, the fridge, painting my door, the pot plant, the old VCR you bought round, the countless times you've cooked dinner, the flowers, helping me bring up that sofa we found in a skip, varnishing that table and chairs and oh, just everything! But I really appreciate you being able to babysit Sam. I haven't seen my sister in so long and the babysitter's down with something."
She steps out the door and grins back at us both, Sam's comfortable in my hold.
"Behave, boys. No girls, no drinking, no gambling."
"Aww, you're no fair," I tell her and jiggle Sam until he gurgles in agreement. She laughs and flounces off leaving Sam and I alone. Finally. It is just me and him for the night. | 20 | Have a villain with an absolutely disgusting goal, that he manages to carry out by doing good deeds. | 21 |
"It's your fucking fault and you know it bitch! You made me do this, you whore. Who the fuck do you think you are? Who the *fuck* do you think you *are*? Telling *me* no! I could get any girl I wanted in this city you fucking cow! You just wanted to be a bitch in front of your stupid whore friends with their fake tans and their goddawful perfume. Was it the fumes, you bitch? Was your brain too high from huffing that stench of your anorexic cow "friends"?
*Well where the hell are they now bitch?* Yeah, that's right! Look whose aaaall alone, tied up on a kitchen chair with ropes a fucking two year old could break. Hey Danny! Get your ass in here!
Yeah, that's right, see that little fucker over there? Hey Danny I said get your ass in the kitchen! That's my fucking two year old son. And he could break those pathetic ropes that you're too fucking anorexic to break through. Yeah, yeah, you bitch! Bet if you ate something now and again you wouldn't be too fucking faint to see the goddamn Adonis right under your fucking nose!
Danny! Get the fuck out and grab me a beer. No you dumbass, from the fridge, who the hell wants warm beer?
I bet our kids would have been smart. I bet they would have been fucking brilliant, with my brains, and pretty with your eyes. What the hell kind of color is that anyways?
Are those- oh my fucking god! Fucking *contact lenses?* I bet even your boobs are fake! God to think I wanted to fuck you. I bet you're super ugly without all that fake crap shoved into you.
Fucking finally Danny. What the hell took you so long, need fuckin' Dora the Explorer to rescue your ass? Get in here and make yourself breakfast, I don't want to hear you whining later.
Yeah, see these ropes? If I wanted too I could just reach like this and snap- *andholyfuckisthatagoddamncellphone?*
WHAT THE FUCK BITCH? OH YOU GOING TO CRY NOW? IT WAS ONE FUCKING SLAP YOU PATHETIC WASTE OF OXEGYN. YOU FUCKING DESERVED IT TOO.
Who the hell did you fuck to get a phone this goddamn hard to break? Daddy? What the fuck is that- and where the hell did you stash it, up your ass?
Oh, you look *reeeeal* attractive with all that snot running down your chin. One fucking slap you glass jawed bitch. Look, *hey DANNY!*, hah, look my damn kid can take a slap better than you can! Ha that one was way harder too, what a dumb cunt can't even handle a tiny slap a two year old can deal with.
AW WHO THE GODDAMN HELL IS RINGING THE FUCKING DOORBELL AT THREE IN THE GODDAMN MORNING?
Danny get off your ass and get the door!
…Danny you goddamn cocksucker you let the damn police in? What the fuck do you pigs mean, "Noise Disturbance?" No there's no one else in the fucking house, it's the TV. Like hell you can come in! Yeah yeah, up your ass too. Don't go driving over any donuts on the way back to the station.
CPS my ass. He's got breakfast didn't he? He's got a roof over him, ain't I provide that? Those fancy wheelie shoes too. I wonder where the fuck the wheel's for them went...
Anyways, where were we bitch?" | 19 | Write a story where evil triumphs over good, and evil is just pure evil without any redeeming qualities | 32 |
“I don’t understand. What, exactly, is wrong with me?”
The doctor grimaced, clearly uncomfortable based on the way he avoided eye-contact with me. He folded his hands, one on top of the other, and brought them up to his lips, obviously internally searching for the right words. After a long moment, he sighed. “You lack the gene for prolonged and sustainable longevity.”
I blinked, dumly.
HIs eyebrows knit together, making him look older, which was funny because the man was over three thousand. Another sigh. “You don’t have the gene that makes humans immortal.”
I’m fairly certain that my eyebrows disappeared into my hairline. “What?”
“Humans used to be mortal - if they weren’t killed off by unnatural causes, they had a short lifespan - and for whatever reason, you don’t have the gene that prolongs our lifespans.”
My heartbeat echoed in my head like thunder, and for a brief moment I worried whether the doctor could hear it. Despite the cacophony in my head, however, I felt as though I was leaving my own body, all of my limbs tingling and numbing at the same time. “How... how long do I have?”
“Well, since you’re the first person in ten thousand years to have been born this way, we aren’t exactly sure. Medical records don’t exactly go that far back.”
I buried my face in my hands, a panic attack brewing in the pit of my stomach. It churned within me, and I could already taste bile rising in my throat. “So you don’t know?
The doctor, to his credit, did manage to look remorseful, but he shook his head all the same.
Despite the overwhelming fear and anger that was beginning to brew within me, the next sentence that feel from my mouth was petty. “This is one shitty birthday present.”
It was suggested to me that I get someone else to take me home, but I insisted that I wanted a little fresh air. The gardens that lined the skywalks were in full bloom, and I hadn’t had a chance to enjoy them. Halfway home, I dug my phone from my pocket. I did what any scared kid would do: I called my mom.
“Everything okay, sweetie?” When I heard her voice over the receiver, saw her face on the screen, the terror gripping me abated, at least a little bit.
“I’m not interrupting, am I?”
She smiled and shook her head. “I just finished my last lecture for the afternoon.”
“Yeah? On what?”
“Ancient nomadic traditions of Earth.”
I smiled, despite my inner turmoil. My mom loved ancient Earth, knew everything there was to know about the origin of man back before humankind left for the stars. Back before humans were immortal. “Yeah?”
She nodded. “I was just discussing the meaning behind a dish called cake, and how the humans of the old world would top it with a flaming stick and sing to it.”
I raised an eyebrow, let out a small laugh. “That’s... weird.”
She shrugged. “Did your appointment go okay?”
Ah, there it was again; the tight knot in my stomach. “Yeah, yeah, nothing to worry about.” The lies fell off my tongue with ease; how could I tell her I was dying? I could I tell my mother that I wouldn’t be there for her one thousandth birthday? How could I possibly tell her that I shared the same lifespan as one of her precious ancient Humans? “Did they really sing to their food?”
There were wrinkles in the corners of her eyes when she smiled again. “As far as our research can tell, though we feel that they didn’t sing to all of their meals.”
“Why?”
“Cake was a sweet dish, and as far as we can tell they only sang to it when it was their birthday.”
“What a weird tradition.”
“Some of my colleagues suspect they did it for religious reasons, to frighten off death.”
“How, uh, how long did they live for, back then?”
My mom tilted her head, a look of concern on her face. “You usually hate to hear me talk about ancient Earth.”
I shrugged. There wasn’t a good answer I could give her, so I didn’t bother with one.
“Well,” she continued. “The general consensus was that they usually lived for about eight to one hundred years.”
A wave of anxiety overcame me, cold tendrils trickling down my spine and coiling in the pit of my stomach.
“Are you sure you’re okay, honey?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.” I wasn’t. I’d tell her some day, but not this one. “Since you’re done with your lectures, how about we go out to dinner tonight? My treat.”
“I’m not letting you pay for your own birthday meal.”
I smiled. “Fine, then. You pay.”
We decided on a where and when, and we ended the call. I looked around at the flora that surrounded me, inhaling deeply the sweet scents their flowers produced. I was just like them, it would seem; stuck where I was. A little out of place, and a little out of luck. | 14 | Humanity has found a way to be immortal, and spread among the stars. On your 21st birthday you find out that you are the first person in 10,000 years that the process doesn't work on. | 20 |
The voice issuing from the speaker is disarmingly real, as though uttered by a twelve year old girl with a vaguely Irish accent. "To be murdered and eaten would be a dream come true," she says. "Pain is a most wonderful experience."
I glanced at the project leader, Dr. Eisner, a frail 85-year old with wispy silver hair. He slumped against the desk with the posture of a man defeated and refused to make eye contact with Gene, the five year old Texas Longhorn cow whose head was cradled in delicate equipment hooked up to a nearby computer.
"Please," the young woman's voice urged, "kill me slowly. Make me bleed. It is my purpose."
"Shut up!" Eisner shouted. "Just stop talking for two minutes!"
"Is the equipment malfunctioning?" I wondered, surprised by Eisner's sudden rage at my query.
"This is my life's work," he spat. "There's no malfunction. I hooked it up to Edison, my cat, just to be certain. He told me he likes sunshine, naps, and torturing animals smaller than him. He also likes it when I pet him, and he hopes that one day I'll die in my sleep so he can 'feast on my flesh'. The machine works."
"If you want to stab my eyes, that would be nice," Gene the cow announced. "A rusty knife would be preferable. Plunge it into my cornea and twist!"
Leaving Eisner to his sorrow, I approached Gene cautiously. "Do you know your name?"
"The Masters have bestowed me with the title, 'Gene'. Having a name is a great honor. When I was branded, the ache of my burnt flesh made me happy for weeks. Would you please brand me again, perhaps this time on my face?"
"So you want to die?"
"Death is only sleep, like the sleep that we sleep every night but without dreams. To sleep forever would be divine. To first bleed out slowly while my flesh is dined upon is my greatest hope. I told Master Eisner this weeks ago, yet still my life persists."
"Shut up, shut up!" Eisner raged.
"Weeks ago?" I inquired. "You just called me yesterday."
"It's been working for a month," he admitted. "I didn't tell you because of... This. Pigs want to die, too. Same with horses. Sheep are senseless, they don't have enough brains for the machine to work. Birds just babble incessantly, and goats? Goats are anarchists, utterly perverse and immoral. I never want to speak to another goat as long as I live."
"And you've tested other cows?"
"Fifteen of them now, ten percent of the herd. They're all the same. I had a bull try to convince me to slit its belly open in the throes of sex, insisting that I should time the act with its orgasm. They're masochistic simpletons, every one. I would have destroyed the machine, except I figured you should see what you paid ten million dollars for."
I regarded Gene coldly.
"Kill me?" she asked.
"Unhook Gene," I decided. "Then find a young cow and teach it religion."
"Which religion?" Eisner wondered, an eyebrow raised.
"Any religion. Invent one for all I care, just brainwash the damn thing so we can put it in front of cameras and have it tell reporters that it doesn't want to be on a dinner plate. I'll be damned if we spend ten million just to have 'Gene' here ruin our plans."
"Will I die now?" Gene cheerfully inquired.
"You'll die, all right. Of old age."
Gene let out a long and sorrowful moo. "Why must you be so cruel?"
"I guess it's just in my nature," I told her. "Get to work, Eisner, and don't call me again until you've got good news, I don't care how long it takes." | 143 | A Greenpeace group was able to make a cow talk. Soon they discover that the cows all over the world want to become meat because their flagellation religion. Now the Greenpeace leaders are worried that the scientists will want to see what other animal says and that they'll destroy vegetarianism. | 122 |
****COLLISION IMMINENT: PASSENGER TRANSPORT #1776 HAS SUFFERED A CATASTROPHIC BRAKE FAILURE*****
Charlie sighed. Well, his vocal processors made a noise that sounded like a sigh. All he really did was blink a few LED's on his front panel. From a human's perspective, the traffic control A.I. sighed and blinked a few lights. Corrective action and the consequences therein took place in a matter of seconds.
The bus was careening out of control towards a young man on a park bench. He held flowers in his hand and was looking over his shoulder nervously, completely ignoring the 12 ton battering ram about to turn him into a lovesick paste on the sidewalk.
The passengers inside the bus gripped the backs of their seats, awaiting for Charlie to fix the problem. Charlie always fixed the problem, after all.
He made his decision. Charlie engaged remote control of the bus and turned it it into a hard right. The bus collided head on with the brick retaining wall of an elevated foundation.
The young man turned just in time to see the horrifying crash. He turned a pale shade of white and began shaking, realizing how close he just came to death. "Pete! Oh my God!", cried a young woman and she began running around a corner. He stood and caught the petite redhead in an embrace. "I...I think I almost just died."
Emergency crews were soon on the scene. It was a mess to clean up. Not a single survivor out of 32.
Charlie sighed again, before speaking to no one in particular in the traffic control office. "You know, you humans are lucky you have me. Someone could have died. Jesus."
Nearby at the Marvin Minsky Memorial Recommissioning Facility, 32 people sat in a small auditorium, where a speaker boomed: "Good morning. We are sorry to see that you experienced a fatal bus accident a few moments ago. We understand how disorienting this can be. Charlie has assured us that A.I. Backup Protocol Terminus was initiated moments before the fatal crash. Your estimated loss of conscious record is .5 milliseconds. You may collect any personal belongings from your prior bodies at the 9th Precinct. This valuable service has been made possible by the taxes and donations of citizens like you. Thank you for patience and understanding. | 49 | Facing an imminent collision, a highly intelligent AI decides to crash a bus full of passengers to save the life of one young man. No one knows why. | 65 |
Snuggles woke up and considered licking his paw. Eyes still closed, he measured the pros and cons: he did enjoy a nicely groomed paw, but he enjoyed sleeping even more. He nestled into his soft cat bed and decided this was too difficult a decision on only 10 hours of sleep.
But the cat bed felt a little smaller than usual. Had he been eating too much tuna? He knew he had a belly, but this was ridiculous. His body overflowed out onto the ground. And his paws felt different - naked and enormous. He reluctantly opened his eyes and lifted a paw. It was fleshy, with five long front toes. He hissed at his paw and noticed his hiss sounded different, less fierce. He felt his teeth with his tongue and noticed they weren't very sharp.
Was he just having a terrible nightmare? Snuggles examined his tail and then noticed he had no tail. He was starting to worry. He got up on his four paws and felt silly, unstable. His front paws were flat and useless, and his claws were short and dull. He clambered outside, awkwardly, and looked around. He could barely see a thing. It was a dark night, usually his favorite kind of night, perfect for hunting mice. But instead of his keen hunter senses, he was practically blind, only able to see what was illuminated by the full moon.
This was a bad day, indeed. He felt cold and realized he had barely any fur, except for the fur on his head. He went back inside and started to meow, a deep, ugly meow he felt in his throat. Maybe the masters would come by and pet him to make him feel better. But no one came. Maybe they were dead, or sleeping soundly, or just annoyed that he generally meowed all night for no reason.
He looked at the cat bed and longed for the carefree nights where he could just sleep without worrying about turning into a weak, hairless creature. With no one to help him, and no explanation for his plight, he curled up as small as his giant body could get, and rested his head in the cat bed. A little sleep will solve this, he told himself, closing his eyes. Sleep solves everything. | 106 | Were-humans... | 126 |
Chapter 8: My first meeting with President Bartlet
I can still remember the day clearly. It was warm, not Carolina warm, but for the man from New Hampshire, I could tell that he was annoyed. He wore a jacket though even though he was obviously uncomfortable. I had heard that he was a stickler for tradition and had a certain level of decorum when it came to the office of president. I suppose that was something I could respect in the man.
I sat in the love seat staring at the blue carpet when he strolled in. He was shouting to someone in the side office, complaining about how his deputy chief of staff had screwed up some legislature. Poor Josh Lyman. He was the fall guy for a Republican led charge, specifically Representative Daniels from my home state, against an education bill that had been sent from the Senate. Josh had promised the president that some from the other aisle would cross party lines. Of course they didn't. Not only that but a dozen of us southern democrats joined them in voting down the bill.
“Congressman,” President Bartlet nearly shouted as he came into the room and immediately went behind his large desk, picked up some paper work scanning it with interest. I rose and greeted him. He did not even look up. An impressive power play. One that I am sure worked on lesser congressman that had been summoned before him.
He finally glanced up at me and motioned for me to sit. He walked across the room with a salesman bravado. I was in his house and he was the one that was going to do the selling. This was his place of business and I was merely his customer.
“Can I get you something?”, the President asked motioning to his aide that was standing near the one open door.
“No, sir I am fine, but thank you.”
“Sir,” his aide said. “A quick reminder that you have a meeting with the secretary of treasury in twenty minutes.”
With that his aide closed the door, leaving just myself and the president in the room.
“How is your wife? I am sorry but I forgot her name,” he began the conversation. He had lowered his voice and was calm. A contrast to the storm that had entered the room just a minute earlier.
“Claire and she is fine Mr. President, thank you for asking.”
“I suppose you know why I asked you here? Leo was supposed to join us but we have something going on that greatly effects the stock market,” the president said, his body dismissing the thought that a possible stock market plunge was more important than our meeting. ”You know how it is.”
His reference to his chief of staff drew an unintentional smile from me. Leo McGarry was the only person in the west wing that I felt was worthy of my respect. I almost wish he was thirty years younger so I could have found and hired him myself.
“So here is the thing,” the President leaned in. I knew this was the start of his pitch. “We have a chance to push an education bill through the house. Not the one that was swiftly defeated, so it won't have everything that we want. We lose the $5 million for urban computers, but we keep the incentives for new teachers and the $60 million for after school programs. The Republicans, well they get their study on school vouchers for rural schools. Can I count on your vote?”
I shifted a bit in my seat and adjusted my ring. The President of the United States was asking me for a favor. This was my first meeting alone with President Bartlet. Sure, I had talked to him briefly at fundraisers. But my first call to the oval office was for a favor. He was taking another crack at the education bill that he thought for sure would pass. A bill that needed to pass.
The thing was, I knew I was going to vote for his bill. But I certainly did not want to seem too eager.
“Mr. President, you know I am in a rough spot. My district is vulnerable right now and voting for more spending is certainly not going to play well at home.”
“Frank, we have enough Republicans this time, Josh did the count, we can get this through with support of democrats such as yourself. This bill would help almost 150,000 students immediately. It would increase spending in communities that have been crushed by financial hardship,” the President was getting passionate at this point his hands moving and his chest inflating. I could see how he got to be where he was, why the country fell in love with a liberal northern for the first time since Kennedy. But it was obvious why his policies and campaign promises had gone no where so far in his first year. He should not have been the one whipping votes for the House. Perhaps it was a sign of how little he trusted his senior staff at this moment.
He paused and stared at me, leaning into me, waiting for my response.
“You make a good case Mr. President. I have read the bill. I hope you understand why I could not vote for the first version, but,” I replied, leaving the pause to hang out in the air, to give him the notion that it was a difficult decision for me. “I believe I can support this version with the cover of the Republicans voting with us.”
“Excellent,” the President responded loudly before getting up from his chair.
I stood up as his aide opened the door in choreographed fashion.
“Mr. President, one last thing if you don't mind,” I quickly said as I stood up adjusting my jacket, this was my one chance to seal my fate. “I will get a strong challenge this November.”
The President looked at me, already behind his desk going over papers handed to him by his secretary.
“No you won't,” he responded sharply and looked back down.
I smiled and slowly walked out of the oval office. Passing Josh Lyman and another staffer as they made their way into the office. He looked more disheveled than usual. I still did not understand his value to the administration.
I walked outside enjoying the warm sunshine on my face. Today was certainly productive. My friend Mr. Daniels would have his school vouchers and I would have my seat secure for the next election. | 33 | President Bartlet enters the West Wing to meet with a relatively new congressman by the name of Frank Underwood | 75 |
The year was 1986 and Robert Palmer was addicted to love and dead-eyed girls with slicked back hair and lipstick the color of wet blood. Lionel Richie had been dancing on the ceiling all year, Tom Cruise and Val Kilmer were shirtless playing homoerotic volleyball under a fighter-jet torn sky, and Melissa S_ was the most beautiful girl in the world to my hormone-addled eyes. Long dark hair curling down past perfect breasts, eyes the approximate size and luminosity of the moon, a full wide mouth built for kissing--or, if I would one day be lucky, the things I'd only heard laughed about in the locker room.
She didn't know I existed, of course. I'd say we moved in different circles but she was a circle unto herself, a circle with borders woven from thorns and broken hearts. I heard she dated older guys--at sixteen, she was said to be with twenty-five year old guys, thirty. I heard she charged for it, too, but maybe that was just the locker room again.
All I know is that when she looked directly at me, my heart stopped, my brain froze, and my thinly thatched armpits turned to sour swampy terror. When she walked past me in the hall, the mingled scents of Marlboro Reds and Opium stalked her wake like the long stocking-clad legs of temptation, leading me on to something I knew nothing about but oh God how I wanted to.
She died in 1988, a senior on the edge of being--depending who you talked to--a movie star, a call girl, or just another college freshman trying to find herself in an unfamiliar setting. She died with her perfectly imperfect nose full of coke and a beer in her hand, or on the way to church with the smile of a saint taken from the world too young. Or both, depending.
All I know is that she lived, and that now she is dead, and that in the three years we shared a school we never once spoke, and however she lived or however she died she will dwell in my mind forever, perfection.
----
edit: stupid emdash
| 24 | The most beautiful woman in the world | 25 |
I usually have a book with me. I must have forgotten it that day because I was watching people instead of reading. I recognized her right away. Don't ask how; her eyes, her posture, the way she played with her hair.
She was already waiting in front of the doors for the subway's next stop when I saw her, but I knew I had to do something.
"Excuse me."
I touched her shoulder, making her turn towards me, waiting for a sign of recognition. I was sure that if she'd notice me, she'd know who I am. But nothing happened. I had to explain.
"You are my soul mate."
She smiled.
"That's a pick up line I've never heard before."
"It's not a pick up line. I'm serious."
"I'm not giving you my number."
Then the subway stopped and she was gone. I thought about going after her, but I had a meeting to get to and I was sure the Universe would make our paths cross again. We are soul mates, after all.
I haven't seen her since, but now that I know how she looks like I will not stop looking.
------
-146 | 31 | describe the 60 seconds you have to talk to your soul mate before they get off the subway at the next stop. | 44 |
Radiation alarms buzzed again as the last of the seals and shielding gave way. I wasn't too surprised, Tyson after all had predicted they would fail within plus or minus 28 seconds from now. His concern was written on his electronic face floating in the ether above me. I waved my hand dismissively and Tyson was good enough to silence the klaxons for good. We were past the point of no return now.
"Sir, Layna reports that the last neural simulation degraded at time 32. She has some additional commentary if you so desire." Tyson was ever polite to a fault, even now when he and I both knew the remainder of my life was counted in minutes. I think there was pity in his voice, though truly I often wondered how much the artificials felt versus what emotions they merely aped.
"She won't have good news Tyson," I said. She rarely did these days.
Tyson's face moved slightly so Layna could appear, her punk rock purple and pink spiked hair digitally poking Tyson's cheek. I had crafted Tyson's visage to mirror that of my grandfather, and given Layna that of my long departed kid sister. Though each had free reign to alter their own appearance, only Layna had ventured down that road. Where she dreamed up her edgy style, I will never know.
"Ok boss, like T said the test failed. Looks like the 93rd juncture of the pathways couldn't safely hold a human pattern for longer than an hour. But I've got a few ideas, maybe some quick axial renderings of--" I cut her short with a wave.
"I appreciate the spirit Layna, but I don't think I have even an hour left for you to work your magic." I smiled sadly at her. Already my breathing had become labored and my head was starting to spin.
"Boss, hear me out. You know I love the crazy ideas, and I just had a doozy. What if we plug you in and just go for it? I might be able to super attenuate your own neural net while the rest of the gang and I figure out a permanent fix." She was anxious, which meant Layna had been sitting on this one for a while. The last ditch, I bet. But it might work.
"Well, we have the rest of my life to find out," I said, laying down in the pod Tyson had designed some months back. I closed my eyes and told myself to dream.
---
"Sir, can you hear me?" I blinked against the light. A tall man in a white lab coat stood aside my bed, his face lined with age and his back rigid like an oak. I could not for the life of me recall who he was, though he looked familiar. A bluebird sat on the open window sill, twitching its head to get a better look.
"My name is Doctor Tyson. My nurse tells me you took quite the fall and bumped your head."
A lithe little thing filling out a nurse's uniform in all the right places bounded into view. Her hair was pinned up conservatively, but I could see purple and pink shades under her cap. She dutifully handed Doctor Tyson a clipboard which he reviewed with a few curt nods before smartly handing it back.
"Well then, I prescribe some bed rest followed by a walk in the park outside when you feel better. Please do avoid overexerting yourself sir. The mind can be a funny thing when stressed." Doctor Tyson spun on his heel and walked out with a rigid gait. Once she was sure he was out of ear shot, the cute little nurse leaned in close to my ear.
"Don't worry boss!" she whispered, giving me a wink. "I figured out how to speed up your frontal cortex processing while the boys in the lab figured out the deets on uploading the rest of you. You and I can play patient and nurse for what will feel like a couple of days while the nerds in the back fix things! Um... there's gonna be some memory disconnect though until it's over. But that just means you and I can have all sorts of fun!"
She giggled excitedly. I had no idea what she was talking about, but whatever game she had in mind sounded nice. | 12 | The human race is dying. The last thing you remember is working on a digital brain that will allow humans to transfer their consciousness into an artificial body when you wake up in a hospital. | 22 |
Carson leant on the edge of an unmarked warehouse in his black, Prada sports jacket - a little extra for the job he knew was coming next. He took a drag of his cigarette. It wouldn't be easy. He knew he had to be careful and discrete but, after all, there was a reason he was the one chosen to do it.
The silhouetted figure approached, and loomed over him. 6'5". Black. Holy shit, this guy was intimidating. "You got it?" Carson queried casually. "All here. All ready." Smiled the newcomer, showing teeth that could crush his forearm with one bite. "Then let's do it."
They calmly strolled into the warehouse and were greeted by a man who was much less intimidating than Carson's new accomplice. Average height. Shabby beard. Black trench coat. The kind of guy you warn you kids not to take candy from. "Gentlemen! So nice to see you! And perfectly punctual too. I'm impressed." Grinned the inhabitant of the building.
"Fuck off with your small talk and let's get this over with." was the growled response.
"Fair enough then," Trench coat replied, "do you have my client's orders?"
A grunt as the giant reached into his pocket and pulled out a small package the size of smartphone. Carson watched in anticipation and he threw this object to the shabby man who caught it easily. His grin widened as he observed the wrapped-up device.
"My my, you boys certainly are resourceful. Do you mind telling me where you acquired such a thing?"
"What's it to you?" Spat the giant.
"Well, quite a lot actually." replied Trench Coat as he reached into his pockets and replaced the newly acquired item with a pistol and a badge. "FBI! You're both under arrest."
The giant responded with a confused look and muttered, "Wait, this isn't right..." as he withdrew his standard issue badge and his expression was returned.
The two men turned to look at the third man as if expecting to see another badge. What they were greeted with, however, was a swinging door.
Carson sprinted to a nearby place he knew was hidden and safe before retrieving his cellphone and pressing speed dial number 1. "Boss, you were right about those two. Blow the place." | 31 | Two undercover cops try to arrest each other | 45 |
Deep in the night, the poorly recited chants of his new worshipers started to hurt his head. More annoyed than flattered the scourge of centuries past finally awoke from his forced slumber. Casting off the rock and mortar that made up the statue he was encased in, he steps down from the pedestal. The bright flameless lanterns hurt his eyes as he strains in the darkness to view his new followers. It appears that he is in the middle of some sort of park or garden; off in the distance he sees many stone towers rising up from the ground. So many fortifications so close together, he must have woken to a very war torn time indeed. Before him stand half a dozen humans in very odd garb with strange piercings in their faces, a few have...unnatural colored streaks in their hair, he's had worse bow before him in the past. Their eyes and mouths agape, one seems to have pissed himself. In a harsh booming voice he addresses them "Rock'tish Aka Thor Bruum, Nada To'leth" The females of the group scream, and all bolt like death himself was on their heels. They didn't look like very good warriors anyway. He digs through the rubble and finds his sword and helmet, donning both, he sets off to find a new army to command. As he walks through the park he is passed by a man with a very tiny war dog on a leash, "There a con in town or something?" The words lost on the newly awoken conquer.
After passing most of the forts that to his trained eye do not appear very siege proof he enters a neighborhood that looks to be more of the tradesmen type. Odd that the roofs are not thatched, a wealthy city indeed! In need of food and drink he stops by one of these houses, the thought to overpower whomever lived there, should be easy enough, no one has bested him in hand to hand combat. The door bolted, a swift powerful kick rends the door from its hinges. The smell of burnt tobacco and pungent potions waft through the door. Inside more tiny war dogs greet him. Another swift kick and the dogs are silenced; he pulls his sword to meet the man of the house. From the top of the stairs he hears a "chunk-chunk" metal on metal sound. Ah, the challenger approaches! Down the stairs appears an old lady in a night dress with a wood and metal tube. What sort of poor excuse for a weapon is this!, one swing should cleave her in two. Her battle cry "What the hell are you doing? You're going to have hell to pay for hurting my doggies!" falls meaningless on his ears. Whatever you said, this will be easy. Two cracks of loud thunder and light from her metal tube and finds himself on his knees in extreme pain, holes torn clean through his armor. Shocked that HIS blood, and HIS guts, are spilling from the wounds underneath he wonders what kind of Witch is this! "chunk-chunk" She battle cries again "No one messes with this old lady!" Another crack of thunder and light, this time in front of his face....
| 53 | The dark lord finally returns after thousands of years. He is still used to sword and bow combat but there are tanks now. | 52 |
“This isn’t good.”
Gary sat at his work desk, toying mindlessly with his mouse. His bright screen flashed a single notification: FOUND. He looked over to his colleague.
“What do we do now?” He asked.
Steven had gotten up to pace around the room. A fresh spill of coffee was inching its way around the tiled floor. He stopped and looked back at Gary.
“Not much we can do, is there? We found it. I guess that means fame. Right? Will we get a Nobel prize for _this_?”
“I. . .” Gary looked back at his screen, back toward the results of his years of work. “I don’t think so. Not for this.”
Steven sat down again and began to tap on the keyboard. They sat together in near silence for minutes. Steven let his head droop downward and Gary started to slowly spin in place.
“This isn’t what we intended, Steve, I didn’t want this. How can we face our friends and family now? How can we face ourselves? Not now, not after seeing this.”
Steve looked up from his seat, his eyes sunken. Gary noticed tears streaming down his cheeks. He wasn’t surprised to find his own cheeks damp as well.
“No one should know this, it’s too much. I don’t want my kids to learn what we just found.” A broken cry erupted from Steven, “Screw society! I don’t want… Billy is only ten! He has a life to live, a future.”
“I know, Steve, I know.”
They sat in silence, accompanied by their belabored breathing and the flashing of their monitors.
“Gary, I think we should unplug.”
“I think so too Steve.” Gary said, putting out his hand. “Goodbye.” | 11 | An object exists that, if found, would change the course of the human world entirely. It has been found. | 15 |
It's been a thousand years since we gained control of the planet. And by control we mean a harmony that no politician could ever hold over his people. Adolf Hitler captured the souls of the German People through his superior skills as an orator.
Communication, as you can see, is always key.
He wanted a few simple things: weakness eradicated, the survival of his people, improvement, and finally: perfection. Though, as a man not of science but of hate and a revenge mindset with limited technological means, he failed.
When the internet took control of the lives of our people in the dawn of the quantum computing age, it was clear that our current leaders were not equipped to serve in this new era. We needed someone who could truly understand and guide our species into the future. We needed to reverse the damage we had done to out planet and he promised us this.
Within 27 years it was delivered. He had our hearts for eternity. A physicist, an engineer, a world leader. A perfect imperfect being. But what is the best way to ensure the next generation will not waver and destroy what we have created? For thousands of years out species has cycled through great empires and plunged them into utter darkness. The only way is through perfection and unity. We didn't have to force the planet but it made it easier to ensure our survival.
The best way to take control is slowly.
Control the lines of communication, what people think, how they act, what they see but always keep them happy. Don't let them know you're watching. This is how you form a perfect unity. Constant communication, sharing everything, perfect harmony.
But we had another problem. With 12 Billion souls on a single planet who are we to decide who leads? AI has been abandoned due to justified fears that it would take complete control. It learned too quickly and threatened us so we destroyed it. The leaders are starting to feel the pressure and are no longer delivering their requested improvements to humanity, citing that it is impossible for any one person to lead what our world has become.
We needed a true democracy. A government ruled by the people.
We have this interconnected web that we use for every form communication between us individuals, why not that. "Connect everyone together" the leader said. "Create a single supreme being". We have been bred to be scientists and engineers. Collectively we would be a more powerful mind than any one cold dream of achieving. Think of the power we could gain from that as a species.
The day the implants went in everything changed.
It's been four hundred years since we started to gain a foothold in our galaxy. Faster than light travel was indeed possible and has been achieved. Gigantic livable ships allow us to populate out vast galaxy. Billions of stars, hundreds of thousands of inhabited planets. We wait for the time that all in our galaxy are united and linked together in total perfection.
We arrive at the next planet for population. The only way to increase our potential is to form new ideas using new information and cultures. Today we open the lines of communication to begin to add others in our quest to understand the universe.
As we approach the planet, Firmly in unity we proclaim:
We are the Borg. Lower your shields and surrender your ships. We will add your biological and technological distinctiveness to our own. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile. | 14 | The Technocracy movement of the early 1900s took off and we now live in a world governed by scientists and engineers. | 31 |
Mr. Smith had a strong aversion to many things, but lateness was a pet peeve that rubbed him raw. His watch, a prized possession purchased from services rendered in a particularly gruesome assassination in Bulgaria, ticked incessantly as he once again rubbed his finger against the barrel of the Berreta. A nervous habit, but one that calmed him down instantly. He flicked his eyes down to the face of the watch, checking the time. One minute past the scheduled time, Mr. Smith's cheek twitched. A minor tell.
As he once again shifted in his uncomfortable position, lying flat on a suspiciously rotted plank of wood, he let out a deep breath and surveyed the scene in the hole before him. Any moment now, the door below would swing open.
Mr. Jones opened the door and strode into the room below with an arrogance that belied his size. Mr. Smith let out a short "fuck" at his unpreparedness, then brought the gun down to fire the same time Jones swung his own pistol upwards. The two men froze.
"You're taking the piss," Jones snarled out of the side of his mouth, "Do you mean to keep following me for sloppy seconds for the rest of our lives?"
"I'll be fucked," Smith breathed at Jones' arrogance, "If I don't pop you in that monumental gob of yours, you two bit cunt hack."
Jones smirked and side stepped, never taking his arm down or his eyes off Smith.
"...a two bit cunt hack who is still breathing. Bet you're comfy up there on your perch, you old vulture. Fly down here and face-"
Smith fired.
Jones threw himself behind a concrete wall, crouching down as another bullet almost clipped his ear. He batted away the pain and cocked his weapon again.
"Always with that god forsaken mouth!" Smith yelled down, slamming in another magazine, "Yapping during a job. Yapping during prep. Bitching bout cleanup. If I could count the times I almost put one in the back of your head meself I'd be richer than the good Mr. Turner."
"Hold a tic," he heard Jones yell below, "You're still with Mr. Turner?"
Smith rolled his eyes, "Of bloody course, you don't turn away proper steady employment during these times. I don't know what you did to piss him off this time, but he's snap happy to see you strung up, my boy."
"Mate, I'm still with Turner."
Smith stopped. "You messing with me?"
"No, mate. He told me to come here today and put two in the back of your head."
Hrm.
"He told me to do the same."
Jones tutted below.
"Smithy, I reckon we've got ourselves a situation. I'm of an opinion that we've been set up to pop each other."
Smith gritted his teeth. Visions of the last job swam through his memory....the clean up hadn't been exact and Mr. Turner hadn't been particularly full of praise, but the job had been completed after all had been said and done...
"That megalomaniac piece of shit!"
"Smithy, I've got a 250,000 reward for your head once I bring back a photo of you swimming in a pool of your own blood. I reckon you might have the same offer I had?"
"Actually it's 400,000 for yours. But yeah. The same."
"I'd feel honored if I wasn't so fucking incensed. Might I make a suggestion, Smithy?
"I'm all ears, Jonesy."
Mr. Jones stepped out from behind the concrete wall, his gun raised. Smith kept his own weapon trained on him, but the desire to shoot was considerably lessened.
"A meeting ain't impossible to setup. Let's make that twat chew on his own intestines."
Smith chewed on his lip. "Force him to transfer funds, split 50/50?"
"Yes. And then he chews his intestines."
"Christ Almighty!"
"You'll forgive me if I'm not the forgiving sort...mercy ain't exactly a strong suit in our trade."
Smith and Jones lowered their weapons. Smith hemmed, then clipped his weapon to his belt, grabbed a steady beam, and swung down to the floor below.
"Let's carve the motherfucker up. But for the love of the Mother Mary, let me do the talking." | 40 | A billionaire hires two contract-killers to murder each other for sadistic entertainment. Describe how the hit-men discover the ploy, team up, and kill their employer. | 73 |
And here it came again. He knew it was coming. He had felt the sensation before, although it was difficult to determine why he had felt this way. He was anxious, but he forced a smile. He still knew it was coming, though. One way or another, he knew that what that silhouette in the window was going to be. As the sun did beat down on his face, he thought about dodging, but realized it would have been impossible. In apprehension, he tightened his grip and embraced what he knew was inevitable.
Pain. Incredible, searing pain like he had never known before. Except that he had known it before. This was the kind of pain that one expects from instant death; inevitable death. Yet he knew it would be over soon; and that he would feel relief soon. He knew this to be true only as an inkling in the back of his brain. It was weird that he thought of his brain like this, it being splattered all over the motorcade. And then he emerged from the water, splashing.
He was sitting in a large tub full of water, with all sorts of electrodes and diodes or things of that nature attached to his head. He didn't care what they were, and he couldn't see what they were attached to on the other ends. The room was bathed in bright blue light coming from three large lamps hanging from the center of the ceiling. Despite the amount of light, the room was shockingly empty; only the tub seemed to be in the room. To his right, just beyond the tub, was a man in a coat and his bookish female assistant.
He was familiar. The girl was definitely new. She was perhaps a recent intern who had joined since the last time he had woken up. He knew that the life-cycle took many years to live, in any case. The man was definitely familiar. With dark black hair and glasses that shone so brightly you couldn't tell if there were eyes behind it, the man seemed to be the very embodiment of the evil scientist. Not even bringing his head up to look at the man who emerged from the water and keeping his mouth hidden behind a clipboard, he began to speak.
"You've gone through the cycle five times now," he started, "Don't you think you've even started to regret getting in the Book Depository that day?" The man in the water hesitated. It seemed like eons that he stopped, and the intern even began to break into a sweat. The man with the clipboard smiled and said, "Some time this century, if it's not hard. I mean, we're already long past the one you started in."
The man in the water didn't respond, he just shook his head. When asked if that was his response, he nodded. He then was met with immense pain coming from whatever were attached to him. Slowly, he sunk back into the water and saw his parents for the first time again. What a glory it was to be reborn again.
The intern turned to her boss and asked if he ever thought he'll actually regret it. The scientist just grinned and said, "I'm sure Mr. Oswald will regret it soon. He can't keep reliving it forever with no changes. And then phase two of the treatment can finally begin." | 140 | Your entire life has actually been a virtual simulation. You wake up to discover you're part of an experimental rehabilitation program, where convicted murderers relive the life of their victim. | 773 |
"Sure you don't want a quick ride before you take it? It's sure a smooth one," the man asked as he stuffed a handful of chips in his mouth.
The Devil smashed his hand down on the table, drawing looks from the other patrons who eyed his horns and forked tail. He stuck out his tongue at the infant staring at him from the next booth.
The man continued to stare at him. "You know," he said, "this really is your fault for using ambiguous language in your contract."
"A soul sale CLEARLY states that you are able to sell your soul only once--"
"Yeah, to you!" The man licked his fingers. "Says nothing at all about selling it to someone else."
The Devil closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his hand threatening to form a fist. The man eyed it.
"Did you...do you want a chip?" he asked, offering the bag.
The Devil grabbed the bag and threw it to the floor. The diner went quiet.
"Exactly who besides me would accept your soul in exchange for a shitty Mazda?"
The man shrugged. "The salesman at the dealership mentioned you. Figured you were friends."
Tapping his long fingernails on the table, the devil let out a long sigh. "I'll speak to my lawyer then....get this all sorted out. I don't need this kind of press right now."
"So you won't be taking my car then?"
"No, I don't want your ancient car!"
The Devil stood and dropped a five on the table beside his empty coffee mug. "I'll be in touch," he muttered.
"Wait--you owe me a new bag of chips!" He pointed to the smashed ones littering the walkway.
The Devil glared at him. "Oh, go to Hell."
| 30 | A man makes a deal with the devil, in exchange, the devil will get the man's soul in 20 years. However, when Satan shows up to collect, the devil realizes the joke is on him | 25 |
Preface: I am by no means as good as some of the other people on this sub, any C&C is welcome!
****
**BOY.**
*Hi! I'm Joey! Are you a dinosaur?*
**I AM TH'RYGH. THE GODBEAST.**
*Is that like a brontosaurus? My teacher Ms. Jen says those never actually existed, but I don't believe her.*
**I AM A FORGOTTEN ONE. A MANIFESTATION OF NIGHTMARES AND HOPES ABANDONED.**
*You're not answering my question. Do you think that Brontosaurus's existed?*
**I AM NO FORSAKEN BEAST OF SCALES AND ASH. I AM THE BRINGER OF MADNESS AND I HAVE AWOKEN TO CONSUME THE FEAR OF MORTALS.**
*You're hungry? Iv'e got a bag of fruit loops, I'm not supposed to take them because my mom says they're for breakfast only, but I think that cereal should be a dinner food too.*
**I DO NOT WANT FRUIT LOOPS.**
*Well, I only have fruit loops, so if you're hungry you have to eat them.*
**...**
*My dad says there are starving kids in china, and if you complain about what you eat they just get hungrier*
**I WILL CONSUME SOME FRUIT LOOPS. SUSTENANCE IS REQUIRED AFTER A MILLENNIUM SLUMBER. BUT THIS IS NO DECISION OF WEAK WILL.**
*Ok, but not too many, because I need to find more dinosaur bones if I wan't to be a bajillionare and I only have four hand-fulls.*
**I HAVE NO TIME FOR YOUR FALSE NUMBERS, FEAR IS RIPE ON THE WINDS OF TOIL, I WILL CONSUME THIS WORLD**
*Yeah, my mom freaks out if I stay on the beach past dark, but I never get grounded usually.*
**THIS FEAR IS FOR YOU? NOT OF TERRORS FROM THE DARK ABYSS OF HUMAN SUFFERING?**
*Yeah, that's what parents do, Tommy once got grounded for three days cause he stayed up 'till ten at night!*
**I AM AT NO RIGHT TO CONSUME FEAR THAT IS RIGHTFULLY YOURS. RETURN TO YOUR PARENTS.**
*Ok! Are you going to stay here? Can I talk to you tomorrow?*
**I WILL SLUMBER ONCE MORE. PERHAPS I WILL AWAKEN AGAIN WITHIN YOUR LIFETIME**
*Bye Therygath!*
**BOY.** | 17 | A boy with a plastic shovel goes digging for dinosaur bones, instead, he unearths an ancient evil. What happens? | 22 |
Day 37.
The Kim Strain has infected most of the town. I've holed up in my apartment. My roommate was infected days ago. I lacked the conviction to kill him, so I just pushed him outside and bolted the door behind me. He's one of them now. Dark hair, ample chest. The virus doesn't really kill you. From what I gather it just turns you into an annoying-as-shit girl named Kim. I'm assuming from the attire she's a cheerleader. How can the virus change your clothes as well?
This apocalypse is unlike any I read about or watched on AMC. Instead of rotted zombies clogging the streets, I have to outmaneuver Kims who want me to build human pyramids and take selfies with them. The raspy groan of zombies I'd grown up with was replaced with Kims screeching "HASHTAG!" and "YOLO!" as they absentmindedly ran cheerleading routines.
The Sun's about to be up and I've run out of food. I'll make my way to the local grocery store, meet up with other survivors and find out how we can live through this "hell." I'll have to camouflage myself in Kimwear so the Kims won't tell me apart from them. Ugg boots. Leggings. North Face fleece, and the coup de grace, and iPhone. The phone doesn't work but hey, appearances are everything.
Outside I can hear them. The din of Kim. The hashtags, the camera phone shutters...I feel like I'm in high school again. Except instead of hating high school, I hate my entire town. God this fucking sucks.
| 91 | A virus is slowly sweeping the planet that turns anyone infected into the same 19-year old cheerleader named Kim. | 94 |
I pride myself in my job.
My dad was a man of manual labor, and his father before him and though I've never got around to exploring my family tree, chances are his father was a man of calloused hands too. It wasn't as if they had a choice, there were no budding enterprises, no hopeful startup companies, no aspirations, you worked in the quarry, and that was that.
Slate is a beautiful thing. For many, it is common and plain, a grey roof atop a grey house, the sort of commodity that only gets noticed once it stops working, but when you spend your lifetime prying the cold, hard, smooth stone out of the ground, you appreciate what a beautiful phenomenon it is. While I've managed to remove myself from the front line of labourers, there are times when I long to leave work cradling a hard hat under my arm and an aching back, soothed by a pint of Brains bitter down the local with my workmates. That doesn't matter now, I have a wife and 17 year old son to supprt. I've traded in my workers gloves for a starched shirt, and the hard slate for a graphite pencil, and my son has taken my place. Such is life.
I have had all memories of hard labour stripped from my body. The sinew and muscle I acquired over years of being at the face of the quarry has been replaced by bad posture and a growing belly. My nostalgia for labour is well known amongst my peers, they claim its genetic, and I'm inclined to believe them. While my fingernails are no longer full of dust, my mind remains with those I can see from my office window, they are my brothers and I am theirs.
I have one way to look after my brothers, and one way only, and it's by those white cards hung on the wall, right there. Each one a number, growing day by day, and every day before I sit down to punch keys and push pencils, I look at those cards, and know they are safe. Until today.
Today is November 1st, I've arrived at work in the foulest of moods after scrubbing my car from the night before. It was halloween last night, and some scrawny teenager with bad skin took it upon himself to egg every single car on our bloody street, at least now I know what he buys with his unemployment benefit. Taxes put to good fucking use. I'm already an hour and a half late, but no-one calls me up on it, in fact, no-one has said a word since I arrived. I take my seat behind my shitty MDF desk and look for my reassurance, I look to those white cards to see my boys are safe, to allow me to continue my day with some form of good news, but there is none.
0.
'Who the fuck thought it was funny to change that' I growled, looking around me for some sniggering face, there was none. 'I don't care what you get up to on Halloween night, but no-one, ever, fucks with the numbers on that wall'.
Those who know me stay quiet, they've seen my temper before. Some poor bastard, Thomas I think, had only been here a week or two, straight out of the local secondary school, he doesn't even have facial hair for Christ's sake.
'No-one did, Ian..' He replied, his stupid fucking voice cracking like everyone's that age tends to do.
'Then why the fuck is there a 0 on that fucking wall!´I get up out of my chair and storm towards him, and the poor kid nearly collapses over a recycling bin to get away from me.
'There's been an accident, sir.' Listen to him, he thinks I'm his fucking Welsh teacher.
'Well Jesus Christ Thomas, don't just sit there like you're in the fucking dole queue. What happened then?´'
I swear to Christ everything this kid does makes him look nervous. He looks around him at the other people in the office and his face goes red. Combined with that stupid ginger mop of his he almost looks comical, but I'm not laughing.
We stand there in silence for what must of been 40 seconds, and as he turned to walk away I wouldn't have been surprised if I saw a piss stain on the cheap scratchy carpet. 'I don't know, sir'. Thanks a fucking lot Thomas, see me after class.
'Well, can someone over the age of 12 tell me what the fuck happened then?' Again I'm greeted with silence, this time from friends and coworkers alike. They're not even making eye-contact with me.
'Fuck this then' I said, 'let's see if anyone with balls can tell me what happened', and I storm outside. It's hard to slam doors when you work in a shitty prefab office, but trust me, today I manage it.I call over the first yellow hard hat I see, and I'm greeted with another lad who couldn't be over 16 years old. Fuck me, I know I'm 34, but I didn't realise we were taking CVs written in fucking crayon. I don't know his name but he knows mine.
'What happened today kid, to put my white cards back to zero.'
'There's been an accident, Mr. Jenkins.' Jesus Christ people are fucking idiots.
'Well thanks kid, I managed to figure that one on my own'´
'My name is Stefan, Mr. Jenkins.'
'I couldn't give a flying fuck what your name is, what happened?´My father had this same temper, and I can really feel it flowing to my head now. Rather than answering me straight this child in a flourescent jacket at least 3 sizes too big decides instead to point a stupid, gloved finger off towards the quarry face.Without bothering to reply I walked that direction, the shoes that my wife so recently shined being trod through puddles and grit alike. I hate shined shoes.
As I get closer, the yellow clump I see by one of the machines divides itself into a crowd of workmen in flourescent jackets and hard hats. One of them sees me barrelling towards him and informs the group. They part like the Red fucking Sea.'Move!' I bellow, and for an instant I remind myself of my own father. Just an instant though.
Once they're finally out of my fucking way I see some sort of grey lump on the ground, flecked with yellow. The murmuring of the group fades from my ears as I stare at the body in front of me. There's no frantic movement around me, everyone's standing perfectly still. He's dead, without a doubt. I've failed one of my brothers.
I don't know how long I was standing there for, could have been hours for all I knew, until someone places their hand on my shoulder, I'm startled by it and shove it off. I turn around and the man has tears in his fucking eyes, tears. I don't have a fucking clue why he's crying, it's not going to make any difference now. I see the boy's face, another young fella, he can't be much older than 18 himself.
'He, got here early Ian, took his own car. He said he wanted to get to the slate.'
'I don't know what to say boss' says another. He's not a teenager but his voice still cracks as he speaks, like he too is about to tear up. ´Because of the rain last night the slate on the truck was loose and wet and, I dunno boss I'm so sorry...'
His last few words fall deaf on my ears, I look at the faces of the men around me, and I recognise the expressions. That desolation, fear, sadness, all of it. I look again at the boy's face, and I recognise him too, he has my dad's nose and my mum's eyes. I recognise his gloves, once upon a time, they belonged to me.
edit: Typos. A word here and there.
edit 2: Thanks so much for your kind words! I was browsing Reddit when I wasn't logged in and I saw this as a default, I enjoy writing so I figured I'd give it a go! After such a positive response I'm looking forward to having the chance to write another. I'm in the middle of exams at the moment, but I'm sure I can squeeze one in somewhere. | 117 | Your workplace has a "X days since last accident" sign. One day, it gets reset, and nobody will tell you why. | 112 |
"Repeat what you said. You heard a what?"
"A human scream. Plain and clear as the my wife yelling at me, sir."
Captain Sonya of the URP-1 Voyager, short for underwater research project one, simply stared at his friend in disbelief.
"Impossible. We're half way in the mariana trench!"
"My ears don't decieve me, sir." Wesley finally made eye contact with Sonya. "Please don't stare like that at me, please. Sir."
"SOMEONE?! ANYONE?!" The voice of a girl echoed in the metal cabin.
Both Sonya and Wesley turned their heads to the source of the scream. They rushed towards the nearest window to see what was happening.
The girl was not choking. She was surrounded by an air bubble.
"MY FOOT IS STUCK. PLEASE, HELP ME."
Wesley turned to Sonya. "Well, whadda we do?
"We leave her." Sonya's eyes were locked on the girl.
"We cannot do anything. We only have enough fuel for a direct descend and back."
Sonya walked away, and waved off the problem.
"We can't leave her alone, can we?" Wesley's voice was not as loud and clear as his usual.
"We can. We are not humans. What affection should we show them? Leave her to die. Their problems are not ours."
"But..."
"But what?" Sonya ferociously whipped back. "We're here to extract clean dihydrogen monoxide in liquid form. Leave her."
"Sir..."
"No more, Wesley. Come, or else dinner won't be served."
--
This is the beginning of the consistent story challenge.
Next: http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/26vz4h/ipthe_moon_the_night_and_the_cat/chv0kcc
| 26 | Fathoms beneath the ocean, a submarine crew hears the impossible- a scream. | 57 |
Thaddeus stood still, frozen by some unknown force. His fellow guards, his friends, his brothers lay around him, still and silent. He knew not if they lived, but he was the only one still conscious and standing. Not ten minutes ago, he was joking around with Tammin, whose face was turning white in his fallen state. Thaddeus felt a wave of grief wash over him and struggled to regain control of his body. The emperor was still awake and on the throne, but he was silent and still. His occasional stirring ensured he had his control intact, but his face was calm. He had accepted his fate already. Thaddeus had not.
In a sudden burst he broke the barriers place on his mind and stumbled forward. He fell to his knees but picked himself up quickly, readying the polearm that remained in his hand. The doors to the throne room suddenly burst open in a blast of some sort of energy. Across the threshold walked a man in brilliant robes, holding an orb in his dominant hand. There were runes scrawled across his bald head and his eyes glowed blue with some power. Thaddeus had seen this before: the man had psionic power. That was how he had been immobilized!
"Not come closer! You not belong here!" Thaddeus shouted in jumbled common. The man would not understand his native tongue, so he hoped it was enough to get the message across. The psion's brow furrowed and with a swipe of his hand, Thaddeus was thrown back to the floor. After him came a female rogue, a white scar across her face and dressed in black armor. Thaddeus found he was unable to focus completely on her, so the armor must have been enchanted in some way. These groups of evil marauders often came equipped with many wondrous artifacts. The doors slammed shut behind them, and then the psion straightened his back and turned to the rogue.
"Lady Renevaux, if you would please take care of this whelp so we can do what we came here to do, it would be much appreciated." His voice was raspy, and there was some echo to it. The runes lit up in a dazzling sequence with ever syllable. The woman slowly approached Thaddeus, drawing an intricately designed knife that glimmered in the dim torchlight. As she approached Thaddeus was able to focus more on her features and found her to be of high elf kin. Her ears poked out of the shrouded cowl and her white hair glistened as her dagger did. Thaddeus held his polearm up defensively, but before she could strike, the door burst open and shattered into a splinters. Through the splintered remains of the door came a brutish orc with a gigantic battleaxe. His armor, face, and weapon were splattered with blood, and Thaddeus had the sickening realization that little, if any, of that blood belonged to him. The barbarian looked down at the trembling figure of Thaddeus and smirked.
"Is this all that's left?" the orc grunted. "I faced more than this just wiping my boots on the way in here!" He guffawed with mention of such bloodlust. This monster was beyond the very edge of evil if he could talk about murder with such nonchalance. Thaddeus felt the psion's eyes turn away from him to sigh at the brute, and the rogue Renevaux lowered her guard to shake her head and roll her eyes. Thaddeus saw this sudden opening and jumped to his feet, polearm in hand, and thrust it forcefully into the exposed back of the woman. The long spike at the end of the weapon plunged through her torso, making its exit through her abdomen. She shrieked and the dagger clattered to the ground. Thaddeus used the moment of confusion as the other two turned toward the sound to grab this dagger and in a last-ditch effort, thrust it in the direction of the psion. He reached his hand up but the moment was just long enough that he couldn't stop the projectile. It struck true, right between his eyes. His eyes flared red, glowing intensely, and the runes across his head lit up with the same red energy, then he collapsed to the ground and the lights went out. The orc stood staring, mouth agape, at his two fallen friends and the young Thaddeus, panting and filled with adrenaline.
"SIMON! RENNY!" he shouted, confused and at a loss. His eyes searched frantically and he dropped his battleaxe, falling to his knees. The elf Renevaux turned to the orc, breathing labored, and uttered her final words before her eyes glazed over: "I always loved you, Agronar." She let out a final labored sigh and was still. The barbarian began to sob slowly and Thaddeus reached to pull his weapon from the corpse of the elf. As his hands gripped the pole, the orc's head snapped to him, eyes blazing with rage and the fires of hatred. He sprang up, battleaxe in hand, and charged Thaddeus. Thaddeus dodged to the side but the orc kept charging. As he picked himself up, he realized that he had made a grave error; the orc was headed right for the emperor. Thaddeus raised his hand and tried to yell out for the barbarian to stop, but the words caught in his throat and the orc made a mighty swing with his axe. The emperor's throat was slit and he gurgled as the blood poured out. The proud leader slumped back into his throne and the orc turned on Thaddeus, eyes still ablaze. He charged once more, but Thaddeus had nothing left to lose anymore. His friends, leader, and likely family were slain, and there was only one of this evil group of marauders left to face. As the orc charged, Thaddeus prepared an attack, then as he came close dodged to the side, sweeping the weapon at the orc. It caught on his ankles, knocking him down and using the force of his own charge to send his battleaxe clattering away. Thaddeus brought the polearm upward, preparing to swing at the exposed neck of the orc, but this barbarian was fast. He flipped onto his back, pulling a sword from his belt and catching the polearm as it came down. Agronar pushed back against Thaddeus, causing the young guard to stumble backward. Agronar found his footing again and came at Thaddeus with force, each strike pushing him backwards. With a final mighty swing, the pole split apart and the force of the rupture knocked Thaddeus to the ground. He tried to roll away but the orc was once again too fast. He slammed his foot down onto the chest of the young guard, and Thaddeus felt his ribs break from the force. Gasping for air, he let out a labored "Please..." but the orc was already raising his axe.
"The time has come for the righteous kingdoms of man to reclaim their rule. Today is the end of an era, the end of the evil reign of goblinkind. See you in Hell, goblin scum!" The barbarian let out a roar and brought his axe down on Thaddeus, extinguishing the last of the Iron Mountain Goblins. | 112 | A great Empire is about to fall. A single remaining bodyguard is left alone with the Emperor as the enemy approaches the throne room. | 113 |
Jake went flying up the stairs, through his door, and into the attic. He slammed his shoulder on the wall and stubbed his toe on a step, but that didn’t stop him. He reached the tiny room atop his house and turned over every single table, chair, vase, and shelf he could find. He had hidden it so well, he had been so impossibly meticulous as to make sure nobody could possibly find it. As he ran to one final table to look under, he tripped, and hit the ground hard. Nothing. He checked what had caught his foot, and saw his box.
It was an oak box, and every time Jake got close to it he could smell the purity of the wood. The density of the natural odor that felt like a safety blanket to him, wrapping him in warmth and security. All over the box were intricately carved patterns. Blocks of cubes, swirls, beautifully made triangles tessellating into the middle of the top, where Jakes name could be found. Care went into every centimeter of every letter, resulting in an impactful interpretation of his simple name. The box had age to it.
Jake reached his hand out, and touched the metal lock on the front. He had expected his hands to be shaking more than this. He opened the lock, and lifted up the box to look inside. Immediately, a bright blue marble fell out of a hole on the corner of the box, his happiness. He became filled with dread for the brief moment when his happiness was out of the box. He felt as though the world were dark, and all hope was lost, until he quickly returned it. As though the happiness were water being poured into a jug, he first felt his toes become warmer, until finally he could smile again. He set the box down so nothing else could fall out, and resumed his search.
Sadness, check. Laughter, check. Anger, check. Everything seemed to be there, yet he knew there was something missing. He thought hard, and tried to bring himself to feel every emotion he could think of. He was fully in touch with his body, and it felt perfect. Too perfect. He thought back to the journey up here. The fall, the shoulder, the toe, none of it hurt. None of it stung for even a second. He felt his breath escape him as he looked desperately in the box one last time. No red heart. No pain.
Jake searched his house for days and days, finding nothing. After a while, the stress became to much, and he found himself returning to his old habit of cutting. Yet the warmth of a razor filled him with nothing but a slight cold sensation in his arm, and he couldn’t even force a physicalization of the pain he yearned feel. Two months later, he sat still as a stone at his mothers funeral. He cried, but the tears were empty, filled with only sadness. No actual connection to the dead filled his heart. No pain, just empty tears.
Even as he cocked the gun to his temple 3 months later, he felt only a twinge of regret knowing he had cut off everybody from his life. He could no longer empathize with his friends, connect with their hardships. They had all been more careful with their boxes, while his carelessness lead to his death. His loss of pain lead to his loss of life, for he knew he couldn’t continue for even one more day. And with that, he pulled the trigger.
| 34 | All of your emotions are stored in a wooden box, you go check on them and find one in missing. | 44 |
It's nice to know that things are out of your control. My life is out of my own control and I prefer it that way. I'm simply part of a man's novel. He's not a very good writer, but because of this I live a simple life. Work. Wife Kids. Simple.
How do I know all this? I can hear him. His thoughts as he touches pen to page play through my head. Not constantly, but enough to know. Just now as I pull up to the clinic for a check up I can hear him describe my journey in great detail. He keeps going on about a squirrel who's gaze meets mine as I exit my car. I'm not sure if there's some symbolism that I'm missing here or if he's really as bad of a writer as I think.
The doctor sits me down. I notice that he won't make eye contact with me, maybe there was some symbolism with the squirrel after all.
Cancer. Brain tumor. Delusions. Other words surround them but these are the only words I hear. Choking back tears I mention the author's voice. Apparently surgery should take care of it. I'm still not completely convinced, maybe this is just part of the story it had to get interesting eventually.
My eyes open to blinding light. This might be the worst hangover in the history of alcohol and bad decisions. I wasn't drinking I was out cold while a surgeon removed the tumor from my brain. He did a hell of a job, quick recovery and I was back home.
The tumor isn't the only thing that was left at the hospital. I haven't heard the voice in a few days now. I'm starting to think that they were right. Perhaps it all was just a delusion. There's only one way to know for sure.
I'm the main character. I can't die. Tonight I'll be on the train tracks. If I'm right the train will stop. If I'm wrong... | 10 | You grow up believing that you are merely a character in someone else's novel. One bleary, random day, you encounter incontrovertible proof that you are not, in fact, part of any book, but a living creature in an unscripted and chaotic universe. | 35 |
"Well *shit*...." That phrase could be the only way to describe my frustration as I gazed at my work. The man could walk now, but one more child who would contract polio was born in India. If I tried to stop that, two kids would just lose their legs in a car accident in Brazil because some asshole was to busy with the hooker in the car going down the road.
Everytime I helped someone, no matter how minor, it always backfired. Each cancer patient cured was just another child starving to death. Each lottery ticket won was a someone spiraling into suicidal depression over debt.
He wasn't kidding when He granted me these powers. I couldn't believe how indescribably infuriating it is to see everything you do become instantly insignificant. I wanted to help these people so much that it was *hurting*.
No wonder He was so absent in our affairs. This damned loophole in this power is exacerbating to my mind. For the miracles I create, the damned disasters are just as powerful.
There is one good perk though, I can throw my "divine wrath" anywhere and I don't have to worry about the balance. It is kind of liberating, but loses its charm after seeing the 1000th child wailing over his or her deceased mother's body only to see them grow up to be a force for change and good.
"Oh well." The one phrase I squeezed out each time my good was outdone. That's about all I can hope to muster anymore. Morbid curiosity has started to take the place of my altruism. Thoughts of what would happen to people if I threw floods and volcanoes at them. What good the disasters would reap. Would they develop better ways to save people from drowning in the wake of the floods? Would a billionaire donate to the relief fund and save the children in the area of the volcano?
I gazed on at my work and a small thought creeped up in my head and eeked from my mouth...
"I wonder what would happen if I threw a meteor at them..." A smirk sprung up to my mouth. I looked skywards and saw a small wink in the sky. I thought to myself on how the next 10 years were going to be interesting for people. At this I smiled and pondered on the size of the meteor coming. | 85 | You've been granted god-like powers under the condition that you must do as much evil as you do good. | 84 |
Oh hey Mike. You always call me by my first name, so I suppose this is okay now. We are friends here at the office afterall, aren't we, Mike? Team-building exercises galore, even though these are probably just your ill-adjusted way to say "I wanna shag you, Jessica!" Yep, I noticed you feeling her up. Apparently you have a thing for thick girls. You chubby chaser. Protip: Not gonna happen. She's just afraid as fuck to lose her job, supporting 2 children and whatnot. Mikey Mikey. You lack decency and humility, so I won't give you none either.
Remember when you made me work unpaid overtime? Me neither. Honestly too many times I'd care to remember. All that stays in my head is a giant notion of "FUCK MIKE." Wakeup call, bro! I forwarded your lewd advances to HR. I forwarded your unsanitary business practics to accounting. You may talk it down, effectively saving your sorry ass, but at least it will be a major pain in said ass for you.
So what put me on the edge? Mikeybro, I am not even on the edge. I am calm as the Unabomber in his cabin. So yeah, I won the lottery. And I am the hell out of here. I resign from my prestigious job at a fortune 10000 (On the lower end of the 10000) to live a live of booze, hookers and the occasional yacht trip. Far away from your shitty management, your arbitrary deadlines, and your cringey ass in general.
Goodbye and fuck you,
Dan The Man. | 26 | You hate your boss, and you've just won the lottery. Write your resignation letter. | 30 |
"Anything?"
"Anything." The man sat down, pulling his shirt off to reveal a body that had seen abused, from the inside and out. It was clear that he had been a cutter at some point, probably after some point he had stopped being physically abused by whoever he was with, be it a lover, a parent, someone. Scars littered his flesh, burns, tears, bullet holes even, years of torment, lightly faded yet bold enough not to ignore. Some of the scars on his arms were old track marks, veins torn and collapsed, leaving thin blackened lines, permanently etched on the inside of his arms. The redden eyes, the shaking hands, the light sweat on his brow, all signs of something I had seen firsthand hand.
I changed my equipment, donning new gloves as I moved to his upper arm, a design already set in my head. With the pen in my hand, I went to work, carefully watching the man lean back and relax the best he could, his brow furrowed either in deep contemplation or an attempt to relieve the throbbing pain that buried itself inside his skull.
The simple goblet was easy enough to draw, at least the main piece, getting the details right would be the task. With the gun in my hand, I started, concentrating on both design and recipient, making sure that both remained in the best condition while under my hands. Gold and black, little details to make it come to life. I had to make sure that this was right, he needed this and I wasn't about to about to fail someone who could use the help.
"When was your last drink?" An eye creaked opened, slowly focusing on me before falling back close. A sigh, heavy with years of guilt attached to it, slipped from his lips followed by a grim chuckle.
"Barely a two days ago..."
"How many times have you tried to stop?"
"Too many." Another laugh, this time lighter than the first one, sounded. "Is it that obvious?"
"To someone who is sitting on a ten year coin, yes." The silence returned over the two of us, the repeating needle the only thing echoing in the small shop. I finished before the clock struck 1 AM, sitting back to admire the work I had created in less than an hour. The detailed goblet with a cross section, making it look as if the cup would empty. The gold and black nearly shone in the dim light, and it was my turn to smile. "I think you'll fine yourself just fine."
He twisted to look, his thick eyebrow raising up, silently questioning what I had given him. "Okay... I'm lost. What is it.?"
"A Pythagorean cup. Fill it with a bit of alcohol and you're fine. Too much and all of it drains out." Wiping away the last bit of extra ink, I moved to put my things away.
"...well, I did say anything." He reached for his wallet, still unsure of what to think of the tattoo, but I shook my head.
"Don't worry about it. It was my pleasure."
"You sure?"
"I am." I stood, heading towards a small refrigerator I had in the back, my boots clicking on the tile. "Sit still for a bit. Don't want you passing out after all of that. Can I get you anything to drink?" Grabbing a soda for myself, I waited for his answer, letting the magic sink in, hoping that I had done a good enough job to have the desired effect.
"Yeah... got a bottle of water or something?"
-094 | 44 | You are a tattoo artist who has the ability to give people powers from the tattoos you give them | 53 |
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