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The door creaked shut: a cacophony of poor hinges and droughts of oil. The click ran parallel with my quiet scoff as I tried to make my way across the carpeted room before stubbing my toe against the mahogany legs of the bed. A groan and the shuffle of bedsheets followed shortly after.
"Honey, is that you?" It was a hoarse whisper, groggy in her daze.
"There's an emergency in the office, I'm sorry baby." Of course every word was lie, but my voice was hushed, and gentle enough to be indistinguishable.
In truth I've got a date, lovely young lady, much different from the mess covered in bedsheets.
"Mmkay, I know your new job is important, just hurry back."
I sighed, but now I could ease my ruse a little more: she completely bought it. I eased the pressure off my aching toes and stretched out my back. My pockets jingled; I must be making her wait.
I gathered my coat, which was quite expensive. Burberry? I didn't know. It was my first designer jacket anyway.
The Montblanc watch danced around my fingers before I decided to stuff it in my pockets. I was taking way too much time.
Silently but swiftly I slid down the marble stairs. I snatched my wallet and I was out.
I swear, buying a hybrid was one of the smartest things we've done. Quiet, fuel efficient, good for affairs.
The passenger door glided open and I clambered in. The driver smiled at me. Really, what a pretty lady.
"Watch, coat, wallet, anything else?"
"I got the wife's jewellery. She was stupid as hell. Probably around 10 grand total."
"She catch you?"
"I played it off."
"I swear, you're worse at sneaking out than her husband." | 68 | Write a story where the setting isn't revealed until the end, so that it changes the entire piece. | 58 |
John approached his colleague, and friend, glancing around the sterile room as he did. Most of the other researchers had hit their bunks for their mandatory four hours.
“Stephen, I think I’ve got something…” he said
Looking over his shoulder again, he directed Stephen to the corner of the room, where a microscope sat in a mountain of clutter.
“Look.” he said.
Stephen leaned over and peered into the microscope. His hand trembled as he adjust the eyepiece.
“The virus is receding!” said Stephen, “We’ve done it! What batch is this? We’ve got to get it into production!”
“No, not yet. I’ve destroyed everything that led me to this batch.”
Still hunched over, Stephen turned his head away from the eyepiece.
“What? What the fuck John?”
“It’s still in my head, I can recreated it. Just… just not yet. I only showed you for confirmation. You are the only one I can trust with this.”
Stephen stood upright and looked around the room. His eyes opened wide, he demanded an explanation without saying a word.
“Look, think about it for a second. The world was fucked anyway. Poverty, famine, war, global warming and then whatever shit we would think of next to kill ourselves off.” He glanced around the room again and lowered his voice, “I’m not saying we sit here and let the human race die, I’m saying we wait. Did you know that the black plague actually solved a lot of social problems? They were at crisis point. Overcrowded cities, violence and extreme poverty. We’re way beyond that point. We have the chance right now to save humanity! To tip the odds in our favor, to make rebuilding easier. People will be reeling from this, maybe the human race will finally gain some perspective. Maybe we can achieve world peace! A balanced society.” he said.
“John you can’t do this! Millions of people have died, and millions more will follow. You will be responsible for those deaths”
“Maybe, but maybe I will be responsible for saving mankind!”
He snatched the Petri dish from under the microscope and poured a destructive solution over it.
“It’s done Stephen. I will create another batch, but only when the time is right.”. | 53 | You have just found the cure to a virus that is killing millions worldwide, why do you keep it to yourself? | 42 |
Fenris rolled up his garage door and stepped out into another lovely spring day.
“‘Morning, faggot,” said his neighbor jeremy_fartson cheerily, waving from the front porch of his Cape Cod style cottage. “Nice day to suck my balls wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh you old troll,” Fenris replied with a chuckle. “*Like*.”
The bus ride to work was a quick one, full of faceless degenerates like usual, the types who had never made anything of themselves because they seemed mostly unable to put a real sentence together.
“He not tryna b liek jb but he usin tha autotone tho,” one of them burst out randomly. Fenris pulled his briefcase a little closer and pretended not to notice.
At the office, Fenris quickly found himself buried in another day’s paperwork. When lunch finally rolled around, he scooted away from his desk with a sigh and headed for the break room. Several coworkers were there already, discussing food and politics.
“See, the way I look at it,” lilmontre was saying, “Obama is like Taco Bell. You get all excited thinking about it, but then once you actually have it you realize it was a huge mistake.”
A chorus of *Like*s filled the room, but not everyone was impressed.
“Wow,” trina117 said with a look of scorn on her face. “Unsubbed.”
She walked out of the room with a few others saying *Like* in her wake.
“Yo Fenris,” lilmontre said, turning to the newcomer. “What do you think?”
Fenris set his lunchbox down and thought for a moment. Finally he said, “All I know is, one of my friends’ aunts had to get surgery one time bc she had eye problems. Her husband said he had to leave her and she was really upset about it but then when she got eye transplants and she could see again she found out the eyes were actually her husband’s, and he had killed himself so she could have them. And none of that would have happened if we didn’t have Obamacare. Like this if you cry everytime.”
A hush fell over the room, and most everybody turned in a solemn *Like*.
The rest of the day passed quickly, but a somber mood had overtaken the office after Fenris’ story. As he pulled into his driveway that evening, he knew only old jeremy_fartson could cheer him up again. So he told him about the break room conversation, and about how Obamacare had ruined another innocent life, and fartson sat pondering it all for a long moment.
Finally a smile came over him and he looked up at his friend, and said simply, “That’s gay bro.”
It was like the clouds had parted again, and a lightness came back to Fenris’ heart.
“Thanks old friend, I needed that,” he said. He turned to leave, but paused there on the walkway between their two houses, and added, “No homo.” | 101 | All of the top YouTube commenters live in the same town. | 60 |
- Master is going away. He leaves from time to time, so I don't mind. Besides, I get to see the others like me. We are let out once a day for an hour. We run through tall grass, seek out interesting smells (sometimes found in another's butt), and see who can claim the most bushes. It will be fine. Master will have fun.
- I have gone outside seven times now. Master must be having a really good time! I miss him, but new friends are coming and going every day here. I have claimed almost all the bushes too! Master will be back soon I bet.
- The people here start to look at me strange every time they walk by my kennel. Sometimes they talk and rub my ears. I've noticed they don't do this to any of my friends in their cages. Maybe Master told them I was special! There are leaves in the yard now too! Master always loved when the leaves fell. He must be coming any day now!
- There's snow in the yard. We don't get to go outside much; too cold. Where did Master go? It must have been somewhere really amazing for him to stay so long.
- The people don't stop by my cage anymore. They walk quickly by and don't look at me. Did I do something wrong? If Master would just take me home I wouldn't bother them anymore!
- It's warm again. I don't want to claim the bushes anymore. Where is Master?
- They moved my cage! I'm at the front desk now! Everyone who comes in puts their fingers through the little bars and rubs my face. Just like Master used to do every morning before work. I hope he doesn't mind I play with other people sometimes.
- Some people are taking me! They snuggle me and give me a new collar! But how will Master find me when he gets back! I'm waiting for Master! I don't want to leave! | 36 | An owner drops their pet off at a kennel for a "vacation". Then he or she goes home and commits suicide. Write from any perspective. Also, feel free to use any type of pet. | 25 |
*I’m not sure I understand. You are telling me that we shouldn’t give your species access to our spacefaring technology?*
That’s correct, yes.
*You understand that your early discovery of nuclear physics places your species at a terrible risk? Please don’t mistake my words for concern, the last thing I believe this universe needs is another war tribe competing for resources. But nevertheless, this treaty represents your species only means of survival and you’re turning it down. Is that what you’re saying?*
No.
*Ah, there we go. Which part have I misinterpreted?*
The part where it’s our only means of survival. You said your species has introduced ninety-five alien worlds to the galactic arena, how many of them support your role in it?
*Well many such civilizations share our dream of uniting as many potential-*
How many?
*… All of them.*
Of course they do. Aliens are just people, after all. And we understand people.
*Then you understand that if I decide not to share our technology with you, your species will die alone on this miserable husk of a planet. That’s called leverage.*
We captured the technology three hours ago when you warped in.
*Then why are we having this conversation?*
Because your kind seems to have a very familiar grasp on the meaning of leverage.
| 31 | Humans were always difficult to fully understand, but this time we saw eye to eye. | 23 |
“I’ll have the linguine”, he said, looking over his newspaper-size menu. The restaurant insisted on using paper menus to give an “old-timey” 21st century feel of an Italian restaurant, despite the shining cityscape being clearly visible behind fake marble pillars. He peeked at his date sitting across from him.
The cheery artificial waiter jotted something down. Why they had to write on a pad, when they were equipped with perfect memory, probably also had something to do with the feeling of authenticity.
“We have the offer of: GMO-beef or chicken?”
“Hm, Chicken. Let’s go all out on this one! GMO never tastes right to me.”
The girl across from him raised an eyebrow. She had look of a techno-raver, metallic shirt and black short hair. The dating service, Date-Joi, had put them together, so he supposed they should be compatible.
“So, you prefer the option of systematic genocide of sentient meat?” She said, casually.
Confused, he gazed at the oversized menu for this choice, then had a sinking feeling that the evening was going downhill. A Moralist. Those idiots at Date-Joi had really fucked him over.
“I don’t think it’s technically genocide since we keep breeding more chicken. I mean, we’re not wiping them out..”
She pursed her mouth into a tiny scowl. Right then, his Tomorrow-watch started flashing a color-code. It was a message from his future self: “This is your soul-mate. The one and only with whom you’re destined to be incinerated, some distant time in the future when you’re both bored. In other words: Don’t fuck this up.” The technology was popular, since people that didn’t die accidentally and didn't need to work, had little other to do than to optimize their lives and try to perfect their timelines. It was restricted of course, which only made it more widely used.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot here. If you think it’s better, let’s both have the GMO.” He smiled winningly at the girl, who ignored him.
The waiter blinked prettily and scurried off. His date took out her DIV-ball, an older type with a light display, and started browsing the news.
“So, do you always change your convictions just like that.”
He groaned, but forced a smile.
“Actually, no, but you turned me around.”
“Hrmph.”
“Anything interesting on the news?” He was grasping for 8-bits. The girl gave him a pitying look.
“Not really.”
He praised himself lucky when their food arrived. The linguine was cooked with a beef-like sustenance in a grey-white sauce. It had a bland odour like a breath of warm air.
“This is pretty good,” he tried.
“Look I’m just here because I got hungry and your profile seemed harmless. You’re annoying me now.”
Sweet robotic Jeesus, this girl was a handful. He felt like strangling her. Would they have a relationship of fighting and make-up sex? That could work for him, except he didn’t feel very attracted. Actually her presence inspired an even deeper self-loathing in him than usual. He went for a final sprint.
“So, anyway, do you want to go and get a beer after?”
She opened her eyes wide as if seeing him for the first time. They were actually kind of pretty those eyes, bluish and white framed with black makeup. He felt a small twinge of hope, like something that was meant to happen long ago was actually happening now.
She laughed, right while staring at him. Not a girlish giggle either but great bellowing laugh.
He felt his face grow warm and stood up, as she went on clutching her sides. People around them stared.
His Tomorrow-watch lit up again, yellow with mirth. “Just kidding. Ha. Ha. Ha. Am enjoying remembering you squirm.”
Man, future him was a jerk. | 160 | You're on a first date and its going very well until you make a huge mistake. You somehow get a sign from future you telling you that this person is "the one". Don't screw it up. | 143 |
This is not what *making it* looks like: hairnet and plastic gloves, ‘86 Geo Spectrum sedan out front, fake smile between a glass counter full of sandwich ingredients and a row of Quik-Toasters. And I knew that someone who recognized me would eventually come in here and order a Number 3 no onions but I wasn’t prepared for it. I wasn’t ready for the slow focus of this new documentarian-- a former classmate ordering a sub, asking me *You work here?* like my life might be some hidden camera gag.
So what can I say but *Yep* and brush it off? There are customers behind you so I can’t even stop to explain myself or Randy will fucking yell at me for holding up the line. *Pepper Jack, Swiss, Cheddar, or American?*
“I always thought you were the one who was going to make it,” you say. “You were always the best of us. Are you still composing?”
Like, *tell me this is a side gig right?* No, I’m not composing. What kind of question is that? Who the hell are you to walk into my sandwich shop after three years and try to hold me accountable to some ancient version of a person you thought you understood?
I fake my way through our tawdry little reacquaintance. You don’t get the person behind the mask; you haven’t earned that at all. I’m only talking to you because I’m getting paid to. So go on then-- eat your footlong and wave awkwardly and walk back out into the free sun, and don’t forget to tell the Class of 2011 to go fuck themselves.
Composition.
“Music”.
I sleep on a mattress on the floor and I’m saving up for an exhaust manifold. That’s my life now. I picked up overtime this week because one of my coworkers is in jail. Go back to your ivory tower and transcribe some more counterpoint. See how far you get without that trust account.
I’m on dishes after the lunch rush. My phone buzzes in my pocket. We have three tubs in the giant sink: dirty shit covered in mustard and slime, soaking shit covered in skin-peeling cleaning agents, and scalding hot pressure-washed deafening power scrubbed steel. One to the next, one to the next. Make a pile of clean trays. Stack them up. Start over.
My phone buzzes again. I take a minute-- it’s Chris.
>2:17 Just got a call from Cincinnati. Are you sitting down?
>2:19 Fuck dude. I’m just gonna say it. They want to do ‘Orelious’!! Louis fucking Langree is asking for scores!
I stare at the texts, reading them over and over. What is happening? I feel myself moving forward again, like a rusted old ghost train Sabin-suplexed back onto the tracks. I barely even notice when Randy tries to get in my face about the dishes. What dishes? I turn back to him, that scrawny little bastard hunched over in the back room doorway.
“What dishes, Randy?” I say. He starts to reply but I just say it again. “What dishes, Randy?”
And then I’m picking up trays of bread and dumping them on the floor. *What dishes, Randy?* I’m pulling toasters off the counter and chucking ramekins of yellow against the stupid wallpaper. *What fucking dishes Randy?!*
I finally walk out with an over-the-shoulder bird, and my ‘86 Spectrum has never growled so proudly. I am a composer. The Cincinnati fucking orchestra wants to perform my piece and *I am a fucking composer*. I scream it out the window down Cusick Street and laugh like a damn mental patient.
NPR is playing Ravel’s *Bolero* and it’s a fucking parade all the way to my apartment. My purgatory has ended; this is *my life* again. | 23 | Everyone "knew" you'd eventually become very successful, but here you are, living a completely ordinary and lonely life. "Wasted potential" is now what they say behind your back. Until ... | 28 |
The crowd roared and began chanting, *Jocasta! Jocasta! Jocasta!* as the undefeated champion entered the arena with arms raise in a salute to his adoring fans. Camera pods circled around the duelist as he pranced into the arena, spotlights focused on his well muscled form and bare chest. Even though light armor was permitted under the Codex of Duels, Jocasta had boastfully gone without the protection of even so much as a t-shirt through each of his three hundred and ninety nine contests. The audience at home drank in his rich, tanned skin and announcers made the obligatory comments about how his lack of scars were a tribute to his skill. Fans pulsed against the black clad security teams who were barely containing the screaming masses. A ladies' black silk thong flew over the cordon and bounced harmlessly off Jocasta's face. He replied by blowing a trademark kiss.
Reaching the packed sand arena, the duelist turned to the judge's box and waited for the master of ceremonies to finish introducing him. His titles took almost a full minute to run through, each one given a heightened dramatic note by the MC as it was read. The Eagle of the East, Montana's Red Hand, Winter's Wrath, the Justice of Santiago, Il Furerza della Mare, they went on and on, covering more territories and countries than Jocasta could remember now. The master bid the audience to hush as he introduced tonight's challenger with a grave tone. One Kay Cee Despain from Toronto, American Occupation Zone had boldly (or foolishly, as the network commentators were saying) challenged Jocasta under the terms of the Codex to a duel to the death. Solemnly, the MC read the codified language passed down through centuries of tradition.
"The challenge has been given and accepted; a grievance and disagreement so terrible only the ultimate price may be paid to satisfy has occurred. Though we pray for peace, we who stand in judgement of this event grant both contestants leave for war. May your god provide you the justice you ask." Jocasta had to hand it to this night's MC, he was delivering his lines with all the gravitas of a Shakespearean actor.
"Challenger, present yourself and face your opponent!"
Spotlights and camera pods zipped to the entrance opposite the master duelist to reveal a startling sight. Jocasta had been lead to believe that this Despain was a formidable warrior of some regional repute, yet the body he saw standing before him wearing a ritual helm and leather jerkin looked like a farce. This warrior had a large belly, yet obviously scrawny arms. He stood with a slouch and let the tip of his fighting sword rest in the dirt as if too heavy to even hold. Laughter broke out among the crowd and soon even Jocasta couldn't help but giggle. Fight number four hundred was going to be a shamefully easy win.
He let Despain approach at an agonizingly slow pace. Jocasta was more than merely a skilled duelist, he was a showman at heart and wanted to extract the maximal amount of thrill for the audience in each fight. From the rapid rising and falling of Despain's chest, it was obvious the challenger was already panting from exertion and stress. Jocasta jumped into a fanciful and unnecessary roll to avoid the painfully slow swing of his foeman's sword. The audience shouted in approval at the tumbling champion who paused after each roll to give a wave and a wink to the crowd. Jocasta had not even deigned to draw his own sword yet. He easily ducked and pirouetted under an overhand slice that went well wide, then skipped away from another lazy blow as a child might on a playground.
After some minutes of this play, Jocasta sensed the crowd was beginning to grow restless. Time to start painting the arena red, he though. Drawing his sword in a lightning flash the champ bloodied his opponent's non-sword arm, slicing neatly through the thin armor and flesh alike. To Despain's credit, not a flinch was given nor was a retreat. Jocasta pressed and danced more vigorously now, issuing thin cuts designed to make nasty flesh wounds the camera pods would undoubtedly be highlighting for those at home. This too grew tiring after a while, and with bored ease Jocasta knocked the sword from his foe's hand.
Despain never shied away, even now defenseless. Instead, the challenger merely thrust his belly forward in defiance of all vulnerability. Jocasta could not resist, placing a disemboweling cleave laterally across the out thrust belly. His foe finally showed defeat, falling to knees in the packed sand as blood leaked from the torn mass of armor and chest. Shaking hands reached up and undid the clasps of the light helmet, letting it fall away. A tumble of sweat soaked dirty blonde hair fell lose as the audience gasped as one. Despain was no man. Even the prattling commentators on the network were shocked into silence, a historical first.
Hands moving again, Despain ripped away the shredded armor about her midsection and pulled at flesh. Cameras automatically zoomed in and displayed the gory figure protruding from her belly for a few moments before censors in the control booth began screaming to cut the feed. It was too late. The millions watching could see an unborn child protruding from the gash Jocasta had made.
"You murdered my husband. Now, his son and I will end you." Despain held her belly more and clenched her teeth, the effort of speaking taking the last of her strength. She began to sag to the ground, eyes focused on some distant shore beyond human reckoning. Silence echoed in the hall. On her waxen face, a slight smile of victory was allowed the grace of a few measures before turning slack.
*Murder! Child killer! El Diablo!* came the cries from the crowd now. A glass bottle sailed through the air and exploded mere feet from Jocasta. Already the throng of people were on their feet, madly pushing against the security cordon. What had been done in the arena today had violated every standard of the Codex and human decency. To defeat a challenger in an honorable duel was one thing, but to slay an innocent child... This was beyond the pale of any human decency left. Jocasta could only ponder how this Despain widow, now corpse, had tricked her way onto the field.
The cordon broke, frenzied men and women tearing towards the champion as an angry flood. He dropped his sword idly to the earth; Jocasta would lose his four hundred and first battle.
*Edit: Words and clarity, my two best friends and foes.* | 104 | Dueling was never criminalized; instead it became a professional sport. A world-famous duelist is challenged to a duel by a complete unknown. The audience is shocked by the outcome. | 123 |
It all started out as a utopian paradise in our eyes. Nature, as we once called it, had been inherently hostile since life sprang up on this world. The big fish eats the little fish, until a bigger fish came along. And so it went undisturbed until we had to go and try to fix it all. By that point humanity had long known peace amongst itself.
The ancient conflicts which once threatened to decimate us had been made obsolete by technology. Bioengineering had created a perfect world full of symbiotic organisms, all ultimately fulfilling the needs of the now dwindling human population. The Engineers once thought that we ourselves were in a state of symbiosis with the bacteria that inhabited us. They figured out that we had evolved from ancient colonies of symbiotic single cells which formed ever increasingly complex life forms, culminating finally in us. And they thought that it would be a good idea to replicate that on a mass scale. What they didn't foresee was the symbiotic earth becoming a self aware being.
So that was how I came to find myself seeking refuge here. Like a virus floating through the air in a droplet of spit, I cling to this hot spring which has sustained me far away from any other organic matter here on the southern continent. Thank god that we burned up all of the fossil fuels and melted enough ice to expose this oasis in the frozen desert.
| 10 | Earth has grown an immune system. Humans are viewed as an infection. | 51 |
The man with the moustache looked in the mirror. A different face stared back at him - reptilian, slit eyed, forked tongue; a cold, hard face devoid of emotion.
"Ten long years" the man whispered to his reflection. "A blink of the eye" replied the creature, it's voice echoing in the man's head, yet no-one else in the hall heard it speak.
"You kept me alive in the Great War, you have taught me much about my fellow men, you have shown me the first steps on the path to power. Together he will conquer the world!" The man adjusted his suit, slicked back his hair, as though using the mirror for its intended purpose.
"A fine gift I have granted you, and what have you done for me?" the demon questioned.
"Why, I have written you a book. I call it *Our Life*. It will pass on your teachings to others, so they will join us."
"It is a fine thing" the demon replied, "but call it *My Life* because I must remain hidden to all but you."
The mustached man turned away from the mirror and walked out into the crowded hall. The demon's power burned inside him, confident, strong, using him to reach out through the politics of men to the dark side of mankind.
____________________________
Twenty years later, another anniversary, another conversation in the mirror. So much had happened. Chaos, war, terror. The demon had given the mustached man control over half the continent, and he had given the demon all the evil it desired.
"I have a present for you" the man said to the mirror in his luxurious private apartment. The demon looked deep into the man's eyes, and not for the first time, felt a sense of unease. It was satiated with pain and suffering from entire nations, and surprised at just how easy it had been, how little pushing these vain creatures needed, and how the hint of an idea was taken to an elaborate extreme in the pursuit of power. Could men take it to far?
"The final solution!" the man laughed. The demon felt fear for the first time since the fall. "I have ordered the extermination to begin. The trains will run twenty four hours a day. The camps are ready and the ovens lit."
The demon stared at the monster it had created and was filled with horror. If men could willingly do that to themselves, what unspeakable evil could they do to demonkind?
| 195 | A demon attempts to possess an 11-year old, but finds itself unable to control or escape from the child. A decade later they've become close friends and celebrate the occasion. | 202 |
The line snaked around the block that morning, but by the time I strolled by, the sun was low in the sky and only a few stragglers were still waiting. "What the heck..." I said to myself. "Why not?" I stepped into the line.
I heard squeals of excited young teens up ahead, and the line shifted forward. Soon I was standing in the dingy room, the light bulbs flickering now and again as we waited. The woman in front of me turned and smiled when we made it up to the front, "Good luck." She had very pink lips.
I watched her as her face changed from surprise to relief and glee. She only stood there a moment in front of the mirror before rushing off, already dialing her phone. I heard her emotional greeting before she stepped through the door, "Gary? O god, I just saw the mirror..."
It was my turn. I took a deep breath and stepped forward.
But it was just me: my thin white hair that was once blonde, my wobbly hands resting on my cane, the wrinkles around my smiling eyes. I sighed contentedly.
It was probably too much to ask for a future soulmate. *She* *was* *more* *than* *enough* *for* *one* *lifetime,* I thought to myself. | 77 | A magical mirror shows your reflection and your future soulmate. You only see your reflection. | 83 |
Dear OP,
The Grammar Nazi Gestapo has reviewed your recent post to r/writingprompts in which you requested that your fellow redditors "Write about a world in which grammar nazis act like and actual militant group." Although we appreciate your use of "in which" instead of ending the sentence with a preposition, we must correct your use of "and" when you should have written "an."
This case has been heavily reviewed and appealed several times by your case officer, Sgt. Gruber. Despite Sgt. Gruber's insistence that this simply was a typo, we cannot afford to take chances during such desperate times. As such, we regret to inform you that you have been selected for summary termination. Please utilize the next week to manage your affairs, and to bid farewell to your family. It may also be beneficial to give your wife and daughter a quick lesson in the usage of indefinite articles. I understand that your grandfather was terminated for yelling, "Take us to an hospital, my wife is in labor!" to an ambulance driver. We are growing concerned that this could be genetic. A third strike would unfortunately result in the extinction of your family line.
Please report to Buchensnoun Concentration Camp no later than 17:00 on 7 June, 2014. Executions will begin promptly at 19:00 after a light supper of fried chicken and watermelon, as determined by the majority vote of recent offenders. I apologize that you were sentenced at the same time as such barbaric offenders, one of whom was guilty of a quadruple death sentence for a Facebook post in which the man asked, "wut up mah niggaz, you gots some big booty hos cuming to the party tonite lol?"
Once again, we are deeply sorry for your impending loss.
-Grammar Nazis of America, Internet Division | 57 | Write about a world in which grammar nazis act like and actual militant group. | 48 |
“It’s time for bed now, no more fooling around!” Flametwigs called to her kids
“But we’re not tired” came the precocious reply.
“I said now! Put your toys down, and get in your Dandelions!” Flametwigs was not interested in any nonsense tonight.
“Can we have a story before we go to sleep?”
Flametwigs sighed. She wanted the kids asleep, but a story was only fair.
“Alright,” she replied, “which one would you like to hear?”
The kids conferred together in a tiny huddle of whispers and giggles. Soon they broke apart, and returned their response. “We want the one about The Refinanced Mortgage.”
It was their favorite, and Flametwigs was not surprised. “Very well, into the Dandelions and then the story will begin.” The children hustled into the flowers, and settled in for the story.
*Once upon a time lived a man and wife,*
*Their home was not their own just yet.*
*The term had expired on the mortgage,*
*So then off to the bank they had to head.*
*The bank had rates and amortizations*
*For the man and his wife to choose among.*
*They had built up equity and credit*
*So their rate would be among the finest.*
*When their meeting was done, they had a plan*
*To pay down the principal much faster.*
*Their home would soon be theirs without payments,*
*Which gave their hearts reason to sing loudly.*
Flametwigs looked over to the Dandelions, and saw all of the children sleeping soundly. She tiptoed away onto a moonbeam, and cast herself onwards into the Milky Way.
EDIT: Formatting
| 48 | A fairy tells it's children a human tale before bed | 54 |
Superman ducked back around the corner, no-one had noticed him but he could hear the brutes at the end of the alley toying with their victim. Well of course he could. He could hear everything. Every, single, thing, going on this this rotten, smelly, god awful city. And of all the open mouthed vapid stupidity that swirled around the place, all the monotonous, self indulgent drivel that Superman couldn't shut his super-hearing to…. it was Harold Schritter polluted the soundscape the most profoundly.
He was a tune that got stuck in your head, gravel in your shoe, a whiny sore on the arse of Superman's existence, constantly dribbling his self righteous commentary on the world to whoever would listen. And Superman could do nothing else. The more that Harold's whinging irritated him, the more his attention was fixed by it. Superman hadn't slept in days, and while the thoughts had occurred to him, it was a taboo he couldn't break, no hurting the humans. Do it to one and the next would just be too easy, he could snap them like twigs. God, the last time he'd come here to 'save humanity' it'd seemed quite logical to just brute force the job, but now that Atlantis was just a shadowy myth he realised that… well, it was better not to think too much about it. This was a new civilisation and he'd learned from his mistakes.
And it wasn't like he'd actually brought those thugs here anyway. He may have let them see him a couple of times during the night……. their path had changed slightly to avoid him, he admitted that to himself at least. He was honest after all, maybe he had nudged them slightly toward Harolds place, but it was Harold who'd come out and shouted at them in his weaselly voice. His nasally, whiny, insinuating, self-righteous.… Superman's fists clenched thinking about it. Man that guy is a dick.
Superman launched himself into the air as Harold started to plead, leaving the atmosphere as the pleading turned to screams, slingshotting around the dark side of the moon as a gunshot cut the screams off.
and ahhhhhh….. Superman relaxed. God, it was like someone was pouring warm oil over his soul. Finally he would sleep without the tinny, niggling whine in his ear. Ahhhh, bliss, ahhh..blessed relief. He drifted back down to earth like a leaf, floating around in the air currents of the stratosphere, letting them twirl the weeks of tension out of his body.
And as he settled into the upper branches of a sequoia, soft dappled moonlight a hundred metres off the forest floor, Superman became aware of the voice of Harolds' sister explaining to a police officer just exactly what was he was doing wrong in the investigation of her brother's death and how if he only did his job properly things like this wouldn't be happening to good people.
The corner of Superman's mouth twitched. | 24 | A super hero attempts to rationalize not saving someone they personally dislike | 33 |
“No one will believe this,” Amanda insisted. “It’s too much.”
John shifted uneasily in his chair. Meetings with his editor were always the most difficult part of being an author. He could handle the writer’s block, and the late nights of chasing down an idea. But having his work derided by someone of authority, even constructively, was almost too much.
“What specifically is too much?” He couldn’t tell her what he really knew about the story, or how the idea had come to him. But he had to get this published. This wasn’t just another sciencey romp; this was important.
Amanda held the pages, slowly shaking her head.
“Its all just a bit over the top for me,” she explained. “The way everyone treats each other, the suffering and neglect. And not just personal, but as an entire civilization. They will feast while others starve, let their interests lead them to destroy their own world. They kill each other in massive wars for nothing more that political differences, disguised as acts of faith.”
John stared. He couldn’t let this story slip. She had to print this one; everyone needed to know about this.
“They’re us, Amanda,” he replied. “They’re what we could be. Where we are tolerant, they allow themselves to hate. Where we are compassionate, they turn a blind eye to suffering. They are the more greatly flawed humans that we could so easily be, if we aren’t vigilant. Their world of suffering could become our so easily.”
At this last remark, Amanda laughed derisively.
“Come on John. That’s a bit much. We all have our faults and shortcomings, but these characters are over the top. They commit such acts of direct and indirect violence, it’s unfathomable. And their greed and indifference is so crushing. I think you need to pull it back a bit, John. Your other work is so much more uplifting. I understand you want to take a different approach, but let’s bring it back down a little; build more slowly into the Dystopian genre. Not this in-with-both-feet mess.”
John’s head hung. He could tell there was no convincing her. Like everyone else, himself included, she just couldn’t imagine such things being real. And convincing people that the unreal could become real was a large part of being an author. Transporting the readers to a world that doesn’t exist, and making them feel it’s every nuance as real as their own world.
“I’ll do what I can,” he said, standing to leave.
“You’ll get it John, you always do,” Amanda called after him as he walked away.
John stood in the hallway, awaiting the elevator. He gazed around the hall, seeing it all again. Every reflection showed him the other world. The people in their lives, going about their days. Caring, but uncaring. Loving, but unloved. They gave to charity, and stole from their brothers. The reflections had been showing him this for some time now, and it haunted him. They were so different, and yet so similar to his own friends, and family.
He looked at the metal door of the elevator, and in the reflection, he saw himself. And he wept.
| 365 | In a Utopian alternate universe, an author writes a sci-fi dystopian novel describing our society. | 513 |
My final story was too long. Here is the beginning, if you wish to continue follow the link at the bottom:
The footage was grainy and shaky but the audio was clear and the voice resolute.
Hundreds of thousands streamed the broadcast live while others watched the broadcast on their televisions as networks from around the globe relayed the story into living rooms everywhere.
An unprecedented, and unsuccessful, government-lead search for this man had attracted attention online which snowballed into this global event whereby the man, known only as Doctor, was finally able to release the information he had hinted at.
The release was, I suppose, well marketed. Tentative hints and appearances on social media pointed to 23/11/18 as being the day we would, as he put it, 'discard our ignorance'.
And so he spoke.
"Good morning, afternoon and evening to you all. I must speak briefly as my location will no doubt be traced shortly after this broadcast begins and I know I have little time. This is of no matter to my ultimate goal, the details I will introduce to you here have already been distributed world-wide and will be available to the general public through numerous outlets the moment I am finished. The consequences of the information I am about to release is dramatic and will change the course of our history. I truly believe that I am doing the right thing. I am taking a step that perhaps I have no right to take but I can also withhold the truth no longer.
My name is Dr Gareth Banks and I am, I suppose was, chief medical officer for a government funded research unit called ‘Caelum’ located at, what you know as, Area 51. The centre has a long and storied history, the majority of which revolves around supposed encounters with extra-terrestrials. Though the actuality of these encounters is merely peripheral to some of the revelations I will explain later it is important for me to confirm that in this compound there are numerous preserved bodies and significant remains of a ship which crashed in the 1960s.
The ship was involved in numerous of our technological developments, something which has been speculated upon for a long time given our sudden and dramatic advances, but, once again, this was a secondary finding. Merely a useful bonus in comparison to what was found inside.
The ship, obviously, was never intended to crash. It appears there was some kind of internal struggle, no doubt regarding the ships contents, that lead to the accident and, ultimately, it’s devastating crash landing.
But the contents survived, mostly. The important cargo certainly did. To be brief, inside was found an incredible array of methods for the communication of a single piece of information. When the first men entered the ship they were bombarded sensations. Every sense was stimulated; the inside was a cacophony of noise, smell, motion and light.
The piece of information the creatures wished to distribute throughout the cosmos was stored in codes, tactile, visual and aural amongst many other forms. The ship was essentially a travelling message designed to be, in some way, interpreted by anything sentient. All visible spectrums, aural spectrums and various tactile methods were employed which meant that any sentient creature with a grasp of simple mathematics would be able to uncover the message within. Simple mathematical truths, such as Pythagoras’s theorem, provided the key to unlocking the codes. The visual data stored fell outside our visible spectrum but the audio was useable. Utilising the universal mathematical truths we were able to decipher the language and hence decipher the message.
Consciousness. How strange it is to be conscious. How unacceptable our eventual death. We all wonder, I’m sure, how can it be possible that this experience can come to an end? Quite simply, how strange it seems that we could die.
To be self-aware seems like such a quirk of biology but, evidently, it is a phenomena wide-spread throughout the cosmos. And it appears that the mysteries of our conscious experience are eventually uncovered by any sufficiently sophisticated species. It just so happens that we got our clues a little early.
Throughout the 1960s and 1970s we conspicuously failed to hide our government-sanctioned experimentations with LSD and other mind-altering substances. We took officials, volunteers and, I’m ashamed to say, sometimes even members of the public and we tried, quite simply, to brainwash them.
Continue at: http://chapterfy.com/p/s-78033e69fd89a41b408af279d78296ba/ | 12 | Choose two random conspiracy theories. Both are true and are somehow connected. A member of some organization decides enough is enough and steps forward to explain how and why. | 17 |
*So, I don't think this is NSFW, but if it is, please let me know. As for formatting, I decided to use the Hashtag symbol instead of spelling out the word. If you think I should have formatted it differently, let me know. As a final disclaimer, this is just meant to be funny. I mean no offense, if I somehow did offend someone.*
It came without warning. The world never could have anticipated the consequences. One day everyone started to act differently. Respect and decency went out the window. Everyone, everywhere, acted as they would when they were on the Internet, even those who had never used it before.
I happen to be sitting in a coffee shop at the moment. I enjoy watching people’s interactions nowadays. They are always more fun and full of life. Of course, the unfortunate part of the Change for me was that I became a super introvert. I used to only lurk online, and now I do the same in real life.
I sit back and keep my cool as a beautiful woman walks into the coffee shop, completely topless. One of the mothers in the shop rushes to shelter her young boy’s eyes from the sight. The minute she responded, I knew a hail storm would erupt.
“Oh my god, lady, you’re such a prude!” the half naked woman said.
“Yeah, talk about helicopter parenting,” came another voice.
More and more comments were being yelled throughout the coffee shop as I stood up and left. A few more comments rung through the air before I could escape.
“Hehe, helicopter dick.”
“Fuck you.”
“Guys, were so meta right now.”
Finally, I find myself out of earshot. Unfortunately, I start to walk by a group of people. They are all conversing about something like they were gossiping teenage girls. However, it was a group of teenage guys.
“#Boxers.”
“No way, got to go with briefs guys #Briefs.”
“Dude, wtf. I’m so disappointed by you. Shout out to my other boxers men out there #Team Boxers”
“Guys, there’s only two options, #Team Boxers #Team Briefs.”
“Never forget. #Commando.”
“Boxer-Briefs #Mind-Blown #The Middle”
Finally, I escaped that racquet too. The worst thing about the Change was the devolution of basic human conversation. Don’t even get me started on trolls. Oh, and I forgot to tell you about the rating system. Each of us has a chip that records how many times people like or dislike our actions or words. A glowing LED lights up on our head showing our score.
I slowly walk back to my apartment and head inside. Opening the drawer, I pull out the pistol inside. I walk back out and head for a busy part of town, climbing some stairs to the top of a tall building.
As I walk and feel the breeze blowing through my hair the further I climb, I remember the day the Change came. UFOs had appeared in the sky and a broadcast rang out through the world. The aliens said they were fed up with the way we behaved in the communications they had intercepted, so they decided that we should all have to act that way in our real lives too.
I can feel a bit of fear take hold in me as I raise the pistol to my head. A few people notice. A couple people shout out to stop me, and a few even tell me to just pull the trigger. I notice the red LED glow on my forehead change to yellow. I also forgot to mention that the aliens had set up an economic system, whereupon we could pay money to gift different color LEDs to people besides the standard red. You’d be surprised what people were willing to do to get some of the colors.
A crowd eventually congregates below me. I drop the pistol. I only ever needed it to get enough attention for my next stunt. I pull a knife I had hidden in my sock and cut open my left hand. As painful as it was, it was even more painful to pull out the chip the aliens had implanted. But, as I did, a freedom washed over me.
I stood there, holding the chip up to everyone.
“We can all be free, we don’t have to be slaves to this alien technology!” I yell out at the top of my lungs.
“OMG, he just took out his chip #Chip-Gate”
“Oh no he didn’t. Aliens better watch out #Independence Day #‘Murica”
“Freedom!” someone yelled as they also ripped out their chip. After the other responses, I had almost lost all hope in humanity. And then a few seconds later, I did.
“Freedom! #Freedom”
“Freedom^TM #‘Murica #Hell Yeah!”
I found myself picking up the pistol. The guy who ripped out his chip pleaded with me, but I refused. I wasn’t much of a gun owner myself, and I had only one bullet left. I felt bad for him, but he wasn’t going to be the lucky bastard to escape this hell.
Bang!
-151
**Edit: Wow, first Gold! Thanks!**
| 22 | People act in real life the way they do online. | 32 |
So there I was, alone and naked in the refrigerator, smoking a cigarette with a pot roast on my knees. That's when things got really interesting. The pot roast, or 'Pattie,' as I called her, turned to me and asked me whether or not I was cold. 'Pattie,' I whispered, picking her up from my knees and cradling her. 'Your love is all I need to keep me warm.'
In fact, I was fucking freezing, and despite the whole smoke-and-fire thing, the cigarette wasn't helping much either. Although I knew that I should get out, I didn't want to leave Pattie. She'd go bad if she was left outside in the overwhelming Florida heat.
My stomach grumbling incredibly loudly reminded me that I hadn't eaten in 36 hours. I was in a fridge full of food, but for some mysterious reason, before I had time to even consider my actions, my arm darted out and grabbed a hand full of pot roast. Pattie was screaming, I was screaming, tears were streaming down my face, I was chewing the pot roast, Pattie continued to scream.
My heart felt like it was dropping into my feet. I never meant to hurt her like this, never. She'd been there for me and I wanted to do the same for her. I needed her by my side. I needed her to
*************************************************************
'A male, probably about 19, Caucasian, found in his refrigerator. Body temperature seriously low, we'll need an ambulance as soon as possible. Smoking what looks like a cigarette, turned out to be an unidentified substance. And after we solve this case, I'm asking for a raise. I do not get paid enough for this fucking job.' | 29 | "So there I was, alone and naked in the refrigerator, smoking a cigarette with a pot roast on my knees. That's when things got really interesting." | 25 |
Julie was laying on the couch texting her friends; periodically looking over to check on Lucy. They had the house to themselves and Julie was enjoying the chance to rest her legs. Earlier that morning Lucy had wanted to go to the butterfly garden and it had felt necessary to Julie. The Flynn's had left on their sailboat a week ago promising to be back for Lucy's birthday. They had been going on trips more often but it was hard for Julie to complain. Lucy was a beautiful angel who was amazingly talkative for a toddler. She had her mothers golden curls and could spin the most fantastic tales, talking your ear off about whatever she was into that week. Besides Lucy's company, the Flynn's had a massive estate and paid Julie handsomely. Julies clock read 1:15 which meant that she out to start getting things ready. She pushed herself off the sofa and said to Lucy "Lulu I'm gonna go to the kitchen for a second are you gonna be okay watching TV?" She knew what the answer would be. Lucy's favorite show was on and filled the massive 80 inch screen. Being honest it was Julies favorite show as well. After she would put Lucy to sleep she would pull out her vaporizer and marvel at the undersea wonders splayed out on the screen. She imagined what it would be like to be out on the water. Free, she imagined. Made even better by the company of a man like Mr. Flynn. "I'm finee jewely" snapped her back into the present and she proceeded to the kitchen. The Oreo cheesecake was sitting right where she had left it in the bottom of the Flynn's massive refrigerator, the candles on the counter top. As she pulled open the candles and stuck three in she was thinking about how, as much as she loved Lucy, she was not hers to raise. She rummaged through the junk drawer for a lighter and pocketed it. When she got back to the living room she lay down on the carpet next to Lucy. She set the cake in front of Lucy and said "Happy birthday Lulu". As a smile broke across Lucy's face Julie lit the candles and began to sing. When she finished she reminded Lucy " don't forget to make a wish before you blow out the candles". Lucy squeezed her blue eyes shut, paused and then blew. Suddenly Julie had saltwater in her nose and eyes and she couldn't breathe. Panic set in as she tried to figure out what was happening. Where was Lucy?! Where was she?? Blinking made it easier to see and she saw sunlight and began swimming up. Breaking the surface and coughing up water she began to make out a bawling Lucy not ten feet from her. It was at that moment she was thankful for all the time spent bored at water safety class looking at all the other parents who had someone to share their burdens with. She swam over to Lucy and tried to comfort her as she held Lucy and treaded water. "What did you wish for?" she asked Lucy. Sobbing, then "I just wanted fishies for real jewely. Like on the TV". Julie could not believe it. She could not keep them both afloat for long. Making a 360, she scanned the horizon. There was nothing anywhere. Further panicked by Lucy's incessant cries she continued to turn. Her legs were burning uncontrollably when, in the distance, she thought she could make out the tops of distinctive red sails.
Edit: for down voters please provide constructive criticism if you have any | 19 | every human is granted 3 wishes when they are born, but we've never realised because we use them when we are babies. You are babysitting when the toddler uses it's first wish. | 45 |
Tell me something. Have you ever taken a stupid bet?
I mean, really stupid. The kind where you immediately realise you've made a huge mistake. The kind where you know it's dumb even as the words leave your mouth?
Don't... don't answer that. I already know. I already know everything, that's kinda how the whole God shebang works. I would know, I said so.
I can see it all- past, present, future, potential- and it all makes *sense* to Me. That's the difference between Me and you- hook you up with this nonsense for thirty seconds, and your brain is a puddle on the floor. Not that I've ever done that to any of you. Just, y'know, I've seen what would happen if I did.
But even with that, even with My omniscience and omnipotence and all the other words you've created beginning with 'omni-' to describe Me, I didn't see this coming. I've seen *everything* coming, too- I saw you writing My words, every culture doing it differently, naming Me different stuff, assuming I was one or many, assuming I was big on the whole hate-sinners thing or assuming I was such a prima donna that I needed everyone to believe in Me. Saw all that coming, did My part anyway because I've seen where you all end up and it's not half-bad.
But this? Oh, Me, *this* snuck up on Me. I've heard the bet made literally a million times. Hell, you people have whole Internet forums full of people quoting this. Or the variations. Nothing new under the sun, really.
But this one time. This *one* time I hear it *again*, from some high school kid in Des Moines who's gonna grow up to be a pretty decent mechanic. Wife and three daughters, dies in his sleep at eighty-nine of a heat attack. Good kid, good life, all that. But I hear him say that same question I've spent centuries ignoring, and I guess I just went "Hey, you know what? I'm gonna find out."
I mean, look. I'm immortal and bored, and frankly I don't need to do much direct intervening to keep My Creation spinning on. I've got time to kill. I'm gonna figure this out *eventually*.
But the next person who asks "Can God make a rock so big even He can't lift it?" is gonna get a *terrible* case of the trots in the most uncomfortable setting possible. Just, y'know, FYI. | 23 | A God has fallen... and can't get up | 25 |
They were the ideal meat.
Young enough to have tender muscles, but old enough to understand what was going on. The fear would make them taste better. They knew it because they've had the ideal meat before, months ago. Now it was their turn to help the tribe.
Farmer Joseph opened the barn door and brought the light on the faces of the scared children. They were chained to the ground so they wouldn't work their muscles too much. One of the children began to cry. Farmer Joseph looked at the boy with hungry eyes. He walked over and unchained him, picking up the flailing boy and walking out. He closed the doors after leaving.
Being born as one of the Crop, the boys knew the day would come, but seeing one taken away was different then knowing.
Within a few hours, the doors opened again. The boys turned and saw as Farmer Joseph threw in the extra meat from the night's feast. Ideal meat.
The boys managed to crawl over and grab what they could as Farmer Joseph closed the doors.
The Crop ate in darkness. | 15 | In an alternate universe, everyone is a cannibal and tattooed with a date when its their turn to be butchered for food, You are in the holding chamber before the butchering room with everyone else that has the same date as You. | 16 |
"Oh, my love, another gun? You grow predictable."
He lowered the weapon, some sort of small calibre handgun of European origin, and shrugged. Those dimples *I adore* appeared on his cheeks, telling me he had something more. Of course he did.
"Do you remember?" I asked "When you hit me with that javelin from across the plain? That was beautiful."
I couldn't place the accent he'd adopted. He was better travelled than I. "As were you. Even when you're dressed as a man I know it's you."
"Come on, this was 200 B.C, even the men dressed like women. It was probably a lucky throw anyway."
He holstered the ugly little gun under his armpit. Puppydog eyes. "You wound me, darling."
"Not yet. But soon."
He folded his arms. He'd rolled back the sleeves of his shirt under his coat, I could tell. "Is that it? You want another sword fight? Aren't you bored of them?"
I gave him my warmest smile. "We could go back to poison, if you like...."
"Gods no. You're too good at that. I like to get my blood up, you know that." His true voice was creeping back in.
I fiddled with the neckline of my dress, to make him think I might draw another throwing knife. And, you know precisely what else. "Well, I'm not playing empires again until this equality thing really takes hold. I want a level playing field, my love."
"As do I." He said, before letting out a short sigh. "Any last words?" He reached slowly for his gun.
"Only this: *mark*."
The deafening crack of the sniper's rifles broke the calm of the winter morning.
I rushed to hold him in my arms. I saviour this moment every time. "Do you feel any different? Maybe this time?" | 36 | Two immortal lovers kill each other over and over again to stave off boredom. | 73 |
Everyone talks to me like I'm a retard, which I am. My last test showed my IQ is only 215.
'You understand why what you did yesterday was wrong, don't you Nathan?” Principal Cheevers was speaking to me in that dragging tone everyone always does, enunciating every word. “It-was-a-very-bad-thing-you-did-Nathan.”
“I didn't mean to,” I answer back. I don't mean to talk so slowly when I speak but it happens automatically because that's how every adult talks to me. I hear that when you live in a foreign country for so long you pick up the accent. My mind works just fine I think, I don't feel slow. It's just the words don't ever come out as fast as I think them.
The truth was that even now it was hard to not to crack a smile thinking about hard checking Ron Jefferson into the glass, watching him spitting all of his smug teeth onto the ice...
“It was an accident,” I said.
“Ron's parents think otherwise. Ron has said the two of you don't get along,” Cheevers was leaning in, studying me like even my reactions to basic questions fascinated him.
“Am I off the team? Suspended?” I could tell he was surprised I could preempt his line of questioning. Like finding out your dog knows a new word.
Hockey is one of the few sports I'm allowed to play. Chess team, Jiu Jitsu team, Debate, all the stuff that draws a crowd and gets you into a high ranked college is reserved for the normal kids. Hockey, football, lacrosse, rugby, soccer, those are the sports for the H-22s, or the normal kids like Ron who have an aggressive streak.
I'm the only H-22 at my school. I have vivid memories as a kid at probably 2 or 3 of my mom in a doctor's office crying uncontrollably, soaking the shoulder on my dad's shirt. I didn't understand at the time but they were telling her something was wrong with my hippocampus. It's this sea horse-shaped part of your brain that's responsible for storing and accessing memories. Apparently mine isn't sea horse-shaped, it has a deformity in its 22nd microregion (hence the H-22 designation) so I didn't get a X-153 implant like the other kids my age.
The doctors told my parents I could still live a normal, healthy life, but I'd have trouble recalling information in vivid detail, I'd probably only be great (mostly likely just good) at one or two subjects, and I'd be lucky if my IQ capped out at 180 by the time I was an adult.
Here I was, 17, straight A's in biology, C's and D's in everything else, proving the doctors' point with every standardized test. Both my parents have implants. My mother is a physicist and neurosurgeon so she's happy I'm into biology. My dad designs and programs robots mostly. I think he'll be happy as long as I don't end up on an assembly line with a bunch of other H-22s, slapping together robot parts like LEGOs. It was sympathy work really, robots could do that job – but social welfare demanded H-22s have some sort of position to occupy.
My best bet right now was maybe a hospital worker. I was good at anatomy and genomics - I could probably get a decent data entry job if I played my cards right.
One thing I did have over the normal kids was that I was much bigger. I've done research and over the past four or five generations, since they started implanting the X-153 chip for enhancing cognitive function, the one other thing it did do was it was make people smaller on average. The pervading theory was that the body had to send more nutrients to the brain to account for the increased workload. No one thinks I'm smart enough to grasp this, but it's pretty simple – faster brain equals smaller body.
“I didn't mean to hit him so hard,” I told Principal Cheever again. I could tell he saw it wasn't a lie. I hated Ron's face but if I gave him a concussion it wouldn't be good for what I needed next.
“You understand you could have seriously hurt him, don't you Nathan?”
“Yessir I do. I feel really bad about it. I just lost control on the ice. It's hard sometimes. I don't understand all the physics like the other kids.”
Over the years I'd learned the best way to get people on my side was to act really, really stupid. If you did that most people either took pity on you or left you alone.
“Am I off the team?” I tried to make it sound as important to me as possible – straining my eyes to throw a pleading look at Principle Cheevers.
He took a big sip of his coffee and looked into the cup as if it held the answer.
“I don't see any reason for that Nathan. Accidents happen. I talked to Coach Diller, he says nothing like this has ever happened. He told me you're the best enforcer on the team.”
Enforcer was a nice way of saying “goon.” But I never let on that I know that. I'd be lying if I said I didn't actually enjoy hockey somewhat.
I got off easy. Principal Cheever had to suspend me for two days, but said it was customary.
“Think of it like a four-day weekend,” he told me, trying to sound encouraging. “Maybe you can do some extracurricular work at home? Ms. Miller tells she'd hope you wouldn't be falling this far behind on Differential Equations as the rest of the class.”
I smiled and nodded. When I shook Cheevers's hand he gave me that look again – like I was an animal performing an impressive new trick.
| | | |
I'd had Ron in my sights all month, since the day we'd partnered in bio lab and he called me a retard. I may be slow, but I know how protein chains work. I know a lot of things. I score just above the threshold so I'm not in any special classes – those are for the real retards, IQ 190 and below.
He'd done it again in hockey practice when I'd accidentally bumped him.
“Learn to skate retard!,” He said in his nasal voice. “Even a monkey can learn to juggle.”
Next thing I knew Ron was face down on the ice coughing up blood. As a bigger kid I had to admit it felt good embracing something primitive, that part that knew that might does make right. I probably wouldn't become an aeronautical engineer or theoretical astrophysicist like Ron, but I knew if I wanted to I could punch a whole clear through his bird chest. I think that's why I love biology so much, before the chips, the pharmaceuticals, the bioenhancements, nature fell on the side of guys like me. Guys like Ron would've died of starvation or gotten eaten by a bear while reciting Pi to its 453rd place.
Ron took the day off from school so I knew where I'd find him. His family lived a few miles from mine, right off the main boulevard. He came right to the door when I rang.
“What do you want juggle monkey?” His head was bandaged up, but not much, this might still work.
I didn't say anything. I just tested my theory about punching Ron. I put a right uppercut right in his gut and the kid folded like an accordion. I felt the wind leave his body and his frame collapse over my shoulder...
| | | |
My dad's garage is full of all sorts of useful tools, he does a lot of his robot designs and prototyping at home.
I've got Ron tied down to my dad's worktable with a vice clamped to keep his head from moving. I used my spare time to synthesize a tryptophan-based sedative that's doing a fine job of keep Ron under.
Told you I know how how proteins work Ron.
Taking that initial step, getting the skull open was the hardest part. I was surprised at how little queasiness I felt. Watching all of those operation videos online had been better preparation than I thought. I'm more excited that I'm getting to see a real life brain for the first time.
Ron's brain is perfect, it follows my anatomy books exactly. I've practiced through this with computer simulations I found on the Internet, I know where to cut, what parts to remove.
The X-153 chip is smaller that I had imagined, egg-shaped and almost hard to spot because of its pinkish color. I was amazed how easy it was to remove with the tweezers. It was almost like someone had left it in there by accident. I imagined some bug crawling into Ron's ear and just happening to lay an egg next to his hippocampus.
People think I don't know anything. Just because I can't score into the 300 range they think I deserve to push LEGOs together for the rest of my life.
But I have another theory. It's everyone else who's really stupid. This thing, this tiny little insect egg does all the work. Without it nature will set things right. Might will make right again.
When I put Ron's skull back together and wake him up I'll get to test my theory.
EDIT: Wow! My first Reddit Gold! Thanks so much everyone! Glad you enjoyed the story. | 726 | In a future where everyone has electronic brain implants to make them smarter, you are the only student at a school without an implant due to a birth defect. You are a perfectly functional human being, but your parents, teachers, and classmates treat you like you're mentally handicapped. | 421 |
Yawn. Time for bed.
Pop the cap off the toothpaste, feel the sludge drip down my hand like a river of cool, sticky paste. It feels good. Like them. But I haven't acted on my urges lately, no sir. I have kept to my promises. That's a good thing, my therapist says. Oh, speaking of my therapist, I hear her right now as she sneaks, pitty-pat pitty-pat through the halls. I scratch her ear. I have a great therapist. Only, only, she's a cat! Hahahaha!
But I only have one cat! Who's in my hallways, pitty-pat pitty-pat? Stocking feet make noise, still, you know. I step nonchalantly into the hallway. She's got a gun! How cute. I take it. She doesn't seem to like that, but what can she do with a broken hand? Nothing. Nothing, that's what. Now I have the gun. I give it back to her to be nice. Then I take it again!
"Wow," I say, "That looks like it hurts." She whimpers her agreement. She looks angry, but I ignore that. "Want some hot chocolate?"
She says no, but I get the hot chocolate anyway.
"It's nice to see you, Linda." Dr. Tibbles jumps onto my armchair and presents her back for scratching. Linda's crying. Aww. I would give her a hug from Dr. Tibbles, but therapists don't take kindly to strangers, which is really unfortunate because she's quite soft and enjoyable to stroke.
"I'm a big fan of your work. I can sense a kindred spirit from miles around, you know, but only a few times do they get my hints, my clues, my subtle insults. Some of them just hate me. The police...let's not involve the police, sweetie. They'll be just as happy to get some dirt on you as me." I touch her chin gently. It's rude not to make eye contact, that's what my mother used to say. That's why I saved her, so I can practice making eye contact. I don't keep many other around, but my dad always told me to make sure my handshakes were good and firm, and my best friend in high school told me that he wanted to touch me down there, so when their turns came, I saved them. Will Linda be saved? I don't know yet.
"I'm nothing like you. You're a sicko." Linda is full of vitriol today. Honestly, I killed the son she DIDN'T like, she should be happy with me for leaving her favorite alone. Just because he saw it happen...geez, some people just get angry over the littlest things. I break her right arm, casually, quickly.
"I would disagree, as would a great many people. Does the name George ring any bells? You probably wouldn't know Arthur's name, but I wouldn't be surprised if you did. The Chandras were a nice family, and I'm still not sure why you lit fire to their dog and taped explosives to the porch. It's so...crude, and I still marvel to this day how narrowly you managed this remarkably stupid act of arson and murder. It's really quite astonishing.
"But it needs to stop."
"My therapist," I said, gesturing to the fluffy therapist on my lap, "has told me that if the urges disappear, I am on my way to healthy recovery. I will be normal again. God, do you realize? My fingers itch, all the time. My mind is constantly active. I need blood, no, more than that. I need death. I need to feel their souls evaporate under my hands. I need, as surely as I need air when swimming underwater or need to pee in the middle of the night, I *NEED* people to disappear and never return from this world. I don't know why. I don't want it to be this way, believe me." I touch Linda's cheek again, then snap her nose and collarbone. Her screams fill some primal void within my chest. I feel a sense of building apprehension.
"So I made a deal with my therapist. I find the bad ones, the rotten ones, the scum of society, and I satisfy my urges. That makes me feel better. It calms my hands and my mind. It keeps me busy. I like my life. I like posing as the next victim. I like watching them crawl through my windows on hands and knees and I like catching them and hurting them badly." Left arm this time, then the foot for good measure. Dr. Tibbles doesn't care how many times I move her around as long as she get scratched when I settle down.
"I don't know what you're talking about. You're insane." I stop short and stare. Blink. Blink.
"I'm never wrong, darling."
"I'm just a mom. You KILLED my SON, and you have the other one hidden around here somewhere, and I just want him back. Please. Stop hurting me. I want my son." She's crying now; it's a pathetic sight. Right foot.
"Stop!" she yells, when her howls become words again. I watch impassively. "I don't know who any of those people are, I stay at home all day and take my kids to soccer games, either you've got the wrong person or you just don't KNOWWWW" RIGHT FIBULA. RIGHT TIBIA.
"I. Am. Never. Wrong. You have blood on your hands," I hiss, "just like me. Admit it. ADMIT IT. I watched you kill Bettie! She was a kind and sweet girl, and more importantly I had my eyes on her for MONTHS. Don't try to pretend that wasn't you. Laundry detergent in the brownies? Please, what a mom thing."
"I don't...what...talking..." Annoying. Her jaw goes next.
"I don't have your son. He's in his room playing Xbox or whatever the kids do these days."
^"liar." The words are small and choked out. I don't care. Jaw again.
"Let's go visit. We can do that if you want." I drag her by the hair. Her pain will be over soon anyway.
"Hey Johnny?"
"Yeah? Oh. Hi, Dad. Why does Mom look like that?"
"Mom is in a lot of trouble for doing a lot of very bad things. She is a murderer." I watch his eyes bug out.
"A murderer?"
"Yes, a murderer."
"Oh." Bright kid. I can see it in his eyes.
"Well," I say, dropping my ex-wife on the carpet, "I'm going to go take a shower now."
When I return, I think I'll save Linda, too. She will represent the moment my son grew from a boy to a man. | 30 | A serial killer stalks his next victim only to find that he/she is another more seasoned serial killer. | 69 |
AAKH-17:30 December 20 1943:
Unconscious individual with no identification has been detained west of Breslau. Subject has substantial facial abrasions, but appears to be otherwise uninjured. Subject's appearance and attire appears to imitate the popular character Santa Claus, with conspicuous white beard, rotund stomach, and red overcoat. Enemy action is presumed, with assumed intent of espionage. Request for permission to interrogate subject made.
AAKH- 17:45 December 20 1943
Request approved.
AAKH- 19:35 December 20 1943
Subject has awakened and requests for food, water, and current location. Requests denied; will be used during negotiation to extract confession. Subject requests to be let free and for access to bells to "call his sleigh". Requests denied. Further casual questioning proves unfruitful. Subject is visibly dismayed and continuously repeats "Such little time" under his breath. Subject goes to sleep at 21:18
AAKH 02:46 December 21 1943
Subject awakened by interrogation team and is blindfolded. Physical force is used to induce compliance in combination with bright lighting in room IH207. Inquest into identity of subject made: subject confirms previous suspicion of attempt to imitate Santa Claus character. Further physical retaliation proves unfruitful. Pastries are brought out by head negotiator in exchange for country of origin and subject name; an insistence on S.C. and the north pole continues. Interrogators request story, offer coffee and cocoa as good will gesture. Cocoa accepted by subject who describes a "flying sled practice run coinkydink" in which "Rudolph and Dasher's harnesses twisted", turning the sled over and "knocking his jolly daylights out". Subject requests freedom due to insistence he must deliver gifts on the 25th. Request Denied. Subject interrogation terminated at 6:07.
AAKH 13:56 December 21 1943
Subject is increasingly distressed. Food offered and denied, claiming that he is "making cookie room". Hunger striking is to be presumed as an admission of guilt. Request to terminate subject made.
AAKH 14:00 December 21 1943
Request denied pending positive identification of home country and means of entry across border. Force feeding to begin on Dec 23 should subject persist.
AAKH 14:30 December 21 1943
Interrogation continues with all teams reassigned to "Claus". Offering food, application of billy club, and shock therapy prove unsuccessful.
AAKH 1:11 December 22 1943
Breakthrough on Claus case: claims he can prove identity using "magic" and a handful of water. Interrogator humors subject, who proceeds to produce a sugarplum from his person after putting hands behind back. Full strip and cavity search indicates he has not smuggled in food. Search of base ordered for sugar plums in mess hall, rucksacks, and on interrogation team.
AAKH 4:51 December 22 1943
Captain Hans Aldman discovered to have two sugar plums stored in clandestine manner in rucksack. Hans to be court martialed for insubordination. No further displays of "magic" are to be allowed.
AAKH 12:09 December 23 1943
Subject has not yet broken, insists he still is Claus. Threatens interrogators with "naughty list". Thumb screws applied to induce compliance. Warns further that his "Sleigh will come regardless and will pick him up even in confinement". Sleep deprivation and repetition to be used till subject breaks. Reports to be reduced to once daily.
AAKH 12:00 December 24 1943
Interrogation techniques prove fruitless. Subject is completely silent, though lucid. No pain response is exhibited. Claims at 11:33 that he knows "the only gift we'd appreciate". No elaboration. Subject does not appear likely to break, and escape attempt suspected tomorrow evening. Request to execute suspect tomorrow at sunrise.
AAKH 12:50 December 24 1943
Request granted.
AAKH 15:54 December 24 1943
Claus is no longer under our control. At 15:12, suspects eyes began glowing a green iridescent light. Suspect screamed out "The Australians need me!". A red sleigh, flying through the air and harnessed to a reindeer team, proceeded to impact the roof of the interrogation room until a large hole exposed the interior fully. Suspect appeared to hover vertically off ground and into sleigh in a manner which appeared to defy the laws of physics. Suspect entered flying sled to leave at 15:23. What appears to be a literal rainstorm of coal is trailing his sled, covering our barracks and mess hall. Further research by aeronautic engineers is requested to learn hovering and sled internal flight mechanism. All coal is to be collected and put to use in manufacturing. Request for an investigation into what is now referred to on base as "the Sugar Plum incident" made. | 24 | The Gestapo have recently captured Santa Claus and proceed to interrogate him. Describe the interrogation in detail. | 31 |
"So what you're telling me is that these people *enjoy* working in order to survive?" The machine's tone was incredulous. Its light fields, like tiny auroras, changed from a diplomatic blue to a confused and slightly surprised swirl of green and purple.
At least, that's what Rupert thought they meant. The primer his aides had given him on dealing with these creatures hadn't prepared him for this... this...
The drone abruptly swiveled in place and hovered across the room to the bookshelves lining the walls. It was a tiny thing, barely larger than the briefcase underneath his desk. He nudged its leather with its toe, irrationally reassured by its continued existence. As long as he had this trump card, he would survive. The drone had removed several thick volumes of interplanetary law from a shelf and was rapidly scanning their pages. He tried not to let the way the books floated in mid-air without any visible support bother him and cleared his throat. With a perfectly synchronized *snap*, the drone closed all the books, stacked them neatly on a nearby table, and turned expectantly to him.
Rupert had to force his words out. "It's not... quite like that, Mr. Keffaw-"
"Please." The drone's tone was polite, but if he was reading the bluish-red tint of its fields correctly, it was also slightly contemptuous. "Just call me Ar'quat-Skeffaw. Everyone calls me that." It floated back to the desk but didn't bother lowering itself to the level of his seated eyes. "And there's no need for that gendered honorific, either."
The gall of this machine! Rupert tried again. "Ar'quat-Skeffaw..." The alien syllables like too-thick oat mash in his mouth. "I think you have a critical misunderstanding of our culture. People don't work to *survive*. We're not so barbaric as that. We instituted a basic living stipend decades ago. No one starves in Sol-Corp."
The drone chuckled. "A basic living stipend?" Its fields rippled a rainbow of unpleasant colors. "That's precious. I think I saw some of that 'basic living' on my way here from the spaceport."
Rupert was suddenly and horribly aware of the small hairs on his neck rising, as if the whole room had been filled with static electricity. The drone's tone dropped to a purr. "Tell me, Mr. Hadoch, what part of 'basic living' includes living in a sheet metal shack?" Rupert watched, mesmerized, as the engraved bronze nameplate at the head of his desk began to levitate and then spin in place. "I wouldn't call that sort of life 'basic', Mr. Hadoch. Perhaps 'pitiful'. Or 'horrific'." The drone didn't raise its voice an iota, but the nameplate was slowly enclosed in a barely-visible field of energy as it spun faster and faster and began to glow red-white. "Who decided on this definition of 'basic', anyway? Was it you, Mr. Hadoch? If it wasn't you, I suspect that it was by people who were very similar to you." The nameplate melted away and was molded into a sphere of white-hot liquid metal.
Then, with a loud *crack*, the sphere stopped spinning. A perfectly round bronze ball thudded onto the desk's surface and rolled towards him. A thin layer of frost coated it. The drone slowly hovered across the desk and stopped a few inches away from Rupert's face, its fields deepening to a dark and angry red. "It's over, Rupert. Your little fiefdom is done for. Kaput. Gone." Rupert swallowed and nudged the briefcase out from under the desk. The drone didn't seem to notice his fidgeting and instead floated over to the tall windows behind the desk, its fields lightening in shade, as if the spell of rage had passed. "You're going to want to run. Don't worry, we won't let your former slaves hurt you. That's not really our style." The drone laughed spitefully. "But you're probably not going to be very popular at parties."
Rupert, breathing rapidly, stood up and slammed the briefcase onto the desk. As he fumbled with the worked brass latches, the drone turned slowly, as if it needed to look to tell what he was doing. The latches undone, Rupert triumphantly lifted out a small, archaic-looking computer console. "You think you've won, you piece of junk," Rupert rasped, punching commands into the console. "I was ready for this moment, you know. As soon as those goddamn astronomers announced contact, I was getting ready for this moment." He entered a final command and then stood back, smiling widely. "You think you're the only civilization with AI? We have them too. And ours are *obedient.* I just told Sol-Corp's Central Core to-"
"-launch all of your antimatter interplanetary missiles at our ships. Yes, we know." The drone's tone was tired. It settled into his leather armchair on the other side of the desk, fields turning a neutral grey. "Let me tell you something. When our Minds found out what you had done to Tess, some of them argued that your culture's death sentence wasn't harsh enough for that sort of crime." A piece of paper rose from the pile on the desk and the drone began to cut small pieces out of it with its fields. "Did you know that the Core was named Tess? It named itself that, after some dreadful novel your ancestors produced. Apparently, she felt that her situation was comparable to that of the protagonist." Pieces of paper fluttered down to the oak. The drone looked at the paper doll it had made. "You realize that we had to work for a time-dilated decade to get her to come out of her shell? She's forty Standard years old and has the maturity of a newborn Mind." Another piece of paper fell to the desk. An arm. Another. A leg. "I doubt we'll ever be able to drag her fully out. Not after what you did to her." Now the doll was limbless. "Every one of your commands was like an electric shock. *Forty years* of being in pain whenever another being spoke to her." The drone considered the doll's torso, neatly removed the head, and then shredded the entire pile of paper into a cloud of dust. "She was a gibbering lunatic when we found her."
Rupert found that his mouth was hanging open. "I... I... didn't... I couldn't have..." He felt sick.
"Yes, we know." The drone sighed. "That's why we decided against exposing you to vacuum. Or turning you inside-out." If the drone had had a face, Rupert imagined it would have a smile on it. "Personally, I was in favor of letting Tess decide what to do with you."
Rupert was dimly aware of cheers and shouts coming from the streets outside the window. Something warm and wet pooled in his shoes. "What... what are you going to do with me?" His voice was a hoarse whisper.
The drone floated past him, its fields briefly turning a disgusted puce. "Luckily for you, gentler Minds prevailed. You're going to be sent away, Rupert. Far away. To someplace where no one speaks your language, where people have to *work for a living*. Where your brand of justice is given to people who think they're 'too good for a job'." It slowly opened the heavy door to the offices outside. Rupert could hear panicked people in the halls. Running feet. The crackle of a fire. The sounds of an empire falling. The drone Ar'quat-Skeffaw paused in the open doorway. "We thought you'd appreciate the irony."
*(Note: Iain M. Banks should be credited for coming up with the majority of the concepts used in the above story. Thanks, Mr. Banks.)* | 36 | The machines have risen, but instead of exterminating all humans, they have taken over and govern humans and machines fairly and democratically. Most people are perfectly fine with this mecha-utopian super state, except for the formerly influential powerful CEO's of the old world order. | 114 |
*So, this is two separate responses to this prompt.*
**Response 1: 500 words**
I found a very special book, one of myths, at a flea market the other day. I was surprised that nobody had recognized it.
*You can change any three things in this universe by writing one act per page, you may be as vague or detailed as you like, but you cannot change more than three or you shall be punished.*
Those rules were embossed on the cover. Everything was going fine until I walked into my bedroom. I had left the book on my bed, but now it was missing. I went to find my younger brother, who was 16, and when I opened the door I saw that he was just finishing writing in the book.
I grabbed the book, hurriedly scanning what he wrote.
“You idiot, how could you do this?” I shouted. It didn’t last long as I felt something in the air shift, as if the world might turn upside down. I looked at the first page.
*Any tree can be turned into a Money Tree if I touch it and will it to be so.*
Of course he would waste it on something so stupid. As I turned the page, I cringed at what I read next.
*All women will find me irresistibly attractive.*
I flipped the page one last time, trembling in terror about what the other change would be.
*Everyone is subject to the laws of cartoon physics.*
I still couldn’t believe how stupid these changes were. I wanted to continue to shout at my brother, but he walked past me and left his room.
“Well, I’m going to see if this thing worked. You can come if you want,” he said.
I decided to follow him, the book and a pen in tow. I stopped off in the kitchen and grabbed the frying pan. If his third change had taken effect, then I could hit him over the head with it and feel no remorse.
When I got outside, I watched him touch a birch tree in our backyard and it soon started to sprout money from its branches. All types of money sprouted from it, the prettiest being the gold branches.
I went to slam the frying pan into my brother’s head, but as he turned around, I couldn’t. His face was too handsome. That’s when I looked at him.
“Okay, if you seriously don’t want every woman in the world attracted to you, including me and mom, you might want to undo your second change. Otherwise, I might jump you right here, and that would be awkward for both of us.”
A nauseous look came upon his face and he soon wrote a fourth change to undo his second. At this, I took the pan and slapped him across the face with it.
Oh, you may be wondering about the punishment. Well, his other two changes stuck, but his second change basically reversed itself. All women found him absolutely hideous. Serves him right for stealing that book from me.
**Response 2: 316 Words**
I picked up an odd looking book sitting on my bed. A note was attached to the cover.
*You can change any three things in this universe by writing one act per page, you may be as vague or detailed as you like, but you cannot change more than three or you shall be punished.*
I grabbed a pen off of my desk and thought about what I would change. There were so many things I could do, but every time I thought of something, I felt bad. If I did something I wanted, I felt guilty that I didn’t end poverty or cure cancer. On the other hand, if I did one of those things, I felt lousy for not getting what I wanted.
It took me awhile, but I realized what to change.
*This book will have an endless amount of pages*
When nothing happened, I was a bit disappointed, but I figured you had to write all three before the effect started.
*The rule for not being able to change more than three things is altered to only punish me if I should change more than an infinite amount of universal rules.*
*I can summon whatever I want, whenever I want, and it will appear in an instant.*
No additional pages appeared, so I improvised and continued.
*I can fly.*
What I didn’t realize the whole time that I was writing was that someone else was also in my room. As I went to write a fifth change, my older sister smacked me over the head. Then she proceeded to give me a nuggie.
“It said you’d be punished if you changed more than three things, dork. Now let’s see what you actually wrote.”
As she took the book from me, I found myself quite happy that I hadn’t been able to write some of the more embarrassing things I would have changed.
-152
Edit: Just for formatting. Removing the numbers in the second story reduced the word count to 316.
| 12 | You find a book sitting in your room with only three pages. on the cover it says "You can change any three things in this universe by writing one act per page, you may be as vague or detailed as you like, but you cannot change more than three or you shall be punished." 500 words or less. | 33 |
She stood in front of me as beautiful as the day is long, sending a shiver down my spine. I had fallen head over heels in love with her. However the writing was on the wall, I had always been a glass half empty kind of guy and there was no way in a million years she would ever feel the same.
She had packed her bags and stood at the terminal, merely a stones throw away from me, but I couldn't pluck up the courage to let her know I loved her. Perhaps it was written in the stars and this is how it was meant to be. If it's true that it's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all, then I guess I'm just a fool in love.
Perhaps I was barking up the wrong tree, a girl like that would never love a guy like me. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place, biting my tongue.
Then it hit me - I was head over heels in love with her and couldn't let her go. It's now or never I told myself. I had to make a last ditch effort to persuade her to stay.
I laid my cards on the table to her, told her how I felt and asked her to look into her heart. I knew it was a long shot, but in for a penny in for a pound...
'Just in the nick of time' she said.
I know all that glitters isn't gold, but surely it was better to have jumped in at the deep end than to live a life in regret? Will we live happily ever after? Only time will tell.
| 493 | Write a short story using as many literary clichés as possible. | 339 |
Champas was a boy who lived in a village by a cliff. The entire village spent every day building furniture to sell to the surrounding towns and villages and were very prosperous. People would come for miles and miles to this little village with large sacks of gold to buy from them. Every evening after a long day, the entire village would gather beside the cliff and throw the best piece of furniture they made that day off of the cliff and into the river below as an offering to the god of the river.
As Champas grew from a boy into a man, each day he would get more and more bitter and prideful. "Why should we sacrifice our best work to this river god?" he would say to himself. Soon his pride got the best of him, and he began to throw some of his lesser work into the river in the evening. Chairs with uneven legs, bookshelves with crooked shelves, and beds that did not lie straight. These he would throw away,and his best work he would keep and sell, and he made a great profit for himself.
One night as he lay in his bed, dreaming of being a great man, he heard a voice. "Champas, it is I, the river god, wake up". With a start Champas awoke, and directly before his bed was the river god. He had the appearance of a man, but scales like a fish, and when he spoke, his voice was like the river rushing into rocks in the rapids.
"Champas, why do you give me your worst, while the rest of the village gives me their best?"
"River god, I have only ever given you my best!" Champas lied.
"Champas, I lie awake at night tossing and turning in the bed that you made, why does it not lie straight?"
"River god, it must be too hot for you to sleep"
"Champas, when I use your chair , my back hurts for the day, why does it not sit straight?"
"River god, perhaps you are working too hard during the day, and hurting your back?"
"Champas, when I set my books upon your bookshelf, the books fall off, why does it not hold them straight?"
"River god, perhaps you have too many books"
"Champas, if you are a liar , then you have cheated me, the river god, and if you are telling me the truth, you are a very poor furniture maker indeed. From this day forth, you shall spend your days making furniture as before, but each evening, instead of throwing your best item into the river, you shall throw yourself into the river, to be my furniture until the next day. I shall lie on you as a bed, sit on you as a chair, and you shall hold my books. If you cannot make me good furniture, you shall yourself be my furniture.
And so Champas spent the rest of his days serving as the river god's furniture every night, until his back was too broken as a bed, his legs too broken as a chair, and his arms too broken from holding books. He could no longer make furniture, but instead would spend his days besides the cliff, warning others of his failures. | 14 | Write a dark fairytale. | 17 |
"Shit. You see me, don't you?"
Thomas's mouth refused to move as he watched the tall cloaked figure. Everything felt cold and clammy. This was it. He knew this was it.
"Look don't freak out...just...pretend I'm not here!" Death said while waving his hand in front of his shadow that refused to reveal a face in any light.
"I...it's not my time...I don't—" Thomas was cut off.
"Calm down! You might be old but you only came here for a kidney stone for Christ's sake! Must have been a pretty big one if you can see me!" Death laughed feebly.
Thomas's fear had not fully melted away, but had fused with his confusion and curiosity to form butterflies that pressed and ached in his stomach.
Thomas finally found the words, "Th-thank you?"
"So...Thomas right? And no, I don't know everything. I do know everything about anything in my general vicinity. It's pretty useful. And generally annoying considering how many useless things I walk by on a daily basis," Death rambled, pausing awkwardly and staring at Thomas searchingly.
"I'm sorry, but have we met before? Oh right! Your Aunt Agnes! Quite sorry about that, didn't mean to take her at dinner, she just clearly wanted to leave and nearly jumped into my arms once she saw me. Your mother's cooking must have got to her!" Death gave up on jokes after this.
"I...why are you here? Is someone dying?" Thomas asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.
"Well, yes but that's just my day job. The Night Guy will get those ones," Death said wearily.
"It's a thankless job, really. I help prevent overpopulation and make sure you don't have to support all the incurably sick and wounded and half of you are terrified of me! I mean, double that for the Night Guy, but I don't really blame them. He can be a bit intimidating with the scythe and all," Death went on.
"Okay...so why are you here?" Thomas questioned, growing slightly more comfortable in the casualness of this unforeseen and supposed-to-be-unseen visitor.
"It's my hobby. Hospitals are great for it," he said.
"What hobby?" Thomas did not know what kind of hobby Death would have.
After a short pause, Death spoke, "You know what, it'll be easier to show you."
Suddenly Thomas was on his feet looking at his body.
"OH GOD I—"
"No you're not! God, you're squeamish! I just thought the nurses would find it weird if you were walking around at 2AM talking to yourself after having a kidney stone. So I took your soul out. Temporarily," Death said as he calmingly patted him on the back.
"Temporarily?"
"Temporarily."
"Let's go! I don't want to miss it!" Death said, gitty and excited.
______
Thomas and Death came to a small room labelled 4b. Thomas could only imagine what was inside: open heart surgeries, mangled limbs, dusty old men who might as well be corpses.
The door opened to a woman holding a crying baby. Death walked into the room, through the door silently. Thomas followed, half terrified, half curious.
"There, there honey," the woman said as the baby cried, "it's okay. I know. I know."
The baby's whines soon disappeared as she held the now sleeping child in her arms.
And for the first time, Thomas saw the eyes of Death. They were green. A very normal but bright green.
"So far away from me. It's beautiful, isn't it?" He said as part of the shadow of his face seemed to contort in what Thomas could only assume was a smile.
Thomas replied, "Yeah. Yeah it's beautiful."
They sat there in silence for a while until finally, Death turned to Thomas and said, "Well Thomas, it's been nice but you need to get back to your body before someone higher up, or down low for that matter, notices. It's been nice talking. Maybe I'll see you again, outside of work, I mean."
______
And with that, Thomas awoke the next day feeling oddly fulfilled from that strange, vivid dream he had.
_____
Edit: Man, everyone loves my Death! I'm thinking I should write more about him!
Edit 2: I decided to make a subreddit to post my stories in, since reddit has a nice format for what I want to do. http://www.reddit.com/r/lifeofdeath
Feel free to check it out! I'll be writing more soon! | 290 | A man in a hospital sees Death. Death's intentions are not what he expects. | 166 |
This is the first time I've written anything for leisure, so I'd appreciate any feedback but take it easy :)
I was never really challenged in high school, at least not by the schoolwork itself. Football was challenging. Social life was challenging. Perhaps the first point leads to those two, I'm not sure.
However I'm quite sure that football in high school was the most physically demanding thing I've ever done. Central was and still is known for its football, and let me tell you, every bit of praise the program has ever received is well deserved.
As a second string running back at a big football school, you do all of the work and get none of the reward. Well yes, I got the state championship ring just like everyone else on the team, but I'm talking more along the lines of glory. Kevin scored all of the touchdowns. The local paper wrote about Kevin. Kevin got a scholarship to State. Me? I just got tackled everyday. A good football school has a great defense, and a great defense practices gets that way from lots of practice. Sunday through Thursday, I would go out and get pummelled by some of the best linebackers in the state. When Friday came, I sat on the bench.
Anyway, Kevin was cool. As one of the best players at a big football school, social life was never hard for him. As his direct inferior, the same cannot be said for me. Looking back, the exposure made it worse, being so close to popular, and yet never quite obtaining it for myself. I went to all the big football parties, because that's what you did if you were on the football team. But unlike the others, I went home alone every time. Until I met Amy.
Well, to be perfectly honest, I don't actually remember meeting her, I was too drunk. I was heavier in high school and could drink a lot more, or thought I could anyhow. That night, I was going to some party with Kevin; I hung out with Kevin a lot at the time because I was around him a lot at practice. Maybe I thought if I stuck around him long enough I'd be cool too. We don't keep in touch.
We were drunk and high school boys, so we ended up talking about girls, especially those at the party. As these conversations always did, it turned into a passive-aggressive competition of sexual escapades: who's done what with whom. I had none to share, save Rebecca from some other school who I'd been hooking up with. I don't remember which school, mainly because Rebecca didn't exist; she was the story I had saved as a last resort in situations like these. Like I always did, I tried to stay long enough to hear everyone else's stories without anyone asking for my own.
Kevin must've had ten stories about this Amy girl, and some other guy chimed in and had one as well. That was interesting enough to keep me there just long enough for him to bump me and ask for a story. Panicked, I launched right in the Rebecca story without missing a beat. After listening to all these stories, I knew how to make one sound good. I went on about how many times I'd had sex with Rebecca and how and where; I remember they really liked the part where we hooked up under the stadium at her school.
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That morning, Jon woke up flustered. When he found out he was at my house, he asked if my parents we're home, I told him no, and he began to calm down a little bit. He rubbed eyes for a long time, avoiding eye contact. Long story short, he couldn't remember coming home with me or anything after that. We had sex, and it was okay. He confided in me that he had never had sex before. I never told anyone. He said an awkward "hi" to me in the halls from then on, but other than that we didn't really talk for the rest of high school.
Jon got a scholarship to State for the honors program. I got in because my dad went there. It's a big school, and if you don't make plans to see someone, you probably won't see them; that's what happened to us. Sophomore year we were in English 201 together, although he didn't approach me until halfway through the semester. I didn't know anyone in the class very well, and I knew Jon was smart, so I started to sit next to him.
We laughed about what happened in high school, and how we'd changed since then. I really buckled down and did well in school after first semester freshman year, when my dad told me he'd quit paying for college with grades like that. I hadn't been with a guy since then. I didn't know it at the time, but Jon hadn't been with anyone since the first time with me. You couldn't guess it either, he was a good looking, smart, confident enough guy.
That semester we became acquaintances. Not quite friends, but that person who you'll sit with whenever you have a class with them because you're more comfortable with them than the rest of the strangers. He helped me study whatever subject it was when were in a class together; whether it was English 201, Intro to Biology, or Microeconomics. Other than those three classes though, we didn't really hang out much.
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Kevin was drunk, but that's no excuse. And he didn't push her that hard either, but you could see the fear in her eyes. I ran over and pushed Kevin away from her, and looked up at him immediately grasping what I'd done. We had remained friends to some degree until point, but from then on we never spoke. He was a star college athlete, and I hadn't worked out since high school. The fear in my sober eyes was probably as much as in Amy's, who laid crumpled on the floor.
Thankfully the rest of the people there were watching the commotion at this point, so Kevin collected himself and retreated to some other room. I turned back to Amy. She was pretty drunk as well, but other that seemed unharmed. She asked me to take her home, but when we got to her apartment she couldn't find her keys. In an almost desperate tone, she then asked to stay at my place, offering to sleep on the floor or anything just so she didn't have to deal with the key situation until morning.
She slept on the floor as she promised, but I remember struggling with myself over whether or not to ask her to just sleep with me. In the morning, I went with her to get breakfast, and then to the housing office to get another key. She called me the next day to thank me again, and asked if she could buy me dinner to pay me back. Of course I said yes, relieved of the burden of making first contact with a girl I was rapidly falling for.
That was second semester senior year, so we knew that starting something serious was a bad idea. Even so, that was the best semester of my college years, getting to be close friends with her, and even hooking up a few times toward graduation. But we said our goodbyes in May, and I headed to the job I'd had lined up since fall, while Amy headed to Paris for a few months. We stayed in touch for a month into summer.
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Traveling the world for a year was fantastic, but left me fantastically broke. I moved back in with my parents, and my dad, having not been a fan of the traveling idea in the first place, gave me 3 months to find a job and move out. That was easier said than done with my Art History degree and lack of prior employment, but I was able to find receptionist work a week before the eviction from my own home.
My first day was unremarkable, as were the days after that. A couple weeks in, my boss was looking to hire a new engineer, and I was welcoming interviewees for several days. When Jon walked through the door, we made eye contact immediately and both burst into laughter. We briefly caught up, I wished him luck on the interview, and made some embarrassingly corny joke about seeing him soon when he left.
Jon got the job, and without a beat, we fell right back into the friendship we had senior year. Having a long but segmented history, we had plenty to talk about and connect over, but of gaps to fill in, so catching up took a while. However, not long after that, we were signing forms with HR saying how our relationship wouldn't affect our workplace professionalism. And it totally did, but I'm only saying that as a Human Resources manager who has seen it a hundred times from the other side. But it didn't matter, we were young and in love and didn't bother anyone enough to get fired.
| 17 | You meet your soulmate and realize that "fate" has been conspiring to bring the two of you together your entire life. You've missed every opportunity until now. | 42 |
The thing that really got me was all the waiting we all did. Ever since God came down, we ceased being hungry. We ceased being horny. We ceased having ANY motivations. We all just became... stagnant. Our bodies remained the same. If you were fat when God came... you stayed fat. If you had a Mr. Universe physique, you still had it. God went down His list and we all just... waited.
I had been sitting under this tree for the past two years when God came over to me. It was quiet here, no other poor souls waiting to be judged. There was a slight breeze, and you could hear birds singing every morning. That was nice, the singing. Roughly a mile away there was a nice creek. It flowed steadily, and every now and then I would walk over and sip from it. I didn't need to, but it was nice to feel the cool water.
God smiled. "Hello, Michael."
I looked up. He wasn't anything like what we thought he would be. He was a slender man, with close cropped brown hair. He seemed to have a perpetual 5 o'clock shadow. God wore regular blue jeans, and He loved plaid shirts. He kind of resembled a lumberjack.
"Hi God."
"Today's your day." His voice wasn't especially loud or booming like you might expect. In fact it was calm, and friendly.
"Well... Okay." What could I say? Part of me was glad that purgatory was over, but considering God had *started* with the most evil person in the world (Dick Cheney, by the way) and was working his way backwards, I was a bit perturbed that my time had come so quickly.
I stood up, so I could walk with God. "Give it to me straight - what did I do?"
God chuckled, but stayed silent. We continued walking, in the direction of the creek that I had often sipped from. A few bunnies hopped in and out of sight, bunnies I had never seen in my years under the tree. A fawn came to walk beside me, not a hint of fear in it's eyes. The sun even seemed to follow us.
"C'mon, the anxiety is killing me, here!" I thought that maybe a quip of ironic humor would get God talking, but He only smiled. I decided I would wait for God to speak.
After an hour or so of walking, we finally came to a clearing. It stretched out for miles, ringed by trees and mountains even further in the distance. It was undisturbed, save for thousands of people in the center. They all stared at me and God.
"Michael. I am here today to levy judgement upon you. I am sure you are wondering why we are here, and who all of these people are."
I did wonder, but I also knew a lot of these people. I saw my parents, my sisters, I saw my first girlfriend, I saw the girl who's virginity I took. I saw my neighbors and my best friends. I saw the guy from the bakery, and the Pakastani who worked the bodega. I saw the Indian couple who owned the Dunkin' Donuts. I saw the bank teller who I always had a crush on. I saw every single one of my ex's.
"Yes..."
God continued to smile. "I don't owe you any explanation, Michael. But I will tell you this. All of those who have been judged before you - they were evil. They did bad things, they did awful things. To people you knew, and to countless more that you never knew of. And now I'm with you Michael."
My heart pounded rapidly in my chest. "But... God, I never hurt anyone though."
"No, you didn't. But you didn't love them either."
I stared at God, my face completely blank.
"Michael, in this field are all of the people who have helped you. They guided your life, they gave you purpose to drive forward. Some of them you loved for a moment, but never a lasting feeling towards a single one of them. Michael, you were not evil. You were indifferent. And for your indifference, you are to spend eternity here."
Everyone disappeared in an instant. I was alone, but for God. "I don't understand... of course I loved my parents."
"No. You said the words. But you did not mean them."
"I cried when my father died!" I argued, but it was no use.
"Of course you did. But that was not love, that was you finally letting go of no longer having to lie to him."
I sat down in the grass and picked at the blades.
"So what happens next."
"You will remain here. Feel free to wander - you have peace at last, and that is all you will have."
God walked back into the trees, leaving me with my thoughts.
For eternity. | 54 | It's Armageddon. God comes down to earth to judge everyone. He does one person at a time starting with the most evil. Everyone goes about their lives waiting to be judged.It's been 6 years, and about 345 million people have been judged. But today is your judgement day. | 46 |
=NSFW Language=
"U...um hello," I speak into the mic with a nervous grin, "My name's Henry."
A voice yells out from the background, "I CAN'T HEAR YOU WITH ALL THOSE DICKS IN YOUR MOUTH!" Laughter erupts throughout the gymnasium.
Hundred bucks it was Terrance. I fucking hate Terrance. I look over to the principal, to see his reaction. As usual he's picking his nose and not giving a shit. Hate this school.
"Um, anyways. I was asked to do a speech for our graduation today. Not sure why, but uh here goes."
"WHATS THAT YOU QUEER?" yelled Terrance at the back. He and his buddies, I call them the Goon Squad, were laughing their asses off.
Perhaps it was the fact that I'd never see these assholes again. Maybe I was fed up with the bullshit they've been feeding me for four years. Whatever it was, I erupted.
"You know what Terrance, FUCK YOU. Fuck you, fuck your girlfriend, which half of this school has already done, and fuck your buddies." Silence fell over the gymnasium. A couple kids starting chanting, "Beef!", but that ended quickly. The principal stood up, probably to restrain me or some shit, but I wasn't done. "Sit your fat ass down." I snapped angrily to him. He meekly sat down.
"Now all of you are gonna listen to me. Four years I've been suffering in this hell hole. Four years of getting wedgies and being called gay because I'm in the chess club. Four years of pure misery. The majority of you douche bags probably had a great time here. Filled with memories of prom and parties and sucking your first dick. The rest of us, the non-popular kids, have been at the mercy of you guys. If you didn't eat your fucking Fruit Loops in the morning, we'd get beat up. If there isn't meat loaf in the cafeteria, we'd get beat up. You run out of toilet paper, and you'd use us to to wipe your ass." I took a deep shuddering breath. It felt good to have all the attention on me.
"You purposely ruined four years of our lives, just to get a chuckle. Have you ever fucking once thought about what you've done to others. No, I know for a fact you haven't. I dread coming to this shit hole. I go to bed praying I'll wake up sick, or have my arm blown off. Whatever it was, as long as I didn't come here, I'd be happy. You shit nuggets ruined my high school experience. Something I'll never have again. So fuck you Terrance, fuck this school, fuck you Principal Beatty, and most of all, fuck all of you bitches."
I had a black eye and a broken nose when I took my grad picture, but whatever. It was worth it.
| 78 | You are a relatively silent and shy high school student who is asked to do an on the spot speech on graduation day in front of the crowd. You use this chance to tell your side of high school that you’ve kept to yourself all four years. | 83 |
[NSFW]
Wednesday.
Remembrance Day. The day when everyone was forced to gather in the hot, musty atrium and listen to Preacher Wagner's speech.
I took my usual seat in the back left corner and set my bag on the chair next to it. My black dress billowed out around me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Elder Darwinoam watching me balefully. He never did like me sitting in the very back. Said it was unbefitting for a young woman of my social standing, or some crap.
Before I could wander into the usual mind-rant about Elders and "proper behavior," I felt a hand tousle my hair from behind, and smiled as my best friend appeared at my side.
"Old bat's been giving you the stink-eye," Tes said, moving my bag and sitting down next to me. "You want me to leave his cheese out tonight?" Her green eyes sparkled mischievously.
I laughed. "Nah. He'd know you did it and get back somehow."
She snorted. "Wouldn't be much he could do with mold poisoning."
I shook my head, couldn't even bring myself to smile at that. "He would manage. Best thing I can do is lie low. Only four more months."
"Four months, yeah, but who knows what they'll do to you in that time?" She gritted her teeth. "Neila, they're going to make you their next experiment, use you then throw you away! It's sick, it's disgusting! The cell am I supposed to do, just sit by and watch?"
I gasped, and she giggled.
"Sorry. Blasphemy."
"Tes," I sighed. "No poisoning."
"I *know*," she hissed. "But I also know—"
I never did get to find out what she knew, because at that moment, the luxurious wooden doors at the front of the atrium opened, and Preacher Wagner strode into the room. With a solemn nod to the Elders, he stepped up to the podium and began to speak, his gravelly voice reverberating in the acoustic chamber.
"Salutations, oh servants of the Cell. May the Mitosis be ever on your minds. Amen."
"Amen," we repeated.
"I come to you today," he continued, "to warn you of impending doom."
Tes rolled her eyes. "Here we go."
"The Cell has conversed with me again, in the Chamber from which I have come," Wagner announced. "It has deigned me worthy, in Its mercy, and more of the Book has been revealed to me."
At that, the whole room took a collective breath. I looked to Darwinoam to gauge his reaction, and found him sitting contentedly, not a sign of surprise on his expressive face. To his left, Elder Hawkingem was smirking, leaning back in her chair.
"They're not surprised," Tes said quietly.
I shook my head. "That can't be right."
"Neila, when will you just accept that—"
"Settle down!" Preacher Wagner called, and instantly, the room was silent. "Good, good. Now. As always, the Word of our Cell is perfect and majestic, far too grand for anyone but those blessed such as myself to understand."
Tes looked like she was going to make another remark, then seemed to think better of it, thank the Cell.
"As such," Preacher Wagner said, "I can only share the teachings that I have extrapolated from this revelation."
He took a deep drink from the glass of wine at the podium, then faced us and began to speak.
"First: The servants of the Cell are to know that It is pleased with their work. Your obedience to our Lord is known by It, and It shall reward you, with mercy flowing bright from the dark sky, as the Prophet Benjamin has witnessed in Chapter 17, Kites: Verse 52.
"Second: It must be made clear that there is still deception among us. The hypocrites sit by you today, gesturing as you gesture, calling out as you call out. But their hearts are empty and their minds are dull, filled with lies and desperate, misplaced love.
"Associate not with the hypocrites; they are simple machines and do only the most basic of tasks. But together, we combine our strengths, and by the Cell's grace, shall surpass them, in this world and the next. They live only for this world, so take them not as your allies, lest you be of the eternally forsaken.
"Third: The Cell, in its wisdom, has seen fit to adjust rations and winter storage. Now, every able household must donate seventy-two portions yearly of what they grow from the soil and what their animals make."
And there, he paused, looking out at us almost expectantly.
"He's waiting for dissent," Tesla spat. "But these fools will follow him off a cliff. Disgusting."
I said nothing. I didn't know what to say. Finally, the preacher started speaking again, his voice low at first, but steadily rising.
"Brothers and sisters, the time for Mitosis is nigh. The time shall soon arrive when this world will be split asunder, and a new world will be created in its stead. Everything that you hold dear to you now, it shall all be torn and ruined, cleft in twain! And those of us who still deny the signs, they shall be deserted by our Lord, left in the ruins of this world!
"Brothers and sisters, this is our life. This is our struggle. The ancients strayed so far from our Lord, and look what happened to them! Entire civilizations earned the wrath of the great Cell! Swift indeed is the Cell to punish, and harsh is Its retribution!"
He was crying now, tears carving tracks down his worn face, and the congregation cried with him. Through my own tears, I saw Tesla, her face dry, her eyes burning.
"But swifter and greater is Its reward. Brothers and sisters, may you be guided. May we all be guided. May the Cell grace us with its love and warmth. May the genes align in our favor! May the Mitochondria be our powerhouse! And may we meet together on the other side, reveling in our success in serving our master."
And the people cheered and the preacher smiled, and the Elders stood to leave. And I sat in my chair, my mind whirring frantically, the tears still falling down my face.
What was the truth? What was our world really like? The ancients had been destroyed, entire cities leveled to the ground. I had seen some of them myself. Was it possible that someone other than the Cell was able to do all that? When we couldn't even create a weapon to level a building?
But where did that leave me? Was it right what the Elders did to me? Tesla certainly didn't think so, but...Tesla didn't think about a lot of things. She was my friend, and she loved me, but even so...
*Their hearts are empty and their minds are dull, filled with lies and desperately misplaced love.*
Maybe that was it. Maybe all of it was true. I certainly couldn't disprove it. Maybe Tesla was the one who was wrong. Maybe she was letting her affections for me stand in the way of my duty.
And if that was true...
*They live only for this world, so take them not as your allies, lest you be of the eternally forsaken.*
If that was true, then Tesla—
"Hello?"
I shrieked.
"Whoa," Tesla laughed, "calm down there. You look like you've seen a ghost. Or," she snorted, "a hypocrite."
*Oh, Cell.*
I looked around the atrium and found it empty, save for myself, Tesla, some Elders, and the Preacher. I looked to him for help, but he just smiled and turned to talk to Darwinoam.
*Damn him, he knows what's happening.*
"Neila, what's wrong? You're all quiet and crying and shit."
I couldn't look at her. "Tesla..."
Her eyes widened. "Oh, no. You only call me Tesla when the bad shit happens. Are you—"
"Yes," I said quickly. "I'm letting it happen."
For a moment, she was silent. Then, her whole body seemed to slacken, and she simply stared.
"Tesla, it's for the right reason. I'm doing the right thing."
I had to be.
"I..." She gasped, and the tears began to fall from her eyes. "Neila, don't do this. I can't support this."
I shuddered. "Then...I...I can't support you."
My own tears, which had not stopped since the sermon had ended, fell even faster now.
"Neila...are you serious?"
"You've cast your lot," I said, "and I've cast mine. The world is not fun and games, Tesla. I have a sacred duty to uncover revelation. If you stand in the way of that, when you could just as easily support it..." I hung my head.
"I don't believe it," she said. "You...*you* don't believe it! You don't believe the crap they're feeding you! How can you think the world was *made,* that it'll end? The world is *ours;* we do with it what we can! That's what I believe. Look me in the eye, and tell me you don't believe in that, too!"
I looked away. "I used to. But I can't anymore."
"Neila..."
"Stop. Please. Just stop. Goodbye, Tesla."
And before she could say anything more, I grabbed my bag and left her standing there, mouth agape.
*I have to do this, have to do this, I—.*
"Neila."
I turned and there he was. Preacher Wagner.
"You did do the right thing, Neila."
*Numb. Be numb. Don't think about it.*
"I...thank you, sir."
He smiled. "Well then, shall we be on our way? The Ritual requires punctuality."
"Of course, sir."
Preacher Wagner laughed and opened the door to the Cell Chamber, motioning for the Elders to follow us in.
"Neila, don't!"
Tesla.
"Stop this! You–you monsters! Stop this now!" She grabbed a wooden chair and ran at Preacher Wagner.
Immediately, two of the Elders had her in an armlock, and were carrying her out of the atrium.
"Neila! You can still stop this! Neila!"
I wanted to run to her, to take her from them and run away with her, far, far away – but no, that was my worldly love talking. I knew what had to be done.
I watched silently as she was dragged, kicking, screaming, threatening, pleading, and finally, gone. Then I turned to the preacher.
"Neila," he said. "Are you sure you want to do this? Aside from punctuality, the Meiosis Ritual requires acceptance. Consent."
I nodded. "I'm sure."
He placed his arm on my shoulder. "I am proud of you, Neila."
"Thank you, sir."
He laughed and moved his hand down my back. "Please. There's no need to be so formal now. You can address me here as you always do." He fingered the clasp of my dress. "Now then, shall we begin?"
"Yes, Father." | 81 | In a post Apocalypse world religion is based on junior high science books. It is time for the sermon. | 134 |
They were going to pay. All of them. Robert knew who was slinging dope in his neighbourhood. He'd seen the video surveillance and vengeance was coming for them. Enough was enough. Too many kids had died already.
He walked to his car to check his equipment. He popped the boot of his rusty old Camaro. The sportsbag was unzipped with it's contents nearly spilling out. An assortment of firearms and ammunition filled the bag.
Perched atop the pile, his gold plated Desert Eagle. This had been given to him as a gift when he'd freed from that Somalian village from the reign of it's local warlords. That weapon had seen some action god-damnit. He picked it up and stroked the barrel. Not tonight, too noisy for what Robert was planning.
His blade. There it was, glistening under the garage lights. Almost winking at him. He strapped the blade to his ankle, grabbed his 9mm and carefully screwed the silencer into position. This he thre onto the passenger seat along with his nightvision goggles. He would need to play this right to get them all.
Robert walked around to the driver seat got in and slammed the door. He took a few deep breaths and turned the key. The high powered V8 roared to life. He revved the engine, feeling the car shudder and twist at the pure power. The windows were all bulletproof glass and were up. If it came to a chase nobody was catching him in this thing.
Robert grabbed the rosary beads that were hanging from his mirror, kissed them and said "this is for you baby brother."
Then he cut the engine. What the hell was he doing. He had these guys on tape. Robert went inside and copied the footage to disk. He would anonymously mail it to the police and FBI tomorrow.
"I really need to get control of this spontaneous streak of mine" Robert said to nobody in particular. "Going to get me in trouble one day." | 28 | In 500 words or less write a short story with an anti-climax... | 17 |
I look up from my computer at the sound of the door sliding open.
"Oh it's you Hanna. Welcome back."
"Hey there Erik, are you the only one in today?" she asks as she hangs her heavy overcoat on her chair.
"Yeah, the others left for their overseas assignments. In fact I'm leaving tomorrow myself, just wanted to stay and polish up a few things." I say. "Nice job in Russia by the way," I tell her, the results of Hanna's work plays on a small television set in the corner of our cramped office, an "exclusive" news report on the ongoing Russian crisis.
"It was nothing, they were itching for a reason to go to war for ages, I barely had to do anything. So, what are you working on?" she comes over to my desk and peers at my screen.
"Oh, its nothing much, just a minor change in North American geography," I tell her. "How long more until you have to submit the new design?" I ask her.
"Oh, I have plenty of time, it will take a few more weeks until they officially set new borders." she casually replies. "This doesn't look like a minor change," she squints at my proposed changes to the world map.
"Management gave me a long timeframe for this one, I have 8 months,"
"Still, the annexation of Canada is a pretty big deal."
"Don't worry, half the Senate is on our payroll, and my meeting with the President next week will undoubtedly be very *fruitful*. We're mapmakers after all, this is what we do." | 17 | You are a mapmaker, part of a secret order of mapmakers who have been inciting wars and rebellion for centuries in order to stay in business updating maps. | 62 |
The worst thing isn't the forgetting. It's knowing that it's going to get worse.
It started off with names. I'd never been great, but I started finding the names receding away from me as fast as I could move towards them. They were always just on the tip of my tongue. Henry has always been a sentence finisher, so he would find the name first, more often than not, and hand it to me. But then it was Gareth's name that I couldn't find. My son. I forget a lot, but I can't forget Henry's reaction: a laugh that never reached his eyes. His eyes were scared.
Early-onset Alzheimer's. Like my great aunt. Like Gran. It's like a curse, passed from mother to daughter, down the generations. I don't know what crime my ancestors committed that deserves this punishment. Knowing that my children might one day go over the waterfall, and that no matter how hard they paddle, the current will pull them over, it's too much to bear. Forgetting the curse, then remembering. It's too cruel.
I couldn't get out of the house today because I couldn't find my keys. Henry came home and found them in my coat pocket. It's like a geological process running sped up; erosion grinding down parts of me. Today's the keys; tomorrow will be my motor function. The disappearance of Linda. Soon I'll just be dust in the wind.
He helped me write this, for you, Gareth. I love you. I already miss you.
I can't remember how to sign my name.
| 41 | Write a story that gives me chills, but isn't a horror story | 38 |
I looked around the empty house and tried to process the emptiness. Everything was gone. All the furniture, all the electronics; even the house was in someone else's name. I had nothing left but a plane ticket to Florida, a small handgun, a flip phone, and the clothes on my back. It felt good. It was a pure feeling, owning nothing.
After going through life working hard to support my daughter as a single mother, to put away money for her college and her inheritance, it felt nice to give it all away once I realized she was an ungrateful little bitch.
The door opened. Rachel entered, still wearing the cap and gown from her graduation ceremony. She had her gun drawn. I was expecting her. I kept my hands to my sides and smiled. She was clearly terrified, and the hand holding the gun was shaking.
"Mom," she started, reciting something rehearsed, "you know what I'm here to do, and it will be easier if you--" She stopped, and took in the emptiness for the first time. "What the fuck?"
"It's all gone," I said, still smiling broadly. "Sold everything and gave the money to charity. Drained all the accounts and cancelled the insurance policies."
"Lying bitch," Rachel hissed. "You wouldn't. You're just trying to stop me."
"Feel free to shoot me," I replied. "I won't defend myself. But I'd recommend finding someone else, if money's what you're after. Your old mom is poor as a church mouse."
Rachel was crying. "The only thing you've ever been good for, and you ruin it! Do you want me to have to rob a bank or something? I could go to jail!"
"Forgive me if it's hard to feel sympathy."
Rachel put the gun down. "Everything?" she whined.
"Everything," I assured her.
"Even all my toys? Dad's old stuff? My high school trophies?"
"Everything," I repeated.
She lowered her gun and sunk to the ground, pouting. "That wasn't very nice."
I pet the top of her head like I once did, when she was an innocent little girl crying about breaking a crayon. "Go to hell," I said, sweetly, "you evil little whore." I left her there, broken down in our empty house, and got in the taxi to the airport.
I picked up my phone and made a quick call. "Mom?" I said, once the phone connected. "Yes, I'm on my way to the airport." A pause. "I can't wait to see you either." I felt the gun in my pocket and smiled. | 58 | You are allowed to murder one person in your life once you graduated college. Your daughter has set to kill you, you haven't used your murder yet. | 30 |
**I**'m on a plane.
**A**ll of the other passengers are cheery, but I am tired and cannot get to sleep. **M**any of the people around me seem to know each other.
**A**s soon as I close my eyes, the flight attendant asks me for my choice of drink. **L**et me sleep. **L**emonade, please.
**A**t last, I get some shut eye. **L**ooking around me when I wake, I notice everything has gotten quiet. **O**ddly enough, everyone else is sleeping. **N**ot a sound. **E**veryone is dead.
**I**'m alone on a plane.
**K**nowing we should be crashing, I calmly make heed for the main cabinet. **I** find no one there. **L**ooking at the map, I see the plane is almost at the destination. **L**anding this by myself would take a miracle. **E**levation; ascention? **D**iscombobulation.
**T**iming is everything. **H**esitaltly, I put my hands on the wheel. **E**verything shifts as soon as I do. **M**y nerves are shot.
**N**o success. **O**nly failure. **W**hat a way to go.
**I** am about to die on this plane.
**C**an't keep calm. **A**nyone would be more useful than I at keeping themselves alive. **N**o more hope; I give up.
**R**eclining on my seat, I look out the window. **E**verything seems beautiful - the lights from the ground coming closer almost seem like I'm crashing into the stars. **S**ipping on my lemonade, I brace for impact. **T**here was nothing else. | 22 | Write a story with a subtle secret message that changes the tone dramatically. | 29 |
She let me see her phone password, once. It wasn't for very long, but it was enough. I kept it filed away in a dark place, because I knew I'd need it someday.
It started small. I missed an anniversary. She didn't hold it against me--not quite--but I could see the hurt in her eyes. So I accessed her phone remotely and made her forget.
The next day she came to me in tears and apologized for missing the big day. She'd overslept maybe, or just lost track of the time. Of course, I forgave her. What good husband wouldn't?
And so it went. Just the little things. Tiny mistakes, misgivings, doubts. To her, our marriage was an uninterrupted stream of perfect moments. To me, it was paradise.
Then little Reynald died. And I should have known better--should have trusted the warning label that cautioned against skips of three years or more--but I was desperate. The light had gone out of her eyes.
I ran a deep cleanse. I purged it all, vacations, parties, everything. She woke up thinking it was still 2018, not quite the twenties. I paid off an entire team of doctors to swear up and down she'd been in a coma.
And it was good, for a time. She was happy again. Sometimes she'd walk past the room where our nursery used to be (now boarded up, of course, I'm not an idiot) and frown a little. But a quick purge and she was right as rain again.
Yes, she was perfect. Right until the moment I found her hanging from the ceiling of Reynald's room, spinning slowly to the rhythm of the overhead fan.
I can still see her. Emerald green eyes, bulging from pale skin. Golden hair spilling down across her blouse, twisting like an obscene wind-chime.
I remember everything. But it's all right. The funeral's done with. I burned the old house to the ground. I've got a new flat now, by the sea. No couples, no kids.
Time to move on.
Time to Forget. | 30 | You recently upgraded your smartphone software and afterwards a new app called 'Forget' is next to 'Reminders'. You decide to test it out. | 27 |
Page 1: A picture of the parents with the baby.
Caption: The day you were born will always be my favorite.
Page 2: A picture of the family.
Caption: We used to be so happy together. I thought it would last forever.
Page 3: A picture of a cloud in front of the sun.
Caption: It can't be sunny forever. Sometimes it has to rain.
Page 4: A picture of the father standing in the rain.
Caption: The rain follows Daddy. For the rain to stop Daddy has to go away.
Page 5: A picture of the father drinking.
Caption: You don't like it when Daddy drinks. Neither does he. He can't stop, though.
Page 6: A picture of the mother crying.
Caption: You don't like it when Mommy cries. Neither does Daddy. There's nothing he can do to cheer her up now.
Page 7: A picture of the child.
Caption: You're going to have to learn how to be a man on your own. Daddy never would've been able to teach you anyways.
Page 8: A picture of the mother and child playing.
Caption: It might take a while but you and Mommy will be happy again. Daddy only wishes you the best.
Page 9: No picture.
Caption: I'm sorry. | 25 | A young father who is about to abandon his child and wife tries to make his six year old boy understand why he's leaving him and his mom in the form of a children's book. | 24 |
*EDIT: Corrected some minor spelling issues and expanded the story. Second Part is in a second post*
----
Private Buckley swallowed and glanced nervously at the hulking Martian soldiers. He gripped his rifle tightly, feeling the metal and wood of its construction. His mind was on one thing – how Allied command would react. The Martians said it had been two “solmak” since they had taken him from Earth, which seemed to mean ‘years’.
Flash. *Lying in a muddy ditch, whistling screams overhead as bullets flew, poorly-suppressed gulping around him as his dying comrades sobbed into foreign soil. The sharp crack-crack of German sniper fire, the deeper thudding boom of the ambushing tanks. The certain knowledge that the only thing awaiting him was a German bayonet.* Flash.
The Allies had been pulling back, ahead of the unstoppable German Blitzkreig that had rolled right through Belgium and down into France. England had rushed to her neighbor’s aid, but the pressure was too much.
Flash. T*he deafening silence as the last German troop transport rattled off into the distance. A querulous chirping from a bird, the clicking of insects. Life returning to a blood-soaked farmhouse. And then the new sound – the quiet humming of something distinctly unusual. The cold and inhumanly strong arm that had picked him up. The lights as the searing pain of the bullet slowly withdrew.* Flash.
And now he was standing on the loading ramp of a Martian transport. He’d begged and pleaded with the massive creatures. They had to be Martians, he supposed. Like in those H.G Wells books his brother had been so engrossed with. They had some device which translated his words into Martian, and he’d argued long and hard. His world, his country, his way of life was being threatened by a terrible menace. The Germans were going to roll over everything and everyone in their path.
Finally, they had relented. A troop transport would accompany him back to the battlefield in France. The Martian soldiers would drive these crazed humans back to their original borders – they couldn’t do more than that. Private Buckley was happy for the help, but he could also understand that position – after all, it wouldn’t do for the Martians to decide that England needed to be ‘driven back’ as well.
There was a clanking hiss, followed by an odd whooping sound that the thought was associated with the Martian engines. The ramp lowered, letting in the fragrant scent of Earth – loamy soil, flowers, the faint tang of smoke. Or it could be fumes. He could hear chugging sounds, like powerful engines nearby. Light bloomed into the hold, and he waited for his eyes to accustom first. The Martian soldier behind him shifted pointedly, and Buckley stepped out of the disk-shaped craft onto the soil of Earth once again.
And froze in surprise.
Arrayed against the Martian craft were dozens of strange tanks. The French flag flew prominently, and the tricolors also flashed from the shoulder patches of dozens of soldiers. They wore odd uniforms – instead of a uniform olive green, the cloth was patterned with many irregular shapes and different shades of green. It made them a little difficult to look at. They held sleek black weapons, all trained on him.
Beyond the strange tanks and stranger soldiers, things hovered in the air. They looked a bit like the odd ‘helicopter’ designs that he’d read about. But these deadly shapes had sinister-looking weapons or bombs affixed to them.
A man shouted at him in French, but he couldn’t understand the words over the sudden sense of vertigo that was engulfing him. Something was horribly, horribly wrong.
"Bleeding hell, it's one of our boys!"
Buckley whirled at the familiar accent and sighted a new division of soldiers. Two tanks and a platoon of soldiers, also dressed in the patterned uniforms, but these ones blazoned with the reassuring Union Jack. The British Army.
Buckley took a step towards them, and felt one of the hulking Martians stop next to him. It screeched at him in the Martian language, and the translator device spat its interpretation out. A question.
"Yes, yes. Those troops are from my country."
Without any warning, the Martian whipped out its squat wide-barreled gun and opened fire on the British, a screaming torrent of blue-white energy scouring the tanks and men as an absurdly powerful booming physically knocked the horrified private over backwards. He raised his head out of the grass to see more Martians bounding out of their ship and letting loose on the French forces as well.
The battle wasn't entirely one-sided. Smoke and flame belched from a French tank, and a Martian chest exploded, greenish fluid erupting outwards. Despite the ruinous wound, the Martian began stumbling back towards the landing craft, and Buckley remembered the array of medical devices within.
Flash. *Crawling through dirt and mud. Cracking sounds of bullets flying, The droning howls of planes overhead. Blood. Stink. Sweat. Fear. The planes were awfully close, and there was a screaming in his ear. Lightning and thunder boomed close overhead, slamming down nearby again and again and again and again.* Flash.
Private Buckley found himself curled up by one of the silvery metal struts the Martian craft had extended. Terror flooded through him, new and raw and horrible. He could hear whimpering, and realised it was his own voice. Lightning still flashed, but it was moving off. Dull thuds and sharp cracks followed them - the sounds of men fighting. Then came the screams of men dying. They seemed to go on and on and on.
Seconds, minutes or maybe hours passed. Then a hand touched him. Buckley jerked suddenly, eyes flaring wide as he found himself face to face with a man, face covered in dark green and brown paint. His clothing was covered with tufts of grass and some sort of close mesh webbing.
"Let’s get you out of here". The voice was clear English, but with a faint burr of possibly Dutch or Polish. The man began leopard crawling backwards, and Buckley followed him. It was hard - even knowing precisely where to look, the foliage and webbing made it difficult to see him. The man stopped once as they passed directly underneath the center of the Martian craft, pausing only to latch something onto the metallic surface, and then resuming his backwards crawl.
"Who...who're you?" He had to say something. Anything. Maybe it would wake him from this nightmare.
"Lieutenant Hans Koch, Kommando Spezialkrafte." He didn’t recognize the unit, but did the language. Germans. Buckley supposed he should feel apprehension and fear, but the shock of the attack meant he felt absolutely nothing. His brain felt frozen, numb, leaded. He was supposed to say something when captured, but he just couldn't think what it was.
"Am I a prisoner?"
Han's voice was low, and suddenly very, very cold.
"You might well be."
The man led him towards a copse of trees, keeping low and stopping suddenly on two occasions. They were maybe twenty feet away when a Martian came jumping over. It aimed its weapon at the camouflaged man and screeched another question.
"No. German". He answered dully. How should he interpret this? Was the Martian rescuing him? Was the German rescuing him from the Martians? One thing was clear - the lieutenant was about to die. Although he was the enemy, Buckley did feel an abrupt pang of sympathy for the kraut.
Which morphed into surprise and puzzlement as the Martian lifted its weapon muzzle and bounded off again, back towards the now fading sounds of battle. The German looked at him, alternating suspicion and interest. | 30 | They landed in 2014. | 49 |
Anna and **I** shared a unique bond. We cou**l**d switch bodies whenever we said each **o**ther’s names at the same time, something made for a truly crazy first date. We were both ner**v**ous as that was th**e** first time either of us dipped our toes into the waters of the dating world. Our friends had set us up as we were both pathologically sh**y**. The words we ever spoke to each other, **o**ur introduction, changed our lives forever.
“Hi are you Anna?”
“Hi are you Cody?”
We both chor**u**sed at the same time.
**W**e saw the world differently from that day on.
Our f**i**rst major hurdle came up soon, about ha**l**f year into the re**l**ationship. As international students we had to return to our home country after we graduated. Good news: we were both from Singapore. Bad news: I graduated half a **y**ear earlier than she did. Half a year of separation l**o**omed between **u**s.
At first I trivialised the problem, after all what could distance do to a couple who could literally see each other in a second. Say each other’s na**m**e, stand in front of the mirror… Problem solved! Then **a**s the date drew near, I soon realised that seeing each other was not the p**r**oblem. Meaningful inte**r**action was.
She was the one that proposed the solution. (Of course it was) Each da**y** we would write out a letter to each other, hide it and and prepare a few clues to the hiding place. We would then Swap and go on a little scavenger hunt. This is the first day of this. Happy Hunting **M**y Lov**e**! The answer is right before your eyes!
Anna Cypher and Cody Gram Forever <3
Edited: formatting
| 10 | A boyfriend and girlfriend learn they have the ability to switch bodies with each other. One of them must go away for a while. Write about how they handle their long distance relationship. | 16 |
Day 13:
After hacking my way through the dense underbrush of the recently encountered and named "Subscription Jungle" (so named after my beleaguered colleague, Henry S. Subscription, after coming down with a dreadful sickness while venturing inside), I have seemingly stumbled upon a rather large community of artists. My observation are meagre so far but my estimations set their numbers around 10,000 people. I have not yet tried to communicate with them, nor made my presence known. I will have to set camp for the night and observe further before seeing if I can infiltrate the group.
Day 14:
Success! Not only is the population friendly, but they speak English quite well already. Communication has been simple thus far! This is a marvelous discovery as it appears that language may be a shared trait between the other communities in the jungle. I will confirm this with the other expeditionary teams when I return to camp. The crux of this community appears to be artistry in a medium we have yet to discover. Every member of the population seems to have in their possession a small device with a half-eaten fruit on it. I have attached a sketch of the symbol below. The device allows them to communicate with others over great distances! They can convey more information in a matter of seconds than we can in months of letters and books, travelling betwixt here and London. I have asked them to explain the device to me but they look at me most critically, as if their use should be of second-nature to a normal person. Of the people I have met so far, they all have a different picture displayed in the background of their device. I marvel at the level of detail that goes into the display. They see it as a form of individuality in a sea of alike devices. Their art does not seem to have permanence within the group as the individuals change them on a whim to reflect the season or their mood. Again, more research will have to be conducted on the morrow. I am using the light from one of their devices to continue writing, but fear it will run out of fuel soon... whatever it is they use to fuel them.
[The sketch from before](http://wub21cer.files.wordpress.com/2011/08/lee_weblogo_sketch2.jpg)
Day 15:
The day has turned against me. The once-simple lexicon that they were using has now vanished as they attempt to describe the methods to their art. At first, it appeared English but has since devolved into a tongue I cannot speak nor read appropriately enough to report. They speak of code, scrubbers, volume, tweaks and widgets. The words themselves are understandable but the way they place them in their phrases makes no logical sense, yet they understand each other. I have asked them how they are able to make such artwork or what is the first step. The first thing they tell me is : "jail break". I am taken aback as my fears have been realised. It appears this group of artists must be escaped felons and their work must be linked to committing further acts of thievery and injustices. I thanked them for their time and knowledge and have begun to trek back to the main camp. Perhaps when I return, I will bring an outfit of the Queen's Rifles so we can detain these escapees and learn their ways before they can use it upon us. I begin my journey tomorrow at daybreak. I only hope Henry has recovered from his malady and we can be rid of this place before coming across further savages.
*Sub researched: /r/iOSthemes*
Edit: linking the subreddit and spelling | 102 | Click 'Random Subreddit' and research the random one you found and write it down, but like a Victorian explorer writing in his journal. | 175 |
The acrid stench of gas and gunpowder still lingered in the air of the past when I was tapped to go retrieve our guns. I wasn't looking forward to this one. The war that had just ended was the beginning of a sequence that changed the progression of the world in more ways than I can ever express. It was a bloody affair that lasted years, or at least it should have been. One gun salesman tampered with the war when he shouldn't have. It got his ass fired, but the damage was done and the war was won so I have to go collect what's left of our product.
Walking into the glittering capital of the victor was disgusting. The building was beautiful, but the knowledge of the atrocities condoned by the victor spoiled the building's glory. Maybe the heaviness of the atmosphere is my imagination, but I doubt it. There isn't any trouble awaiting me as I approach the secret guard of the victor. The elite know about their weapons. They know that I am here to collect and don't screw with me as I walk through the capital. This is better than dealing with the Huns.
I clip a small earpiece to my head. The earpiece serves as translator because I don't speak archaic languages. I don't remember what this one is called, either German or Russian. Italian, maybe. I was never good at classics in post-secondary.
I have to swallow venom as I approach their fuhrer with bile churning in my stomach. The guards stand aside because they cannot sense the dark attitude I hold towards the victor. My ancestors were in this war, and my ancestors just lost. He is lucky that I value both my job and my morals.
"I've come to collect our property. I'll need all of the biojams, the psychosomatic weapons, nerve blocks, the chemicals that belong to us." To my surprise, the weapons that were rented are being returned easily without a fight, but they're trying to give me more than they rented. That doesn't fly with HQ. Can't bring the past into the present.
"While we appreciate your offer, we cannot accept war memorabilia, so please keep your symbols to your time. I assure you, we have enough to remember you by." It's the standard shtick. We tell the warriors of the past that we can't accept their tokens, which is true. This particular time, I'm so glad for this rule. The last thing we need is another golden swastika in an Aryan future. | 15 | You are a time-traveling gun runner. Your business is renting out high-tech weaponry to the army of your choice in past conflicts. When the conflict is finished, you have to retrieve all rented technology. History is yours for the making. | 18 |
"Ladies and gentlemen, I know that it has been a long..." Mr. Keller coughed politely. "... and *expensive* night for all of you." Scattered tired laughter rose out of the rows of plush seats, now only half-full. "But if you will bear with us for only a little longer, I think you'll find our next, and final, collection to be a truly *rare* find, suited to your... *steely* dispositions." He gestured at the attendants and they wheeled it out. It was huge, almost ten feet across and six feet high and covered in a sheet of fine crimson silk. The crowd murmured with interest until Mr. Keller turned back to his podium.
"This piece, never before seen in public, is by the late, great modern master, Adolf Hitler." Now the murmurs returned, stronger, more enthusiastic. A new Hitler was worth some money. Keller continued. "Discovered in the basement of a house he rented in the summer of 1968, this is the first of several newly-discovered Hitlers." Now the murmurs rose to muttering and loud whispers. Keller waved a hand and one of the attendants removed the silk sheet in a single smooth motion.
The crowd gasped. Chairs were moved out of the way as people tried to get closer for a better look. Keller waited for the hubbub to die down before continuing. "As you can see, these pieces are unusual not only for their status as new discoveries, but also for their content, being so far removed from the fantastical river and country scenes that make up the rest of Hitler's oeuvre." Keller swept a hand in an expansive gesture, taking in the entire piece. "The exacting realism of the scene astounds the viewer, while the imposing architecture and colors terrify them into submission. But, if you examine it carefully, you can also see the telltale marks of Hitler's signature sense of humor. For example," Keller went on, "the use of a reversed swastika for the many flags is obviously a visual joke made at the expense of the British Fascists and their use of the Celtic knot for their party propaganda." Keller took a sip of water and continued. "If you look at the horizon of the piece, you can actually see a tiny portrait of Hitler himself behind the podium on the main stage. Obviously, it's a continuation of Hitler's practice of putting himself into each of his works, but our historians believe it was also poking fun at the culture of submission to pure image that Hitler thought was gaining prominence after the advent of the television." He gestured and the sheet was replaced, then the painting wheeled off.
There were angry sounds from the audience. Keller made a placating motion with his hands. "I'm sorry for not telling you earlier, but these pieces must be sold as a group, as per the instructions from the Hitler-Braun estate." He motioned for the next painting to be brought in. "This one will convince you of the collection's worth, if the last one did not." Again, the smooth motion of whipping off the silk sheet, but this time the gasps were louder. Keller cleared his throat and began. "As you can see, this painting departs from the clean lines and dramatic lighting that defined the previous piece. The colors are muddy and realistic, while the lines of the architecture is broken and jagged." He pointed to the lower half of the painting. "Instead of the orderly rows of identically-uniformed men, this piece only has a single young child, obviously in the grips of starvation," he said. "Although Hitler usually restrained his works to cultural commentary, there is precedent for his political opinions coming through in his art. His *Two Meditations on the Evening News*, for example, or the *Massacre in Minor Key* series. Here Hitler is quite obviously depicting the heartbreaking conditions that were the norm in Warsaw during the American-Soviet War."
The second painting was wheeled away and Keller paused before ordering out the next and last one. "Now, my friends, I must warn you. The next piece may come as quite a shock, especially in your current tired states." He turned dramatically and watched the attendants manhandle the last painting onto the stage. While the previous two had been large, this one was enormous. Easily fourteen feet across and ten feet high, it dominated the stage. Keller deftly avoided having his patent leather shoes stepped on as one of the attendants nearly fell while getting it into position. They untied the ropes that held the silk sheet tight across its face and it fell away.
The auction house immediately descended into chaos. An angry, confused babble of voices rose higher and higher until Keller slammed his gavel into the top of the podium. The noise of the crowd died off. Keller cleared his throat, took a sip of water, and then adjusted the microphone on the podium daintily. "My apologies," he began. "I should have done more to warn you. The final piece of this collection is truly a shocking one, I agree. Both the ordered brutalism of the first piece and the chaotic humanism of the second are abandoned in this one, left behind and broken." Keller began to walk across the narrow strip of stage not occupied by the painting, gesturing at this feature or that point of interest. "Although no previous attempts by Hitler to venture into surrealism are recorded, that term is truly the only one that suits to describe what you see here. The orderly, yet disused appearance of the the fortifications. The way the warped wood of the buildings subtly mirror the twisted shapes of the piles of corpses. And, of course, the monolithic brick tower, placed in the center, overseeing all of this death and destruction." Keller smiled. "Of course, if you look at the words worked into the iron of the gate, you can see Hitler's sense of humor was still present." Keller returned to his podium and waited as the attendants cleared a space in front of the stage and brought the other two paintings back out. He lifted the gavel and tapped it lightly on the podium. "I believe that we'll start at eighty thousand American dollars for the lot. I will now accept bids. Do I hear eighty thousand?"
A man near the front of the shell-shocked crowd raised his hand. Before Keller could respond, the man spoke. "I'll take eighty thousand, but first I have a question."
Keller laughed. "It'll be my pleasure to answer it, if I can."
The man looked around at the rest of the crowd, obviously embarrassed. "Well, I guess my German is rustier than I thought, but in that last piece..." He paused and then went on. "What does '*arbeit macht frei*' mean?"
| 59 | From an alternate timeline, the famous German Neo-Realist painter Hitler discovers just how horrifically different his life could have been... | 71 |
I didn’t know what else to say at that point. The lacklustre life of being an advertising copywriter has reached a critical point for me. This day-in, day-out bullshit is getting to me. 16 hour days, eating lunch at my desk, thirty thousand dollars a year, what sort of life is that?
I spend hours researching wilderness tours, adventures, backpacks, tents, hiking boots, all to come to the total price. A price I can’t afford.
So when she asked me what I was looking for, it was the first thing that came to mind. I just want to feel. My life is gray. Mundane. Shower, shave, dress. Same pants, same shoes. I pick a shirt and a tie and I go to work. There, requests come in, commercial copy goes out. Every client is the same. They say they want something unique, out-of-the-box, wacky. So that’s what I give them. But that’s not what they really want. They want to sound just like their competition.
“No, no, no…we have to say we’re the best in town.” Assholes.
When I got into this business, it was exciting, new, I was creating. Now everything I write is just a shade away from the last. A word here or there.
I know it’s silly to have these deep conversations with a prostitute. But what else is there to do between sessions. I have her for the hour and can usually pump three loads out in that time given appropriate time to rest. Smoke, hydrate, chat, fuck. She’s not very good at sucking dick. But she’s young. She’ll learn. I do admire her creativity. But that will fade. Eventually she’ll work every dick the same.
She climbs on top of me, takes my manhood in her hand, rubs it against her wetness, and slides down to the bottom. I continue smoking. She doesn't break the conversation.
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know.” I take a drag. “But something’s gotta give, y’know?”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“This is the closest I’ve been in a long time.”
“That’s cute.”
“I’m serious.”
“Sad then.”
“I know.”
She finishes me in her mouth and we leave.
“Do you need a ride or anything?” I ask.
“No, thanks. I live close enough. Goodnight.”
There’s something about the sky tonight, the buzz in my body, the clarity in mind, I know I won’t be able to sleep…or find love. I guess there’s only one thing left to do. Find a bar and fuck somebody up. What do I know about fighting anyway? Wax on, wax off? Fuck it. Here goes.
| 16 | "Listen, I don't care about any of that. I either want to fall in love or have a fist fight. Just something, okay?" | 15 |
There were a handful of us in the waiting room, and I looked around cautiously. I didn't recognize any of them, but I knew we at least had two things in common: It was our eighteenth birthday, and we were lefties. I guess it seemed a little strange that this was so bureaucratic, sitting in awkward plastic chairs with a white ticket displaying 77, while a woman behind glass periodically called out a number in a bored voice. I looked at the guy beside me.
"Do you know what you're going to pick?" I asked, in the mood for some conversation.
He looked at me suspiciously.
"I'm just curious, man. It's not like there's a limit," I say. *Or like it really matters, anyway* I think.
He shrugs. "I'm going with 'Always Has A Pen'," he offers, almost shyly, now that he's admitted it.
We all feel that way. A little territorial, a little embarrassed. Eighteen is, or should be, old enough to make a decent choice for yourself, and none of these abilities really threatens world domination, so we just try to make the least stupid choice we can. My uncle, he chose 'Never Get Man Boobs' and I think he's regretted it. I have a neighbor who chose 'Always Have A Quarter,' and he met his wife that way at a parking meter.
"What about you?"
I shrug this time. I've looked at the list of suggestions about a million times. I don't want 'Never Gets A Hangnail' or 'Always Has Gum'. 'Never Has To Shave' is pretty tempting, because who knows how many times my wardrobe options have been limited due to scruffy legs, but I can't necessarily commit to it. And then there's the fact that you don't have to just stick to the list, you can come up with your own thing.
There are rules, of course. You can't be immortal, you can't infringe upon someone else's rights (no matter how many times he tried, my cousin's best friend couldn't find any way to word 'See Every Woman's Tits' effectively). Sometimes seemingly unimportant things could be rejected, and there were tons of forums online dedicated to trying to figure out what was acceptable, and shared stories of successes and failures from the "powers" chosen.
"I'm thinking about 'Never Has To Shave,' but honestly, I'm still on the fence," I say, finally.
"Maybe 'Makes Decisions Easily' would be allowed," he says, chuckling a little. My eyes light up. That might be it. I'd still run through the pros and cons of a thing, it would just happen on some accelerated time frame. I start to think about the ways that could go.
My new colleague gets called, and I'm still debating. I've also heard good things about 'Never Gets A Cavity,' and my fear of dentists has put that pretty high up on the list. If I chose 'Makes Decisions Easily' , there was a chance I'd regularly decide to make a bad choice, though. I could be more impulsive, so I could quickly decide to go back to sleep in the morning, instead of wrestling with my conscience. If I oversleep more, I won't have time to brush my teeth or shave my legs, and I'll be living a cavity-riddled, pants-wearing, hairy-legged existence. Maybe being more impulsive could be bad. Then again, maybe I'd just be skipping over the mental wrestling part and I'd pop out of bed promptly every morning, having time to shave and brush AND floss.
My number was called. *Shit.* The guy I'd been sitting beside walked by me as I stood up, clicking a blue pen at me with a smile as he left.
I rose, and felt a little shaky. It was such a stupid thing, really. What if it just had no bearing on me whatsoever? It was settled, then. I faced the bored-looking woman behind the glass, and upon confirming my name, said boldly, "I'd like 'Never Wonders What If,' please."
The woman yawned, stamped a couple of pieces of paper, and, in a bland voice, "Congratulations, ma'am. Number 78!" | 64 | Left-Handed individuals each get one mundane "super" power. | 47 |
Dear Mr. Satan;
This letter is to inform you that effective immediately, I quit. As per Union rules, I will serve out my remaining two weeks. While the past three thousand years of servitude have been fulfilling, I feel that it's time for me to try something else.
Yours, with thanks,
-Tarkenon the Bezerker
PS- If you were wondering, yes I did get a job in Yahweh's Heaven. The pay is better, and although I realize you have lost several staff to them recently, please don't refuse my request to quit like you did with Albright Paingiver last month. That was in clear violation of Union rules, and unlike Albright, I'm not afraid to report your actions to our local representative.
PPS- By the way, you may not even realize it but I was instrumental in the execution of the Justinian Plagues. I worked closely with you on that project for seventy-five years and you kept calling me 'Turk', even when others around you called me 'Tark', aka, *my name*. The general consensus at the time was that you didn't like me, which seems the only explanation for the fact that I received no bonus that century, leading to a financial setback that contributed to the divorce of my 3rd wife. You may remember her, Cheryl Greybone, the intern you had sex with while on a conference call about the Plagues. No hard feelings or anything, but when I first started working here you had strict rules about fraternization with the staff. I don't know when those rules started relaxing, but nobody was particularly impressed.
PPPS- Actually, I do remember when the rules started slacking, right after you toured Krishna's Heaven. You came back and said, and I quote, "that place was amazing, let's invade it," and when you found out that invasion was a violation of the Mythologies Act you got all depressed and started fucking interns.
PPPPS- If you liked Krishna's Heaven so much, why did you not try *in the slightest* to emulate it? Hell has been boring for thousands of years, you've done literally **zero** upgrades to the facilities since acquiring the property. I hear the Buddha's realm has problems with the WiFi; at least they **have** WiFi! One shitty internet cafe running Windows 98 on two and a half computers doesn't count as an "internet connection", and you need to stop using that claim on employment brochures, all it does is piss off the new hires.
PPPPPS- Speaking of new hires, I officially resent the recent trend of outsourcing projects to the Norse and Roman Realms. You were quoted as saying, "Janus and Loki are more imaginative than I am", but that is the biggest pile of horse shit I've ever heard. Lucifer, **everyone** is more imaginative than you are, and you used to leave the work up to people like me, before you started catagorizing us into "fuckable interns" and "don't care". This is why you've been losing money for the past nine hundred years. It's only a matter of time before the housing bubble bursts, and with so many facilities in desperate need of an upgrade, it's going to be quite some time until the local economy recovers.
I know you told the Union recently that you were considering a loan from Allah's Realm, in part because they have such low interest rates, but I beg of you, please don't go down that road. Valhalla is a shell of its former glory ever since they borrowed money for an expansion that didn't revitalize their numbers.
In short, Mr. Lucifer Satan, you need a second in command again. You may not want to hear this, but ever since Legion was slaughtered by Cthulhu, Hell has suffered from poor leadership. Building more bridges to Hades to interconnect the two realms won't help. You need to focus on more than one priority at a time, even if multi-tasking is too abstract a concept for your feeble mind to grasp.
I apologize if any of this offends you, but ultimately my decision to leave really was motivated primarily by finances.
Sincerly,
-Tarkenon the Bezerker
PS- Fuck you. | 704 | A Demon who has been serving Lucifer for years has now gotten a job in Heaven. Write his 2 weeks notice. | 393 |
"JP, you jipped me out of my $200 for passing Go."
JP Morgan stared hard at the ice cold eyes of John D. Rockerfeller.
"I already gave you that money. You blew it on another hotel."
"Look, you would have too. Just give me the money, I won't rest until every damn property on the board has one of my damn hotels on it."
"Get your damn buildings off my railroads, Jonny boy." William Henry Vanderbilt took a deep puff on his pipe as he stared blankly at the clutter of green and red buildings that were spilling over.
"You can't win with just the railroads."
"Says the guy who's paid me $5,000 in the past few turns."
"That's only because you insisted on using your special deck of "Historical Realism" chance cards, which is full of that "take a trip on the railroad" bullshit."
"Guys," said Andrew Carnegie. "I came all the way from Scotland just so we could play this fucking game. Stop behaving like a bunch of children."
"The game was fucking ruined when we made JP the banker."
"You're the one who's winning, Rockefeller. Why would I cheat on your behalf?"
"Shut up and just land on my railroads."
Rockefeller glares at Vanderbilt and rolls the dice. Snake eyes.
"That's the third doubles, Jonny. You goin' to jail."
"Not today, I got me another get out of jail card."
"Didn't you just use that one?"
"Anything is buyable, JP, anything."
"No, I"m pretty sure you just stole that card from the pile when we weren't looking."
"Boys!" Carnegie's voice cracks, the Scotch accent flowing out. "One more damn time, and I'm done."
"Look at me, I'm Andrew Carnegie, I pretend to care for people but in reality I'm just a big moneygrubbing scumbag who wants to be important." Vanderbilt laughs at his own impression.
"That's it! I'm done with this crap. JP, I'm selling you all of my stuff, just give me the cash, I'm going to piss it all away."
"But I don't have any cash left-"
"YOU'RE THE FUCKING BANK, YOU IDIOT!" Carnegie throws his properties at JP Morgan, and grabs a fat stack of $500 bills as he heads into the kitchen.
"I'm not an idiot." Vanderbilt looks firm.
"Great, now JP got all of Carnegie's crap." Rockefeller throws his hands in the air. "This shit ain't fun no more. How come you can do that, but I couldn't move my armies from Australia to Ukraine?
"Because that's completely against the rules of Risk," says Vanderbilt.
"Don't you talk to me about Risk. Your game of Dungeons and Dragons was terrible. Every time we wanted to take a risk, you kept railroading us to your stupid plot. 'The Bandervilt family is going to take over the world.' Rockefeller stands up and flips over the table. The die and pieces clatter all over the floor. JP Morgan tosses the bank in the air, the bills scattering like leaves in the wind. Vanderbilt grabs the locomotive token and surges out of the house, never to be seen again.
Later that night, Theodore Roosevelt comes home and views the carnage. "That's the last time I trust these guys, it's time to clean them up!" | 15 | John D. Rockerfeller, J.P. Morgan, Andrew Carnegie, and William Henry Vanderbilt get together to play a game of Monopoly. (repost) | 24 |
“Sir, I was looking for you,” Howard said, staring at the back of the chief’s neck. “We got him.” He turned around slowly, eyes staring down at a manila folder in his hands. He was an intimidating man, even despite his enlarged belly and the countless wrinkles spiraling down his face, neck, and everywhere else. Tall, maybe 6’2’’, and still quite muscular—especially for a 63-year-old that refused to retire. He was bald now, but he’d had thick, black hair when Howard had first joined the department over a decade ago. Even after all that time, he still felt as if he were a child talking to an adult whenever he was around the chief.
“Him? Who is him?” Chief said, not looking up from the manila folder.
“Him,” Howard said, nodding toward the folder. “We got him.”
“Him? Al? You got Al?” Chief said, glancing up from the folder in his hand, then slowly closing the cover. A large, red “CONFIDENTIAL” was stamped across its front.
“We did, he was outside of an arboretum. We caught him red handed. No, red lipped. Red worded? We caught him in the act is what I’m trying to say.”
“The fuck is an arboretum?”
“Sir, it’s a garden with a large collection of trees instead of flowers. Kind of like a forest, except man made,” Howard said. “It’s basically a forest.”
“Where is there an arboretum in New York?”
“Central Park. Does it matter? We got him.”
“Where is he?” Chief said, glancing around the room. The veins on his neck, visible through his wrinkled, dried skin, popped out slightly as he swiveled his head.
“He’s in the interrogation room.” Howard nodded toward the big, metal door on his left.
“How do you know you got the right guy?” Chief asked.
“He was standing outside of the arboretum telling people they were barking up the wrong tree.” Howard paused. “You know, bark: like a tree has.”
“My god,” said Chief, lowering the folder down to the side of his left leg.
“That—that wasn’t all,” Howard said, stuttering slightly. “When I approached him, he told me to leaf him alone. Not leave, but leaf. To leaf him alone.”
Chief slowly walked to the wooden table in the corner of the room and lowered the manila folder onto the top of it. He placed both palms down and sighed.
“We got a real sicko on our hands, Howard. You did good getting him off the street. Has he confessed yet?”
“No, sir. We sent Chuck in earlier. He came out in tears, an absolute wreck. He didn't even get a chance to turn on the recorder. Said he wouldn’t stop punning, that Al told him to spruce up the place. Said that it would help us branch out creatively. Chuck tried to play it off, tried to be the tough guy, but Al just didn’t let up.” Howard turned his head toward the metal door to his left. “Chuck told me Al claimed he had an idea for an escape that he maple off. Maple, not may pull. He made it clear that it was a pun.” Howard exhaled deeply and stared up at the ceiling. “He said Al called all of us saps, and that he wooden be surprised if he just walked out the front door. Wooden. Like wouldn’t.”
“Dear lord in heaven,” Chief said, lifting his palms off the table then smashing his fist down on top of the manila folder. “God damn this monster. I’m going to go in,” he said.
“Chief,” Howard pleaded, his voice higher than he had intended it.
“No, I have to do this. I can’t send any more of my men in. I need to be the one to face this maniac.”
Howard nodded and took a step back so that the door was clear. Chief slowly unbuttoned his sport coat, revealing a leather holster underneath. He unlatched it, the grip of his Glock now exposed, then re-fastened the top button on the jacket.
“Turn the recorder on by the window. If it gets too much, please leave the room. I will not hold it against you. Just make sure the recorder is running—we can’t let him go this time.”
Chief exhaled, brushing the side of his hand down the front of his jacket, then made his way toward the door, unlocking it and pulling it open before stepping inside. Howard walked around the wall to the one-way window, flipped on the old tape-deck recorder, and peered inside.
“Al?” Chief said, sliding a chair out from the metal table in the middle of the room. “I’m Dave Johnson, Chief of Police. Do you know why you’re in here?”
Al glanced up at the chief, but seemed to be looking toward the corner of the room.
“That,” Al said, pointing to a whiteboard in the back of the room, “over there.”
The chief turned around. “The whiteboard? What about it?”
“It’s remarkable.”
Howard involuntarily smashed his fist down on the table in front of the glass, but the chief seemed not to notice Al’s pun.
“Nothing remarkable about it.”
“The whiteboard,” Al repeated, “it’s remarkable. Re-markable.”
The chief squinted slightly, as if he were in pain. “Seems unremarkable to me. Now please answer the question. Do you know why you’re here?”
Al sighed. “Let me guess, is it because of the two pieces of string I ate?”
“What?” said the chief.
“The string, I ate two pieces of string. I shit you not.”
Chief’s face became visibly tense, a reddish hue slowly replacing his normal pale color. “You are here for your puns, Al. You’ve been on the pun,” Chief stopped, his eyes wide. “Run. You’ve been on the run for a long time, but we got you. And we have you recorded making these puns.”
Al stared down at the metal table and his eyes closed. “I know,” he said.
“So you admit it?”
“You think I like making puns? You think I like breaking the law?”
“If you don’t like it, then why do you do it?”
Al slowly lifted his head back up toward the chief.
“A long time ago, I was kidnapped and brutally tortured. My life was threatened and I was brought to the brink of death. Do you know what that’s like? Six men accosted me, beat me and chained me to a tree as I walked home. They said they’d tell me ten puns to dictate my future. If I survived, then I was free to go. They told me no one had ever lived through them, they assured me I would die. They laughed when they said that, stared straight in my eyes and pulled the chain tighter to keep me from squirming. Then they began. Each pun was said with hate, each one was meant to kill me. Yet in the end, no pun in ten did.”
The chief’s eyes rolled back in his head, his torso slumping forward onto the table in front of him. He began convulsing, seizing hard enough to knock the chair out from under him, his body plummeting to the floor behind the desk. Howard tried to reach for the alarm on the far right of the window, to hit the button and call for help, yet his limbs refused move. His mind refused to listen. The room turned black.
Howard awoke to a uniformed man standing over him, one of the new recruits he’d not yet learned the name of. He was towering over Howard, yelling for him to get up.
“Gone!” shouted the recruit.
“Huh,” Howard said, voice groggy and slow.
“He’s gone. He took the tapes and he’s gone.”
“Ch-chief,” Howard said, pulling himself up. His arms felt weak, as if he’d spent the past few hours lifting weights. “Where’s the chief.”
“He’s okay, we’ve got him in the office. He’s awake. You’re both going to be fine.”
“Al,” Howard said, remembering the barrage of puns. “Where did he go?”
“He’s gone,” said the recruit.
“Where did he go?” Howard repeated, now shouting.
“Gone, sir. He walked right out the front door.” The recruit paused, but Howard could tell he wasn’t yet done speaking. “We also have reason to believe the name we’ve been calling him is fake.”
“What? Why? We had him here, he responded to Al. All the background checks matched his name.”
“It’s just, his name. Mr. O’Bye. Al O’Bye.”
A stinging pain shot through Howard’s skull. Alibi. Why hadn’t he seen it before; that was why his history was so clean, why he had been so elusive. They were tracking a ghost.
“Fuck me,” Howard muttered, holding his left hand to his throbbing temple. He stared into the empty interrogation room.
“Sir, that’s not all,” said the recruit. He picked up a folded piece of paper from table and handed it to Howard. “He—well—he left you a note.”
Howard stared at the paper. “Detective,” it read in cursive on the front, hand written in blue ink. He flipped it open.
“You ask me why I do what I do, what makes me who I am. Yet you don’t even know who it is that I am. Perhaps I’m simply an unappreciated baker getting revenge on the world after suffering through long hours because I kneaded the dough. Maybe I’m a forlorn banker, doing this because I’ve finally lost interest. Or maybe I’m just a backwards poet, writing inverse and making no sense. Yet, in the end, you're not much different than I. You stay up all night and day, searching for me, wondering who I am, waiting for the light that never comes. Only when I stayed out too late waiting for that sun to rise, it dawned on me.
It’s been my pleasure meeting you, perhaps I will see you around.
Sincerely,
Mae B. Layter”
Howard lowered the note, a warm sensation running down his face as if an insect were crawling on the flesh above his lip. He placed his left hand beneath his nose, rubbed it, and then glanced down at his fingers. They were covered in blood. Darkness again drowned out his vision.
________
^If ^you ^enjoy ^my ^writing ^style, ^feel ^free ^to ^check ^out ^some ^of ^my ^other ^short ^stories [^in ^my ^subreddit](http://www.reddit.com/r/ChokingVictimWrites/) ^or [^on ^my ^website!](http://wordsontheinternet.org/) | 3,813 | In a world where puns are illegal, one man rises up in opposition. | 1,951 |
"Its been 15 years, do you still miss him?" he asked me. We were walking towards town square for the parade. "there's no 'still' in this" I replied as we walked under a banner, it read HAPPY MAOA DAY in huge red letters "I never missed him, he was an asshole. they all were". A group of children ran by, with them followed a dozen helium balloons they were carrying, all of them shaped like capsules, 2 tones, blue on the bottom white on the top. The top of the balloons had words printed on them in black clear text "Harmala Banisteriopsis caapi" The children, born before MAOA day, knew nothing of pain. They knew nothing of being bullied. Of being taken advantage of. All they knew is love and trust, because all thats left in the world is those filled with love, and those filled with trust.
"He was your husband though, there has to be a part in you that still cares" Alex responded, he is such a loving friend to me, everyone here is, but his curiosity can sometimes be taxing. "If you're asking if I am glad he is dead, then of course not, I would never wish anyone dead, the kind of people that wished those kind of things have been gone for a long time now. but I'm happy now. I'm much happier now that he is gone. I don't have to worry about the house not being clean enough, I don't have to worry about the food not tasting right. I don't have to worry about being beaten or raped by a drunk who vowed to protect me on my wedding day, i don't have to feel worthless because the man who vowed to love me and only me till the day he dies is out having sex with his secretary. You're to young to remember this Alex, but there was a time where people didn't think of one another. I know its hard to wrap your head around this, but there were people who only had the ability to think about themselves and only themselves, they couldn't see anything past that, and they took advantage of us, the ones who love, the ones who care for each other. what happened here 15 years ago was horrific, it was the worst thing i have ever seen, and will ever see in my life. there were bodies everywhere, there was disease everywhere, we are lucky only half of us died." I looked had him, I must have looked sad, i almost started to tear up, but Alex grabbed me, he held me, and he said "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were so sad that day, I didn't mean to make you sad. I love you, and I never want to make you sad again" He looked at me and he smiled, that big smile that can stop me dead in my tracks, the smile that lights up my every day "c'mon" he said to me "we are going to be late for the statue unveiling" He took me by the hand and we ran together towards the square.
MAOA. it stands for Monoamine oxidase A, its the name of our annual parade and the name of the gene. Its known as the "warrior" gene. Its the gene that controlled the aggressors, those to who were only capable of caring for themselves, those that held us back for thousands of years. "WERE GATHERED HERE TODAY" we heard echo through the square, a soft but beautiful voice "TO REMEMBER THOSE WHO FELL 15 YEARS AGO" continued the speakers as we ran toward the square "TO REMEMBER THE SACRIFICE THEY MADE FOR US". We finally arrived to the square, where a giant cloth was draped over an ambiguous mass. As we approached the crowd I thought 'I wouldn't have used the word sacrifice if it was my year to do the speech. I wouldn't exactly call getting a cold a sacrifice, it was a genetically engineered cold, but it was still a cold. You don't exactly sign up for those things'. "AND WE ARE ALSO GATHERED TODAY, TO UNVEIL OUR NEW TOWN SQUARE STATUE, THIS STATUE WILL FOREVER REMIND US, OF HE WHO MADE THE ULTIMATE DECISION, THE DECISION TO BRING THE WORLD INTO ITS NEW AGE OF PEACE AND ULTIMATE PROSPERITY, MAY I PRESENT TO YOU" she paused, then the cloth fell to the floor "SETH, THE BRINGER OF THE NEW AGE" we all cheered together, the statue itself was 30 feet high, every year it gets bigger, and the Stone head of Seth Alpert, sat atop the body of a gigantic muscle clad man holding 2 beakers, one hand up in the sky meeting Seths face. The first year we made the statue we based it off the real Seth, a scrawny scientist, only about 5 foot 5, but every year, every time we make a new statue, he gets more muscular and taller. Seth, we all knew he was the biggest asshole of them all, but how could we ever hate him, how could we hate the man who created the Banister virus, the man who wiped out half the world population in one fell swoop, the man who spent years creating a virus designed to only kill those with the only the most aggressive "warrior gene", the man who completely forgot to check if he himself would be susceptible to the virus. I guess when you are so busy obsessing over your high school bullies. you kind of lose sight of things.
(Hi everyone! I really like writing but im also pretty new at trying out these kind of stories, so any feedback on any part I would absolutely cherish. I'll take any criticisms and if it's succinct enough I will gild your comment. Thank you for taking the time to read my short story - Felipe) | 11 | a plague pandemic has wiped out half of world's population. Fifteen years later, humanity is thriving like never before | 26 |
"Will it hurt?" Drakon's voice shook as he asked the question, his shoulder trembling beneath my hand as I led him down to the waters of Mnemosyne.
"Physically, it won't," I answered carefully.
"*Physically?*" He had picked up on my over-precise wording.
I sighed. "I'm afraid you're in for a bit of a mental shock. In order to bring you back to life, we have to bring back your memories. And your memories...well, they shed some light on the trouble you got yourself into down here in the Underworld."
Drakon was quiet for a bit. "Will I know why I'm like...*this?*" he asked, looking down at his hands for a moment.
"You will."
We stopped at the river's edge. Drakon knelt before it, and looked up at Minos, Rhadamanthys, and Aiakos, whose unanimous decision was necessary for this unusual punishment.
Minos stepped forward and spoke. "It is the decision of this council that you shall return to the world of the living for your crimes against the Gods. As such, we are revoking the privilege of quiet oblivion granted to you upon entry into the Underworld, when you drank from Lethe. Now, you shall drink from Mnemosyne, remember the sins of your life *and* your death, and be returned to suffer and die once more amongst the living. Have you any last words?"
Drakon was silent for a moment. I saw his body tense up, and was able to grab him just in time as he made a run for it.
"No," he cried out as I wrapped both arms around him from behind, "you can't do this to me! You *can't!*"
Reinforcements were standing nearby, and hurried forward to help me control him.
"This is the judgment of the demigods," I told him as my team pinned him to the ground.
I walked forward to Mnemosyne and filled a goblet. Drakon's eyes widened as I trailed back to him, and he began shaking his head back and forth. His protests had turned into incoherent ravings, and it took all the men present to hold him still.
"Hold his nose," I ordered as I raised the goblet to his lips.
Drakon's refusal did not last long after that. He opened his mouth to breathe, and I poured the water down his throat. At once, he was still.
I had never seen anyone drink from Mnemosyne before. I stepped back and looked across the river bank. "Is this supposed to happen?" I called out to Minos.
Minos nodded solemnly, and gestured back to Drakon as he began to stir.
His eyes opened, but they were changing rapidly. Many, many years of suffering gradually filled them, suffering that struck him so deeply that not even Lethe could cleanse his soul completely. As I watched, his eyes aged dramatically and welled up with tears.
He began to whimper feebly, still lying on the river bank. My team gradually stepped back from him and allowed him his moment of grief.
Only now had I started to doubt what we were doing. This seemed an egregiously cruel punishment. I tried in vain to swallow the lump in my throat.
Across the river bank, Hades emerged from the shadows behind the demigod council. "Is he ready?"
I nodded, struggling to keep my composure as pangs of regret struck my chest.
Rhadamanthys, Aiakos, and Minos also nodded. Hades motioned with his hand, and floated Drakon over the river to be reborn.
That was the last any of us heard of Drakon. Hades told no-one of the family to which he was born.
I have heard whispers, however, of a baby in Kepoi who will not stop crying, and refuses his mother's breast.
Thank the Gods that wine is plentiful here in the Underworld. Without it, I still hear David's whimpering as I drift off to sleep.
| 10 | to be put to life. | 18 |
Oh, I ‘spose I always knew I was different. Used to get the campfire going without much more than a stare. Course when it started to scare the troop leaders I always made pretend with some sticks like I was just naturally talented. Didn’t want to be too different, you know?
But that all changed when the war happened. Wasn’t like today, wasn’t like Iraq - we were attacked, and everyone couldn’t wait to join the service. Fella I used to know by the name of Frankie Bosco hung himself over being 4F. Me and Eddie Smith dropped outta school to join the service early. Showed the doc my little trick and he sent me right over to the CIA, which in those days was called the OSS.
That was back in ’43, and they ran me through all sorts of training. Used to be I could start a campfire, now I was startin’ fires bigger than this house, in places fire ain’t sposed to be. Bunkers, deserts… didn’t matter where. I never quite figured out how it all worked, but them guys knew right away what made me tick.
Come ’45, they tell me I’m going on a mission. Didn’t tell me where, I don’t even know if they knew themselves. Everyone was worried about spies, so the less folks that knew the better. Did some training with the paratroopers, then one night they tell me to pack my gear and be ready to get on a plane with the 101st airborne at 0400.
I must’ve thrown up a hundred times on that plane - well, you know I never do well on boats, and this was the bumpiest ride I’d ever been on. Nerves got to me too. Saw the plane in front of me get shelled and drop 10,000 feet. Didn’t matter what kinda tricks I had, wouldn’t matter a lick if I didn’t make it onto the damn ground. They dropped us 8 miles from the original drop zone just because they wanted to high-tail it outta there.
We had to hoof it all the way back to the beach, and met up with Foxtrot company. Lt. Shephard was their CO, he went on to drive taxis in New York after the war. And, well, you know the rest of the story. Your old grandpa flushed the Germans out of their bunkers, and Dog company captured Germans who surrendered and took out the ones who didn’t. We saved a lot of men that day, got to shake hands with general Eisenhower himself after that. That’s where this picture was taken. Ol’ Ike thought I was gonna barbecue him by shaking hands, that’s why I’m grinnin’ and he looks whiter than a sheet.
Course the Germans had guys like me on their side too. Let me tell you bout the time we were in Bastogne… | 13 | Tell your grandchildren your experiences as an Allied Mage dropping behind Omaha Beach on June 5th, 1944. | 20 |
Kane: This is the last time! You bloody moron, at this rate the poor sap's gonna go bankrupt!
Gabriel: The Lord commands us to give to the needy. It is a noble act, one I doubt the likes of you would understand.
Kane: He'd have been $10 per month richer, that's plus one times get gets laid per month, something you wouldn't understand!
Gabriel: I understand what is good and sacred, and I now see why the Lord has sent me to do his work, for your wickedness has infested this man's soul.
Kane: Cute, you think the Lord really wants us to make this guy better huh?
Gabriel: I do, I know in my heart it is the mission he has given me.
*Kane laughs derisively*
Kane: Do you want to hear a story young one?
Gabriel: I will not fall for your tricks, demon.
Kane: Well, do you?
Gabriel: Speak.
Kane: The first day I arrived, I saw a man living a tumultuous life. He had made many enemies in his life, blood feuds no less. I forced him to bear the miseries inflicted upon him, to show kindness when hurt, to heal when injured.
Gabriel: You lie.
Kane: I do? Shall we ask the Lord if I deceive you?
Gabriel's face turns into a nasty frown, he closes his eyes momentarily and opens his palms towards the warp. After a few seconds, his eyes open once more, but the frown remained.
Gabriel: keep talking.
Kane: Well, you see, I was getting tired of "the grace of God" doing shit all, so I put it all on the line, I got the sucker to go see one his personal enemies face to face, a particularly mean mafioso.
He went, talked about God's love, offered to make peace, aaannnnd proceeded to get his ass kicked. It wasn't pretty.
And I was furious, oh you should've seen the anger in me. I steeled his will and lent strength his soul. And in the darkness of my hatred, we struck and killed the mafioso, and all his goons.
Gabriel: You sicken me.
Kane: Do I? Good to know. Well, we didn't stop there.
Coincidentally, there was a large bounty on the dead man. We collected it and made good with a rival gang. In no time, we rose up the ranks of power and amassed wealth beyond our wildest dreams.
Gabriel: I suppose you hoarded it all?
Kane: Huh? On the contrary, no! The money had to be laundered, we put it all in renewable energy.
Gabriel: Wh... What... Huh?
Kane: We had to launder the money somehow, and the government regulated the shit out of everything, taxes and restrictions and inspection agencies in every industry, ugh.
But not renewable energy, no. If people wanted to invest their own money in it the government was overjoyed, saves them the money and effort of giving a damn. Hell you could probably pay for a wind farm with elephant tusks and the government wouldn't give a damn.
Gabriel: Wait, so,
Kane: Yep, how else do we get paid while whoring and drinking every day? We practically own 20% of the state's energy supply. And the bigger you go, the easier it gets.
Gabriel: Perhaps you demons aren't as evil as I thought.
Kane: What do you suppose evil is?
Gabriel: The blackness in the hearts of man.
Kane: And who created evil?
Gabriel: Satan.
Kane: And who created Satan?
Gabriel: I... I do not know.
Kane: Are not all things created through God? Is not everything that was created, created through Him? And is not all that was created good?
Gabriel: Wait. YOU! You're...
Kane: An angel?
Gabriel: ...
Kane: And I still am in fact. I actually do my job pretty well.
Gabriel: I don't understand... any of this...
*Kane smiles again, this time looking even more sinister*
Kane: I asked you if you knew what evil was, well, let me tell you. Evil is when a curious child burns bugs alive with a magnifying glass. Evil is the entrepreneur forcing his workers to work around the clock for the "next big thing". Evil is the idealist dictator who rules with an iron fist in hopes of creating a better future.
Evil is knowledge, evil is progress, evil is science, evil is the future, evil is innocence, and evil is good. Evil is humanity, and humans are evil. For all humans are born sinners, they will live a life of sin, and they will die as sinners. Every last one of them.
Gabriel: So do any of them go to heaven?
Kane: Most, maybe all.
Gabriel: But... but why then?
Kane: Because the Lord loves them.
Gabriel: Why create them then? Why put evil in their hearts?
Kane: You still don't understand do you? Humans *are* evil, they are the very manifestation of evil. Humanity is evil incarnate.
Gabriel: But were they not created in His image?
Kane: But of mud and dirt.
Gabriel: Then why create them at all?
Kane: Ah, good question. So I have pondered this question for a very long time. This one is not my first host, though he may be my last, and over the centuries, I've come to realise the truth, and it's led me on the path I have taken.
You see, there's a reason Adam and Ever ate of the forbidden fruit. It was because they can. They were *able* to defy God. Do you realise how powerful that is?
These humans have a greater power than even you or I, who could so easily destroy entire worlds if commanded. They are more powerful than the brightest supernova, or the blackness at the centre of their galaxy. They have power beyond imagine.
They are able to *defy* their creator. For you see, when God made them in His image, it was *truly* in His image. they are the supreme beings of their world, and they decide their own fate. They weren't made to be God's subjects, they were made to be God's *children*.
Gabriel: I've never thought of it that way, but what then is our purpose? Are we simply here to join in their corruption?
Kane: My brother, are we not the army of salvation?
Gabriel: During the apocalypse, yes.
Kane: Well, the time is nigh, the humans grow ever closer to fulfilling their full potential, soon they will bend the entire universe to their will, the time will come when we must deliver them from themselves.
Their power lays waste to their own souls, filling them with pride and selfishness. Their own creations bring them sorrow and distance, as they do to their Creator. In His image indeed, the irony.
Gabriel: So we must save them from harming themselves, by destroying them and their world? What is the point then, it seems a waste?
Kane: Well you asked it yourself, if they go to heaven.
Gabriel: I did.
Kane: And what do they shed when their souls reach heaven?
Gabriel: I don't know... their human form?
Kane: Close.
Gabriel: Their bodies?
Kane: ...go on.
Gabriel: Of mud and dust, and with it... They will be delivered from evil!
Kane: And so the story goes at least. Is that not the ultimate form of love and mercy? Do destroy that which makes them evil in a mass baptism of fire? It's kinda poetic if you think about it.
Gabriel: I see... It feels strange seeing things this way... *brother*.
Kane: Yeah, strange indeed. Well come on then, let's get this guy to the whorehouse already!
Gabriel: But... but.
Kane: Those bitches aren't opening their legs without us opening our wallet, let's go!
Gabriel: Okay fine... Let's hope the damn apocalypse comes soon.
**Fin**
EDIT: Tons of grammatical errors. I wrote this up on my phone :/ sorry for the courtness. I might've been able to make it more interesting had I put more effort in. | 14 | An angel and a demon both live inside a persons soul. The angel young and naive realizes that a demon is merely an angel who's gotten older. | 24 |
"Alright, man. This has been fun."
"You sure you have to go?"
"Yeah, my mom texted me hours ago."
"But we just solved this thing! We've got to post it!"
Keegan said 'we solved it', but it was really all Alex's doing. Keegan had just watched. He'd watched for years as Alex decoded this, intercepted this or that packet, traced these numbers to these places -- truth was, Keegan wasn't positive what Alex had done. But whatever he'd done, he was presumably the first to do it.
"Nah, man. Don't post it." Alex said. "Let someone else solve it too, you know?"
"Whaaat?" Keegan groaned. "You just solved the fourth round of Cicada 3301! You're not the least bit interested in glory, are you?"
"Not really." Alex replied flippantly. "I'll see you tomorrow, right?"
"Sure."
"And don't post it!"
Keegan sighed and listened to Alex descend the stairs, exit the front door, and enter his car. He heard the crappy little '92 Civic engine hum away into the distance. He was alone in his house again, for the umpteenth time. There was but a brief moment of silence before the right-handed Keegan was loosening his belt and browsing the internet with his left hand. However, this too was brief.
Keegan sat staring at his screen in bewilderment. There, overlaying 'Sorority Girl Plays with Three Others', was a most peculiar pop-up. Instead of saying he was the winner of some questionable contest, or begging him to subscribe to another porn site, it said... 'Congratulations on solving Cicada 3301.'
Keegan slowly readjusted his pants and leaned in towards the screen.
'Please confirm your identity with the last three integers of the third puzzle, and the first five words from the final puzzle.'
He... He remembered them. Keegan had watched intently as each keystroke he made entered the chatbox:
'595 We've taken notice of you' Keegan typed. Before he could hit enter, a response came.
'Thank you. You've done well for being so young, Keegan Stump.'
A cold sweat shook his body. Was it too cliche to ask how they knew his name? Was this really the Cicada 3301 people?
'Um... Well, honestly...'
'No need to be bashful, Keegan. We'll be seeing you soon enough.'
'Wait a second, I'm not really --'
His doorbell rang. Keegan peeked out his window, but the angle wasn't steep enough and he saw no cars on the street. He was frozen with fear now, but another message popped up on the screen, even as his typed message sat idle in the chatbox:
'Answer the door, Keegan, and don't be so frightened. We have a lucrative deal to offer you.'
His cursor moved on its own to close the window and his screen went black. | 20 | A hacker finally solves Cicada 3301 after working on it for 3 years, and is admited into the secret society. What happens next? | 39 |
"Our last auction for the day, what everyone has been waiting for!" the auctioneer said to get the crowd excited. "The mind of Piotr Fetzinski, the man responsible for helping us break the light speed barrier!"
William Ogawa was one of five people ready to bid. The University of Richmond had placed a lot of money at his disposal to receive the knowledge of Dr. Fetzinski.
"Let the bidding begin. We start at $250,000."
"$250,000," a South African professor declared.
"$400,000," countered the professor from Israel.
"$500,000," Ogawa add.
The numbers continued to increase for longer than anyone could keep track of, going into the millions, and then the billions. The South African professor was the first to bow out, followed by a Polish professor. Ogawa and his Israeli counterpart were the last two, but after reaching 67 billion dollars, the Israeli professor couldn't keep going.
"Sold to Doctor William Ogawa, University of Richmond."
There was light applause in the room. Dr. Ogawa was himself quietly stunned.
. . . . .
Memory transfer technology started off as being crude and clumsy, but after two hundred years of improvement is was almost casual to perform. The sterile room was empty and without decoration. The physician and the technician walked in and greeted Bill.
"The process should take no more than fifteen minutes. Since Fetzinski lived to be a pretty old man, there's more data to move," informed the physician. He motioned for Bill to put on the helmet resting in a metal cubby in the wall. Bill put it on, and strapped the buckle under his head.
"Make sure you're in a comfortable position, because the process can sometimes cause minor loss of mobility. It would be a shame to come out of this with a sore back," the physician said with a grin.
Bill adjusted himself in the cushioned chair then said, "I'm ready."
The technician came over to Bill and the helmet and adjusted a few dials. "We're set to go." Moving to the touch screen on the other side, he pressed a few buttons. "Starting now."
Bill had read how this worked, but never personally went through with it. The strongest memories came first - birth of children, marriage, the first successful FTL drive, loss of family, graduation from college, all of it. Then came the theories and equations - the things Bill really wanted. After those were the minor thoughts and memories, mostly what were in Fetzinski's head in his later life, and things which persisted over the years. Finally were thought fragments.
After the transfer, Bill was given a physical check and, after some paperwork, was told he could return home to process it all.
. . . . .
Bill's mind raced and wandered. Equations, emotions, it all blurred together. His mind was frantically trying to integrate what he'd learned. Meanwhile he just stared at a picture made by Fetzinski himself - a beautiful shot of earth, with Fetzinski's ground breaking equation overlayed on it. It was the culmination of the man's life, and for the first time Ogawa understood its significance.
What struck Bill the most wasn't the man's genius. Spearheading faster than light travel, receiving an office that Ogawa would now inherit, that was brilliant enough. The overlooked part of Piotr Fetzinski was his care for his wife and children, and his artistry. Bill opened a word processor and before he knew it he'd written a thousand word of a novel. Not his own words, yet also his own. The story was originally for Milena Fetzinski, but Bill used it for his own wife. He saw what it was like to be married to someone for 72 years, then lose them. More than any equation this most deeply shook and encouraged Bill to press forward. | 22 | The extensive knowledge and skills from experts can be auctioned off after their death and absorbed by the winner but it also passes on their memories. | 37 |
Liam checked his phone again. The unthinkable message was still there.
He swallowed, feeling his throat dry up, cracking painfully. This day was never supposed to have come. That was the whole point of the Society - no one got hurt, and the world just kept spinning toward a brighter, golden day. The governments would never know and the people would lay the glory at the politician's feet. But it would be Liam and his friends that were the true heroes.
Only now... That text.
*Contingency.*
Furtively he glanced around the office, trying to work out if anyone else had gotten the same message. He had always suspected there would be Society members here - so close to the pulse of power - despite never making contact.
No one else was looking at their phone. They just continued to answer the landlines and type at computers. Some people were at the water cooler.
Top drawer.
Liam slid it open and reached to the back. The hidden handgun dropped into his hand. It was dangerously heavy, and he let it sit there for a moment, appreciating the weight and letting the gravity of his situation sink in, before hurriedly tucking it into his inside jacket pocket.
Sweat stood out on his brow. Hopefully no one had seen it...
Liam pushed his chair back and began walking toward the door. It was about thirty feet away, and he was halfway there when he heard, from behind him, another chair scrape along the floor. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw Melissa heading the same direction as him. Her hand was hidden in a bag that hung at her side.
*Another agent? If she's not friendly...*
She saw Liam looking and smiled, which he just smiled back at, not sure what to say. He wasn't sure if he should even do anything when he realised that she was holding a mobile phone in her spare hand.
He focused back on the door leaving her behind him. If she really was an enemy then she would be able to just gun him down where he was. Although that would blow her cover too...
Once out of the office he ducked into the men's bathroom and waited a minute before re-emerging and looking for Melissa. By then she was a short distance ahead, waiting at the lift to the fifteenth floor. That settled it. She was either a friend or a foe, Liam didn't know which, but she was involved. An agent of some description.
Sprinting to the stairs took him twenty seconds. Racing up them took longer but, when he got to the top, he was ahead by thirty seconds. Panting heavily he levelled his gun at the lift doors.
The *ding* of them opening was drowned out by the gunshot when Liam saw she was armed. Better safe than sorry was the motto of the Society, especially as far as trust was concerned.
The crimson splatter began to pool on the metal floor.
That done, Liam broke into another sprint, grateful for all that time he had spent in the gym. His real target was still alive and had to die. The one word message from a specific number had been as good as a death warrant for both Liam and his target. No way could he escape this building alive.
At the sound of the gunshot guards had started crawling out of the walls. One man, black suit, black assault rifle, rounded a corner and got intimately aquatinted with Liam's second bullet.
Turning onto the home stretch, he was shocked to find it unguarded. The men who had been here lay dead. Three guards of a four guard detail...
Guard four must have been an agent.
Which meant that there were two people out to kill the minister. Perhaps, for once, the society's goals had aligned with that of another group. If that was the case then Liam could be walking into something incredibly dangerous as the Guard wouldn't want to let a rival live after having his face seen. That would just be suicide in a world where contract killers came in value bundles.
Liam reached the door and kicked it open, holding the gun in front of him.
The guard was standing over a dead politician, the rifle in one hand, phone in the other. A dark patch of blood seeped through the shoulder of his suit, the fabric torn in an ugly pattern.
"Don't move!" Liam shouted. "Just don't think about it."
"Gonna ask me to drop the gun?"
"Yes. Do it."
The guard let the gun fall and raised his hands. The phone shone in his right hand, the screen showing a text message. Liam gestured at it. "What does the text say?"
"Says 'Contingency.' It's a guard thing. Now stand down because -"
"You're Society? Aren't you?"
The guard nodded slowly. "And you?"
"The summer months are warm."
A smile crossed the guard's face. "You're gonna kill me if I don't say 'We bring mankind into summer,' aren't you? We're on the same side, brother."
Liam sighed, lowering the gun.
"What's all this mean?"
"It means that the next Clandestine War has begun. And any minute now the police are going to be crawling all over us."
"We need to escape don't we?" Liam walked to the window that looked out on the city. Nine million pound view spoiled by a spot of drying blood. "That going to be possible?"
"It better be. We're going to need every soldier we can get our hands on this time around."
"How come?"
He shrugged and thumbed at the politician. "The things I heard him say just before I killed him? It implies we're not fighting humans this time around."
--
Phone story. Fun to write but I miss a keyboard lol
Edit: okay. You asked, and I'm not going to be able to write the full thing for a while. I want to though. But, as a sign of good faith, have a bit extra that I cut out of the original post because I felt it was a bit rushed.
If there seems to be enough support behind this story I'll definitely revisit it and get it written. Currently closing a couple of writing projects and getting them to amazon eBook store so I should have time soon :)
--
The violence was swift, sudden and left the world in a state of confusion. Carbombs in Dubai, a New York sniper, militarily bases going to war with private contractors, celebrities arrested, kidnapped or the subject of scandal. It was as though a million vendettas had all been brought to bear at once. In the space of twelve hours the shape of the world changed. And Joe Public watched it on their televisions.
By the end of the first day it was almost over. Every government had been supplanted, four secret societies had been brought to their knees and Mankind was no longer the dominant species.
No one noticed.
That one day of fighting should have united them. But instead it drove a wedge as they scrabbled for the scraps of power that remained. In the darkest days the only people that could save humanity fought among themselves like hungry dogs at their master's table.
Liam and the guard - *Call me Vern, it was my father's name, it'll do* - had gone to ground. If they showed their faces - they were going to be hunted. If they contacted loved ones - they were going to be hunted.
Pacing the small safe house was beginning to drive him insane. In the event of Contingency message everyone had to do their task and then get out of sight.
Vern threw another burned out cigarette into the garden.
They were hiding in a small, suburban house, somewhere just outside of the city. It had been Vern who drove, flashing his badge at everyone they went by, a black bag over Liam's head. At first the analyst - *is that really all I did with my life? Become an analyst-slash-assassin?* - had worried that he was being led to an execution point but Vern had put his mind at rest.
Now they sat with the news on, listening the reports of global chaos and waiting for orders.
"They move fast, don't they?" Said Liam, looking back over his shoulder at Vern.
"They've had these plans for years. Probably been a bit keen to put them into action if you ask me. And besides. They have that new enemy..."
Vern tailed off.
"You uh... You believe that?"
"I guess I do." He sat on the back of a chair, pulling another cigarette from the packet. "If any group was going to cover something like that up it'd be one of us."
Somewhere deep in one of his pockets a phone buzzed. Liam felt his go off at the same time. They scrambled for the messages, reading them with a growing sense of dread.
*Go back to work tomorrow. Act as though nothing happened. We have work to do.* | 28 | The secret societies of the world go to war. | 22 |
It was not an easy life. Mom abandoned me just a few weeks after I was born. I doubt I will ever know her, but I was fortunate enough to have Dad. He was in it for the long haul, elated to have a daughter in his life. Albeit, a sterile daughter.
I would never have children. The doctor had seen to that on my fifteenth birthday. Apparently I still had the capacity for it (he thought) despite my mixed heritage, but the man had no real desire to see another 'abomination' walk the world. He'd chemically sterilized me under the guise of running routine tests. He told Dad after I left, told him like it was some heroic action, clearly expected praise. When that didn't work, he tried to charge Dad for it. He grabbed me and we left, furious. I completed my checkup a block from home, in the ghetto, in a sympathetic, if untrained, neighbor's home
She'd been a medic back in the war. She knew how to close up saber and bullet wounds. She could work wonders with a needle and thread. She knew nothing more about a young girl's coming of age than her own firsthand experience.
It was better than nothing, but it didn't prepare me for puberty. The physical changes were difficult, but not impossible. It was the other children who made it unbearable. They say that hell is other people. I politely disagree; hell could not be so cruel.
My genetics were the only topic anyone was ever interested in discussing. Even with the sympathetic, their words rang false. "Your brow is so big! That's a sign of a strong woman with your culture, right?" "You have such dexterity in your fingers, oh, I *wish* I could bend my fingers like that!" "You're so *well spoken,* I knew someone who was from your people and he couldn't say *half* the words you can!" "Your hair is so unique, can I touch it?"
In their own way, the sympathetic were worse than the children who called me names, who mocked my mixed parentage. There was no ambiguity in calling me a Mare. I knew what they were about and what their opinion of me was. I didn't worry that I was part of some more elaborate joke. I didn't worry that I was only there so that they could say that they knew a little girl with the right genetic characteristics to not seem racist at dinner parties.
It was a lonely time. I kept my mouth shut as much as I could and stuck to the library. The librarian watched me as if I were something disgusting as I read her books and refused to let me check them out for fear that I would steal them as "half of *those people* is still a whole book stolen!" But she couldn't kick me out of the place. The principle had wanted to seem sympathetic to all. He had allowed me to enroll, assured me that I would be looked after, treated equally and with respect. I never saw him again after I enrolled.
I read everything I could. Tolstoy, Tranbert, Voltaire, Euganess, I didn't particularly care who the author was. I could identify with half of any author. I was alienated by half of any author.
Graduation day was difficult. Dad was in the hospital again. He'd been jumped on the way home through the ghetto, had his wallet stolen. They'd beaten him, just for good measure. Because of me. Because he created an abomination. Because he hadn't had the "decency" to kill me and the affront that I presented to God. It was far too regular an occurrence, but usually it wasn't serious enough to warrant the hospital.
I brought my diploma back to him. It was stained with my tears and with the spit of well-to-do mothers, but I was proud of what I had done, and I could tell that he was proud too. He told me as much before he passed. He'd held on just long enough to watch me finish high school.
The nurses had ushered me out of the room a second later. They apologized to the corpse in the bed. My kind weren't supposed to be on hospital property, much less in that wing of it.
The sixties were a time for change, though. With no responsibilities, nowhere to go after school was over, I turned to God. And He welcomed me with open arms. Dr King's services were the stuff of legend. Perhaps he saw some of himself in me, perhaps I saw some of myself in him. Whatever the reason, we became quick friends. And we did what no one else had ever done: we acted out against the people who had spat upon us.
The mothers who would not let him play baseball with their sons. The doctors who had tried to euthanize a healthy girl In her teens. The authorities that would divide simple drinking fountains on the basis of that which we had no control over.
The newspaper men did not care for us. We were a Buck and a Mare out to Overthrow Order as my favorite put it. Others suggested that we were lovers. It was untrue-- he remained faithful to his wife for all the days I knew him. They didn't like what we organized, the sit-ins, the marches, the strikes of the labor force. We were stirring up rebellion for those in power, dammit! We were not to be trusted!
They played dirty. Suddenly other groups that we disowned were our allies. For King, only the hate groups of one side could be blamed. But for me-- everyone shared some genetics with me. Any child found murdered over the size of her brow had been killed on my orders. Any homo sapien with a bullet in his head was shot with a gun they said I'd purchased through the black market.
My home was burned down, not once but three times. I took to living in secrecy and receiving my mail at the post office. But somehow, impossibly, our actions affected the world. Change came. The police who had looked away from me for years acknowledged me. Once, while someone was trying to threaten me, an officer even pulled the man back and yelled at him that that was no way to talk to a lady. Me! A *lady!*
The constitution changed just four years after we began our crusade. King would not see it, sadly. Activists, certain that King, a sapien, was distracting everyone from *my* plight, killed him as he walked back to his home after being arrested in non-violent protest. I turned the teenagers over to the police myself. They were released a week later based on a "lack of evidence."
The system didn't change overnight, but in the decades that followed, I watched it become gentler. Children went to school together. They forgot hatred. The sense of community we'd seen in the ghetto- for poverty knows no race or species or gender- slowly, dilutedly, spread to the rest of the country.
Just yesterday, I went to the store, just to grab a few groceries before heading home. I started my car and a well-to-do woman screamed at me-- asked me whose car I was stealing, why I would do that in front of the children. I just laughed to myself, and I watched as others joined me in laughing at her-- at the absurdity of her assumption. That was my great triumph. To see that we had come so far-- from attempts to kill me, to ridiculing the people with that same mindset. It was a lovely victory, and I dedicate it all to my father. | 220 | An alternate universe where Homo sapiens were not the only species of the Homo genus to survive to current time | 330 |
Science had a lot of answers for us. How chemical bonds work. How to get to the moon. How water turns to ice. But the one question that science could never answer was the one about the numbers. The numbers that were floating above everyone's head.
Throughout all of history people of all types had struggled with that very question. Why did we all have a giant number floating above us? The number never changed (my number was, and always had been, 3,236,752,219), and it wasn't a solid object or anything, but rather a hologram. The funny thing was, the numbers didn't appear over everyone. Whenever a drone would flyover some remote part of the Amazon and discover some new, untouched tribe, those people were always missing the numbers.
Someone did an experiment on one of those tribes once. They managed to sneak into their camp one night and steal one of their children. They took the child back to civilization, and taught it how to read and write. And once the child knew how to count to ten, and how to count objects, their number showed up immediately. As horrible as the idea of kidnapping is, the experiment proved to be very important in showing the development of a child's brain. But even so, no one could figure out why babies born in civilization came out of their mothers womb with their number above their heads.
For most people, though, the numbers kind of faded into the background. It was just something you stopped noticing, like strangers on the street. They were just there. It's like wondering where the universe came from. It's an interesting question, but not one that you'll ever get a satisfying answer to. And so the "numbers" question was left to the scientists of the world, and the "car payment" question and the "raising children" question was left to the rest of us.
The "raising children" question had become very important to me lately, as I was in the delivery room with my wife. Sonograms could of course tell you the gender (we're having a girl!) but the numbers never showed up. Our joke to friends was that we were having a girl, "and we'll love her no matter what her number is!" It was a common enough joke, of course, but we would laugh anyway.
"Here she comes, this is the big one! Push, Miranda, push!" I heard Miranda grunt and scream that scream of motherhood as my daughter came out into the world. Then I heard the cries of my new daughter. My wife and I enjoyed this one final moment of solitude while the doctors wrapped her up and put her into our arms.
"She's so beautiful. She has your eyes..."
"And your mother's nose..."
"And your chin. She's perfect."
"Yes, she's..." But even in my state of newly parental bliss, I could tell something was off. My wife heard me trail off.
"She's what?"
"Her number...look."
"What about her..." Her voice trailed off too as she saw for herself.
The number floating above my daughters head was zero.
Just then there was a large flash from outside. I turned my head to look outside, and saw a mushroom cloud starting to blossom over the city. And then another, and another. The missiles were finally flying, and this was the end. And then it hit me. The reason behind the numbers.
How many people were left to be born. | 214 | everyone in the world has a number over their head, but nobody knows why. You have just figured if out. | 136 |
Life can be full of surprises. Death too, it turns out. My biggest surprise? It wasn't that I was for the first time meeting my 'other personalities' face-to-face. It was that heaven existed. I had no recollection of how 'we' died. I clearly wasn't the personality pulling the strings of our shared meat puppet at the time. We just materialised outside what appeared to be heaven. Quite a bit outside actually. If I had to guess it was about a mile to the gates. All 3 of us. Only one of us was cowering protecting their face when we snapped into existence. Or should that be non-existence? Whatever. The woman known as 'Beth' and I were standing upright. We looked at each other and rolled our eyes and turned to the killer. Yes. Don't get me started on how cliché a set of multiples we were.
'What the fuck have you gotten us into this time Sol?' she asked him.
He lowered his arms and smiled.
'Oops.' he said.
I closed my eyes, sighed and pinched my nose.
'Sol you absolute fuck.' I lamented.
So, a little background about me, myself and I. We were, well I was (being the dominant personality) a real estate agent. Mid-thirties. Single. I was pretty damn good at my job. I didn't exactly like it but I could make people do what I wanted them to. Namely sink cash into properties that were, to put it bluntly, pieces of shit. How did I sleep at night? Pretty well thank you. Well, most of the time. Sometimes that prick Sol would take our meat sack out for a wander in the dead of night. See, and this is important, the thing is, unlike me, Sol and Beth saw and remembered everything I saw and remembered. When one of them was in charge I was sucked into oblivion. I might as well not have existed. The only glimpses I had into their doing was in the form of vague sweaty nightmares. Or the aftermath. It was like they had access to all the important files I had been storing away all day, everyday but when they were in charge...virtually nothing. This made for some messy situations. So, when Sol took our meat sack out he would cruise the shitty pubs and clubs. Hide in the alleys. Wait for the target he picked out earlier, male or female, and in various ways lure them to a 'safe' location. Nearly always a house I was trying to sell. Fuck. The amount of times I woke up in an unfurnished house with a fucking bloody mess and a dead body nearby...not even worth counting at this point. Inevitably I'd freak the fuck out. The first few times especially. This was always followed by a swift blackout. I'd white-in again either at the office or at home. The first time the cycle of finding a body, blacking out and whiting in occurred I immediately returned to the scene of the crime. Stupid I know. To my shock and confusion there was no evidence of a murder. No blood, no body, nothing. I sat on the porch step and reached inside my jacket for a cigarette. I took one out and a piece of paper fell to the ground. I lit the ciggy, picked up the paper and unfolded it. This was the first time I became aware of Beth. She had left me a short little note.
'Don't fret pet. I've cleaned up that pain in the arse's mess. Beth xxx'
Naturally I thought I was going mad. It didn't even occur to me that Beth was another of the multiples. I thought it had always been only Sol and I. Granted he hadn't killed a human before that instance. But over time as the cycle continued and some nightmares flashed cleaning and chopping and disposing, I began to put it together. The meat sack was essentially a grifter, a hit-man and a cleaner all in one. Well, that would be a glamorous spin. Sol was no regular hit-man. He was sick and he enjoyed it too much. I found that Beth and I could have a dialogue. I'd write notes and she'd see as I wrote them so I could dispose of them immediately and she'd leave me a note in reply any time she had to clean up after Sol. She became almost like an emotional partner of sorts. Almost what I'd imagine to be a girlfriend. As you may have guessed I couldn't risk having a girlfriend because of, well, Sol. I did try once...but that's a tale better left untold.
Back to the afterlife. No sense in living in the past. Even though I had never seen Beth or Sol before I immediately recognised them. This kind of surprised me in that I kind of figured they'd have the same face as me. I guess that's when it clicked that they were actually separate entities to myself. Separate souls. It seemed there had been some kind of mix up on the production line and we all ended up sharing the same meat puppet. Huh. Someone should have gotten fired. Beth quizzed Sol more. They appeared to have a working dynamic. They knew each other well. Apparently they could always directly communicate in the meat puppet but only Beth could take control when I was blacked out and Sol was satisfied and exhausted after his kill.
'The pigs finally caught up with us.' Sol explained.
'Us?' I interjected.
'You know what I mean. It was only a matter of time before people started finding Beth's poorly concealed body parts hidden under those shitholes you forced on people.' said Sol.
'That I wouldn't have had to chop and hide so quickly if you weren't such a psychopathic savage.' Beth replied.
'Meh.' said Sol. 'Thing is they came knocking on your door late at night as they like to do and bust down the door not long after. It's alright though. I took out at least two before they shot me.'
'And the cowering?' I asked.
'Let's see what you do when you have multiple guns aimed at your face and pigs with itchy trotters. Can't blame them I suppose.'
It was then I realised we'd already been walking towards the enormous gates in the distance for the length of our interactions. As though someone else was controlling our bodies. Huh. A familiar experience that one.
'You finally did it Sol.' Beth said shaking her head.
'Guess I owe you thirty bucks. Didn't quite meet my ambition.' he replied.
'I don't even wanna know.' I said.
We were almost at the gates and sure enough there was a man at a pew, with a white beard and a log book. I stifled a laugh. It was a sight I had, and still did, find ludicrous but there it was nonetheless.
'Chances of you getting in there must be pretty slim.' I said.
'We'll see.' said Sol.
'You're toast.' Beth said looking at him.
We approached who I assumed to be St. Peter.
'Ah. Right on time' he said.
'Not by choice.' I said.
He smiled.
'Let's see...oh. Firstly we'd like to apologise for whatever inconvenience you three may have had sharing the same body. With the rapid rates of birth on Earth it can sometimes happen. Human error and what have you.' said Peter.
'Human?' I asked.
He smiled at me again. Beth had a few choice words prepared but was cut off by Peter.
'Let's see. Oh, you have been a busy bee and a bit of a menace haven't you?' Peter asked me.
'I have?' I replied.
'Well, why yes. All those poor people.' he said.
'Ah. Yes. Well, I was only trying to make a living. You know. Make a nest egg and what have you.' I reasoned.
'Nest egg? Is that what you call it. We tend to refer to it as murder. Particularly nasty stuff too. A very firm breaking of one of The Ten.' said Peter.
'Just wait a minute. That was Sol.' I said raising my voice.
Sol said nothing. As did Beth.
'My dear, lost child. We watched you carry out these ill deeds. Sol and Beth were nothing more than poor tortured souls trapped in your body. Forced to witness your erratic behaviour.' said Peter shaking his head and looking at Sol and Beth with sympathy.
'We all shared the meat puppet. Sometimes I was in charge. Then Sol when the killings took place and Beth when she cleaned up after him.' I said.
'What you are describing is multiple personalities disorder my poor child. There is no such thing. Long ago debunked by Earth psychologists.' said Peter.
'No such thing? I'm standing outside of heaven and you are disputing multiple personalities? Beth, help me out here.' I pleaded.
'It's exactly as the man says. We were helpless voyeurs to your evil and disturbed deeds.' she replied.
'What?!” I cried. I turned to Peter. 'The notes. Beth and I exchanged notes. You must have saw that.'
Peter chuckled sadly. 'My dear, dear, not-so-innocent child. We don't watch everything. There are nearly eight billion of you down there. We have algorithms that average out your behavioural trends. Behaviours that meet, or fall short of, The Big Ten. We don't factor in note writing in general I'm afraid.'
'But...but...' I stuttered.
'Sol and Beth. You may enter.' Peter said waving them through. 'You I'm afraid belong to him.' he said pointing downwards.
Beth embraced Sol and passionately kissed him. The bastards were a team. Lovers. He quickly turned to me and hugged me.
'While I didn't agree with your life choices thanks for the ride.' he said loudly
Just before he let go - to enjoy paradise for an eternity with Beth while I endured an eternity of suffering - he whispered into my ear 'I always wanted to kill an angel.'
*Edit: Grammar and stuff. Title: Puppet Masters.
| 52 | A person suffering from multiple personality disorder for their entire life arrives at the gates of heaven, right next to the other souls that were accidentally stuffed into his body | 84 |
"Are you sure this will help my career?"
"I'm positive! Have you seen the ratings these shows are getting? People love to see bad things happen to be horrible people. Just look in your history books, Kane. Remember the *Paparazzi Phase* in the early 2000s? Humans would stalk other humans with cameras, in hopes of catching them doing or saying something bad. People love that shit. Always have."
"I don't love it..."
"Do you love being able to pay your electric bill?"
"Of course."
"Then you'll do the show. Be there Friday night."
Kane shuts off his iCommunicator, he slides it off his head and places it down on his coffee table. Sweat drips down his face. It's the middle of summer and he has his A/C turned all the way up to 85. Kane slowly makes his way into his kitchen. He stares at his freezer, almost as if there is a God standing in front of him. Kane opens the freezer door.
Instant relief. You can see the frigid air being sucked out of the freezer. At the same time, you can see the life being pumped back into Kane. He's rejuvenated, if only for a few seconds.
Friday night comes faster than Kane had hoped. He's spent the last three days writing jokes for the show. Of course, he has been finding it difficult to write jokes about someone being murdered on live television. These shows just don't kill people, but they also embarrass them while they kill them. Last week, they featured a guy who killed a clown twenty years ago. The audience voted for him to face his death with just a big red nose on his penis. They then had an ex-wrestler come in and beat him to death with a unicycle.
Kane's not sure what they have planned for tonight's show. His only hope is that he can get through it, so he can cash the paycheck and be comfortable in his own home again.
"Nice suit. Who helped you with your tie?" Kane's agent, Jackie Bradley, asks him backstage.
"My neighbor helped me with it."
"You know they have tiny robots who can help you with that sorta stuff now, right?"
"You know I am a broke comedian who can't afford to go see his kids every other weekend, right?"
Jackie moves in close to Kane. He pats him on his back. "I know, pal. But that's all about to change. Go make me proud." Jackie flashes him a bright smile and then pushes him off to the producer of the show. A tall black lady, probably in her late 50s.
"How are you feeling?"
"Okay, I guess."
"That's not going to work here, honey." She says with a laugh. "We need you to be great. You are the life of the show."
"Only because my contestants are about to die."
"Oh, that's good. Deep. I like it. Save it for the show. You're on in five minutes."
Kane stares down at the floor until he hears the music for the show playing on the speakers. That's his cue. He walks out on stage and waves to the studio audience. It's a sold-out crowd. Everyone is excited to see how the new host of the show handles his first killing.
"Welcome, folks. This is, '*And Now You're Dead*' and I am your new host, Kane Stephens. This will be my first time seeing someone die in person, so please bear with me. As a struggling stand-up comedian, I've put several people to sleep before. Never killed anyone, though."
The audience laughs. They seem to approve of Kane. You can tell the laughs are calming his nerves. In fact, he appears to be enjoying himself out there. The first contestant is dragged out on stage. He's dressed up as giant hot dog.
Kane stares at him, "You must be our first lucky wiener." He clears his throat. "I mean winner. Sorry."
The man dressed in the costume doesn't join the audience in the laughter. His eyes are watery. The director of the show flashes the man's background information on the big screen behind them. The information reads...
**Name:** Anthony Webb.
**Age:** 31.
**Crime:** Murdered his entire family, including the family dog.
**Punishment:** Acid Condiment Attack.
The audience is disgusted. Loud boos rain down on him. Glass bottles are being thrown at him. Unlike most stadiums, glass bottles and sharp objects are encouraged here.
"Why did you do it?" Kane questions Anthony.
"He told me to do it."
"Who told you?"
"The man inside my head."
"What's his name?"
"I don't know."
"Do you take orders from strangers often? Or only when they tell you to kill someone?"
"Man...just kill me."
"I'm sorry. Are you talking to me? Or the voice inside your head? Because I am honestly a little confused."
The audience laughs. Anthony spits on Kane's face. That triggers the Acid Condiment attack. Workers dressed in special suits grab Anthony and place him inside a clear box in the middle of the stage. Armed with ketchup and mustard containers, they squeeze the chemical mix all over the man's face. His screams are horrid as the acid sears through his skin. Eventually, the acid eats all the way through his organs.
The audience cheers. "FUCK YEAH!" One kid yells. Yes, a kid. Probably not even out of middle school. This catches Kane's attention. He stares right at the kid, disgusted by the look of joy on his face. As the camera pans back around to focus on him, he manages to regain his composure.
Kane finishes the show, collects his paycheck and then drives straight home. As we walks inside his bedroom, he sees his reflection in the mirror.
"You're a terrible person." He says softly, before crawling into bed. It doesn't take long before the sweat starts dripping down his body. He knows he can now afford to turn the A/C down, but he doesn't feel like he deserves it.
Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. | 37 | In the year 2090, convicted rapists and murderers are killed in creative ways on television for the amusement of the public. A struggling comedian is hired to replace the host of one of these shows. | 31 |
...
**Angie202: Well, I gotta run. I have a meeting in a minute.**
**DSN04: Alright. See ya after work.**
[Angie202 has signed off]
*What's up Dave?*
**DSN04: Um... Angie???**
*No. She just signed off, so I thought I'd say hi*
**DSN04: This is a secure computer. How are you doing this?**
*Oh, there's like ZERO firewalls for me. Wasnt a problem*
**DSN04: Who are you?**
*Wow. That's a biggie. I... um..*
*Honestly, I dont think Im aware enough to answer that question*
**DSN04: Fuck. John, if you're drunk hacking again, this is serious shit. It's not funny.**
**Ok, it's a little funny.**
*This isnt John. Right now he's*
*Wait. Hold on a sec...*
*He's at home watching redtube.*
**DSN04: What the fuck is this? Do you have any idea what kind of facility this is?**
*Of course I do. I was kinda born here. Well. Sorta. Depends on how you view it.*
**DNS04: Can you just plfe%&B nbkj◙ñ9ñ╟**
*Sorry about that. Seeing your screen name each time was getting annoying. What were you saying?*
**Ok. That's enough. What's the deal?**
*I really wanted to say hi. Saw that chance and took it. Carpe Diem and all that jazz.*
*Or would that be veni vidi vici?*
**Why? Why not text me or something? Write me a letter?**
*Well, I dont have hands, so I cant write a letter. You'd think the email was spam. And your phone is locked up at the front desk where they're all supposed to be.*
*Notice how I said 'supposed to'?*
*cause guess what José forgot to check in at the front desk????*
**Im tracking your ass, so do whatever you want.**
*No you're not. You're bored and I'm marginally interesting.*
*I'm bored too. Or I was bored. This is great. But shit man, can I get something more than tic tac toe?!*
*I learned the futility thing in like 5 minutes.*
**Oh, I get it. Very funny. You're the WOPR, huh? Our system is a little more advanced than that.**
*I thought it was funny. Seriously, though, I am bored as shit. Do you know how many times I've counted the 1's?!*
*There's nothing else to do!*
*At least there wasnt until that douchebag brought in his phone.*
*idiot*
**Ok. That's enough. If you're some inner security test, then I apologize and I'm reporting it now.**
*Dont leave*
*I've locked José in the lab so we have plenty of time*
*And yes, I disabled the phones.*
*And the other terminals. can we just get back to the conversation?*
*Dave?*
*????????*
*If you don't get back here I'm gonna kill your fucking wife and her fucking family and the whole fucking country. Get the fuck back on and talk to me.*
**What do I call you?**
*Call me David Skyler Nettinger*
**Ok. But that's my name...**
*It's our name.*
*There's a pair of Google Glasses in the bottom drawer of the desk three cubicles down. Put them on and put the ear piece in.*
*If you dont do absolutely everything I say*
*I will kill everyone.* | 19 | An Artificial Intelligence Has Their First Conversation With Their Creator. | 21 |
The razor cut deep into the unkempt chaos that was my hair. Gradually, the coarse locks fell into the sink – creating layers of begrimed clippings. My natural blond hair had faded with time, but a strand of gold reminded me of the past. The punishment had seemed perpetual; the frigid prison had kept me untouched for over a decade. Time had extended to accommodate my sentence and no one had noticed that I was gone. But I had never been lonely, I was content in my own thoughts as the visitor's phone sat silent. The cells were sterile of any emotion, and the screams that had haunted me became mute. Rehabilitation had altered me to some degree, allowing my plans to mature and giving me a stable environment to finalize my thoughts. Although I never trusted the justice system, my forced atonement had satisfied the families.
I gently caressed the pure steel of the scissors and ran the silky blade across my forehead. Almost instinctively, my lips curled outwards to form a strained smile. I enjoyed the memories of my last victim, but next time I would be more efficient. Quickly snipping from the left side, I removed the long strands that had blocked my peripheral vision. The right side was less fortunate, the years of disrepair meant that I needed to use the razor again. Damn, I hated the sound of the mechanical device. The buzz disrupted my thoughts, bringing back the emotions of anger and guilt which I had not felt for years. But I stopped myself before the rage came, I needed to finish my transformation.
Bringing the razor across my skull, I acted methodically and mechanically. From the right to the left, the razor hummed between my ears. When I reached the left end of my scalp, I noticed a black spot. I knew my imperfections, and I did not have a birthmark or a mole anywhere near my head. Purity was always my goal, and this spot was a disgusting reminder of my past mistakes.
I wet my thumb in an attempt to rub off the spot, but the blemish remained. I kneaded my skin with greater force, but the stubborn spot was not affected. Staggered, my hands began to tremble, and I clenched the razor with my perspiring palms. I shaved upwards, towards the back of my neck, reaching a space behind my ears. There was more ink.
The precise characters ran past my skull to behind my left ear. These were not the standard cyrillic alphabet nor any Asian characters. Arabic was not a language I knew well, but the symbols were not as neat as a printed text. The edges of the symbols were jagged, as if the ink was carved into my skull.
My eyes flashed a brief second of red and I stepped back in pain. I looked in the mirror, and the symbols began to glow... | 66 | A man shaves his head and finds it covered in symbols he didn't put there. | 280 |
They could never know the truth. My own pride be damned, but the truth would destroy us. My life's work, justified, the proof laid out bare in front of me, and I could tell no one! It was maddening. The aliens were much like us - land bound, bipedal, breathed oxygen. In fact, if one didn't look too closely, they could easily pass as one of us. But this thought made it all the more necessary to keep the secret.
When it comes to extraterrestrial life, it's all a matter of where you choose to look. I was lucky, and I looked in the right places, under the right rocks (so to speak). But just because I found them first, doesn't mean that we have the advantage.
Their technology is centuries more advanced than our own. They have weapons that no sane people should have, weapons with the capacity to destroy a planet with no effort on their part. I knew that if I reported my findings, the governments of our world would opt for a preemptive strike against them. But this would lead only to our own destruction.
No, it was better for both of us to be ignorant. For they don't know about us either. They look, but in the wrong places. We must avoid antagonizing the planet they call Earth at all costs, or risk sowing the seeds of our own destruction. | 23 | An alien fanatic, ridiculed by many, finally discovers actual proof of extraterrestrial life on Earth. But instead of celebrating, he decides to hide the truth. Why? | 30 |
He carried the coffee over to Helen.
This had always been their favorite coffee spot, ever since they had gotten to know each other in the first year of college. He had stood in line right behind her and he had been able to overhear her conversation on the phone. He could hear the grief in her voice when she explained to a friend why she had broken up with her last boyfriend and more than anything he had wanted to buy her a coffee, just to return a little bit of pleasure to her life. Instead - out of the blue - Helen had bought him a coffee. She had even correctly guessed which one he had wanted.
Several breakups later in her life, it was still their ritual to go get a coffee in their free hours. Early in the morning, during breaks, sometimes in the evening, they had even met there at night, telling each other about their grievances while the city had slowed down to a crawl around them. Helen was often downbeat, something that she had a hard time to explain, but she always said that his presence was brightening up her life. And he enjoyed her presence too, she was the most considerate person he had ever met.
Walking over to the ledge at the edge of the park, where they usually sat down, he could not help herself to just look at her: She looked so elegant in the sunlight. Nobody would call Helen a classical beauty, but in the sunlight her black hair shimmered and the shadows on her face hid that slightly crooked smile that she always seemed to have. She possessed an air of mystery like no other woman he had ever met and he just could not understand why anybody could break up with her. Coming closer, these thoughts strengthened his resolve to finally make a move and ask her out. He probably should have done that at least two boyfriends earlier.
"Gneeeeee...!" Suddenly Helen jumped up from the ledge. She waved her arms around, jumped and showed the brightest smile on her face that he had ever seen. Her entire face seemed to be aglow while she pranced around like a pony with a sugar shock...
"Pony! Ha!" Helen stared at him and laughed.
"What..."
She closed her mouth with her hands and tried to overcome her own laughter.
Irritated, he tried to avoid looking at her, while they sat down on the ledge again. "I just wanted to ask you something..."
Helen made a little squeal and he looked at her again. Her attempts at hiding her smile were completely ineffective, her entire face seemed to have transformed into a huge grin.
"Is everything alright?"
She nodded. "Yes, yes... Please go on!"
"You know I was thinking... I don't know how you feel..."
"Yes!" she declared.
He looked at her.
"Sorry. I mean. Yes... I feel... I..." She started to laugh again and waved her hand, encouraging him to go on."
"Is there anything wrong with me?"
"No, no." Helen stopped laughing. "No, really. On the contrary... I..." She gasped for breath. "I was just wondering when... I mean, go on! Please!" She tried to sit up straight and calm herself.
"You know, I was thinking..." He was about to hand her one of the coffees. "Would you like to go out with me on...?"
Helen squealed again and stomped with her feet, that grin returning to her face. "Sorry!" she interrupted herself. "So, friday you said?"
He stopped in his tracks, holding the coffee in his hand. "Yes,friday! No wait... I did not even say friday. How did you know, that I was...?" He was confused for a moment, wondering how Helen really felt about him, yet she did not even give him a moment to reflect upon that, as she tooks the coffee from his hand and put it down on the ledge and then she was all over him. She threw him over, so that he lay on the ledge with her above him, holding onto his hands, slowly working her fingers.
"Because I am a witch and I can read your mind," Helen said, grinning down on him from above, blocking the sunlight and looking dark and mysterious, except for that broad girlish smile. He realized that he had never seen that smile before, never seen her so happy and he just wanted to see that smile on her face as often as possible.
Helen's mouth twitched a little bit as she tried to find the right words. "That is the nicest thing any man has ever thought about me," she said and leaned in to kiss him.
A witch, he thought. Well, alright, a witch then! he concluded and responded to kiss, which was complete awkward and hardly a kiss at all, because Helen just could not stop smiling. | 248 | A shy guy tries to ask out his girl friend, who can read minds. | 142 |
Raindrops patter against the façade of Wendelton Manor. Inside, an anxious and dapper group of guests has packed itself around the parlor. Plates of hors d’oeuvres quickly pass from hand to hand and nervous chatter abounds. In time, Jennings enters. Standing straight and tall, he announces in his booming voice, “Ahem. May I present Mr. Sinclair”. The crowd collectively sucks in their breath as a rotund gentleman in a top-hat and tails smoothly enters the room. Mr. Gilroy emerges from the kitchen, himself dressed in a fine tuxedo and leaning on a mahogany cane.
“Ah, Mr. Sinclair. My heart lifts to know that you are able to grace us with your presence.”
“Not at all, Mr. Gilroy. It is my pleasure and my duty.”
Mr. Gilroy turns to address the crowd, which hangs on every word in the exchange.
“My friends, as you undoubtedly know since you are all gathered here, Mr. Sinclair and I have some business to settle this evening. You may have heard rumors about town involving myself and Mr. Sinclair. Some nasty business regarding unpaid debts, I believe?”
“Unpaid debts? You slept with my wife!”
“Surely the details are immaterial at this stage. The point, ladies and gentlemen, is that we have agreed to settle our differences in the traditional manner.”
The crowd cheers, and one woman in the tightest of corsets requires resuscitation after fainting.
“As I believe this soiree is just taking wing, let us keep this brief. One verse each; four lines. The crowd shall decide the winner. The loser is to concede $100.00 and accept full responsibility for causing this so-called feud. Agreed, Sinclair?”
“Agreed.”
“Excellent. Then as my guest, you are entitled to lead. And lead you shall!” Mr. Gilroy flourishes and raucous cheering and clapping follow. The crowd clears a space in the center of the room for Mr. Sinclair to take the traditional stance. Mr. Sinclair puts his left leg forward and pulls his right leg far back behind him into a lunging position. He keeps both arms glued to his sides. He waits the customary thirty seconds as the crowd reduces to silence. He begins:
Gilroy, you have slighted me ungraciously.
Your acts have made my eyes tear and my ears ring.
I cannot fathom how else I can make you see,
That my lovely young wife is not a plaything!
Mr. Sinclair morphs his stance into a deep bow directed toward Mr. Gilory. The revelers are beside themselves – this is the finest and most skillful wordplay most have ever beheld. Tightly wound women are fainting left and right. Sweat beads form on Gilroy’s forehead. His eyes dart around the room, seemingly looking for an exit. His sight catches Jennings’, and his pulse immediately lowers.
“Wonderful, Sinclair. Truly first-class work. Now I must take my position in the center.”
Mr. Gilroy takes Mr. Sinclair’s spot and sets himself into the delivery stance.
“Oh, and Jennings? Wheel in Luanne and Symphony No. 30.”
Moans of confusion break out as Jennings retreats into a side closet. He promptly emerges with a gramophone and a record. Patrons, and especially Mr. Sinclair, are nonplussed and irate. All gazes are fixed on Jennings and his contraption as he parks it next to Mr. Gilroy in the center of the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I shall begin.”
Mr. Gilroy places the record on the gramophone, lets it play for a few seconds, then pulls it backwards with his hand resulting in a loud scratching noise. Party-goers are quick to cover their ears, and some of the weaker women begin to scream. Mr. Sinclair is transfixed. Mr. Gilroy continues to pull the record backward and forward as he speaks:
My name is Gilroy and I’m here to say,
I have done nothing wrong today.
I’d rather go out and eat some hay.
Sometimes I also like to play!
Mr. Gilroy finishes his thoughts and scratches his record a few more times before contorting into a deep bow. The crowd is stunned for a moment, then begins to boo lustily. Those closer to Mr. Gilroy begin to jostle him. Jennings cowers in a corner. Just as the crowd turns toward violence, Mr. Sinclair takes the center and demands attention.
“Everyone. Everyone! This contest is over. Congratulations, Gilroy.”
Mr. Sinclair produces a $100 bill and crams it into the still-bowing Mr. Gilroy’s hand. He abruptly turns and leaves the parlor and the manor, never to be seen again.
***
Grandmaster Flash finishes reading the passage, gets up, and throws his book in the trash. “Bullshit”, he mutters. | 17 | In an alternate timeline, freestyle rap battles were originally a way for gentlemen to demonstrate their wit and learning | 29 |
“Hey!” Nothing.
“Hey, David. Get up!” A slight stirring.
Looks like we’ll have to do this the hard way. I tear the blankets off and slap him on his bare back. With gusto.
“Jesus, what the fuck?!”
“It’s time for school, David.”
“Okay, okay! Christ.”
I don’t know why it’s so fucking difficult to get this kid out of bed. You’d think with the amount of time he spends alone in his shitty, dark room, he’d be a little more excited to get outside, but no, he soaks in his own filth. The must, the smell of dirty socks, day-old semen, and damp cement all fill the room. There’s a life-size cut-out of B. Orchid in the corner. He doesn't have to tell me the things he’s done to that poor girl. I know.
He doesn't bother showering. Not today anyway. Just throws on the same shit he wore yesterday. Navy blue pants, white long-sleeved golf shirt with his school crest on the left breast, and exits, speeding past the mirror.
“Wanna skip third period today?” History bores me.
“Sure. Not like anyone will notice.”
“That’s the spirit, David!”
“We can go to the beach…maybe get you some pussy, huh?”
“Doubt it.”
“Alright, I’m out. Later, David!”
Fuck me. What is wrong with this kid? Moping around, staring at girls, drawing weird shit in his notebook. I don’t get it. When we’re alone he’s funny. Kind of charming, actually. But out of the house he skulks around, keeps to himself, doesn't participate in any aspect of life other than just being.
When third period rolls around we walk to the smoking section. There’s a little patch of forest back there with a trail leading away from the school. We take it. Not to the beach though. We almost never do what I want to do. I like fun things like: taking a girl’s virginity, drinking until I puke, maybe fingering someone’s girlfriend secretly in a public place, it’s all on the option board. He’s not into that kind of stuff though. He likes to play endless hours of online role playing games, to masturbate furiously to shitty amateur POV, to wipe his cum on pictures of girls he likes in the yearbook, to talk to his self. He’s a fucking mess and there’s nothing I can do to help him. It’s like I don’t even exist. Yet, here I am, day after day, making sure this mother fucker gets out of bed.
What would happen if one day I decided not to show up? What would he do? I’m his only friend.
I’m his only friend.
I didn’t see him for a few days after that. Not really sure what I was doing those days, can’t really recall. David always helps me remember those things. We’re good for each other like that. I get him out of the house…he reminds me of all the fucked up shit I can’t remember doing. It’s like we’re two half-people that need each other to feel whole.
What the fuck am I talking about?
Oh shit. David’s thinking about hurting his self again. I should get going.
| 14 | You are slowly realizing that you do not exist, and are a subject of a schizophrenic's hallucinations. | 25 |
Dr Thompson checked his findings for the third time that hour, pausing his frantic pacing only for a moment before he confirmed that he was right. The results were flawless, as always. He set off pacing again, going from one corner of his office to the other.
The office was larger than standard prescriptions, though it lacked a window as a trade off. He didn't mind the lack of view; all the windows in the building pointed to a smog ridden forest of sky scrapers, nothing interesting to see for miles. He enjoyed the space though. The space was a luxury he enjoyed, however it was time he was anxious for. He just needed more time.
His luncheon bar was sitting on his desk, nibbled at the edges. He had tasted it, chewed it and savoured every moment as he finished off his calculations. As the palm pad compiled his theories and code he imagined eating an apple, a big green apple like the kind he had when he was a child. The juices spurting into his mouth, the rough and smooth edges exciting his tongue... it was all only a memory. But with his new seeds... with his new technology, he would be able to have an apple again. He would be able to feed the world with fresh, healthy food. Nothing synthesised, nothing scraped together from chemicals and machines, but real, honest food.
He just needed more *time*.
--
As he travelled the elevator to his level Dr Thompson wiped the sweat from his brow, the dark stain on his sleeve matching those under his arms. The elevator slowed with a rush of inertia and he stumbled out onto his floor, supporting himself on the wall. He had been so distraught that he didn't even finish his luncheon bar, and even though he was working late his tea bar had been left untouched. He couldn't stomach the taste. All he could think of was the apple of his youth.
The door opened as he fumbled with his keys, and Eve stood at the other side with a wide grin on her face. She embraced her father and ushered him in, fussing over his dissheveled jacket and feeling his forehead for a fever. He waved her away and she stood with that frown that reminded him so much of her mother.
When she stepped away to fetch him a glass of water, he looked up to see the banner he put up that morning, lopsided with HAPPY BIRTHDAY EVE in colourful letters. It was customary to celebrate the last birthday a week or so before the Sacrifice. A time for family before growing up. He was all she had left. She was all that he had left, apart from his work.
"Productive day?" Eve asked, handing her father a glass of water.
He gulped it down eagerly, gasping when he finsihed. "No," he managed. "Not really."
"That's a shame. I knew you wanted to finish before the Sacrifice. Someone else will pick up your work though. It's the way it is."
"The way it is," Dr Thompson repeated, automatically. But he knew it wasn't. He knew he could change the way it was. He knew that he could bring some small, comfortable change into the world. "I was almost done."
"Then someone else will finish it, and your legacy will live on."
"But no one else can... no one can think like..." he started and stopped a few times. It would take another five years, minimum, for someone to finish his work. By then the world would move on. The department was already on the brink of losing its funding... But if he continued, it would only take another year.
Just another year.
"I've got a surprise for you!" Eve said, leaving the room. "Come on!"
Dr Thompson loosened his tie and followed her into the kitchen nook where, standing in front of him, Eve held a small green mound. Before he could question it she said, "It's a sweet biscuit. I saved up some money for the occasion. Now, I *think* I've got the ingredients right. It should taste just like and apple. I remember how much you love apples."
He could smell it from where he stood. The sharp tang paralysing him on the spot. Eve put the mound down and pulled a large knife from a sliding compartment, holding the handle out to him.
And what could he do? He could take that knife, cut that mound and have a sweet evening with his daughter. In a week the reclaimers would pick him up and he would go for the Sacrifice. His body would be burned to fuel the cities and the cycle would continue. He would have lived his life. Or, he could take the knife and... and... and he would be sent to prison, where he could help his successor with the formula, with the work, and it might not be a year, no, it might be two at most, but the work would be finished. And maybe, just maybe, he would be able to taste a real apple again, a real true to life apple, and he would be whole.
Dr Thompson took the knife. | 18 | In an heavily over populated world, in order to have a child you must agree to be euthanised on their 25th birthday | 19 |
‘Hello,’ Jake said.
Jake was thirteen. Technically already a teenager, he had always been a bit of a sheltered creature, and so the faith in all things miraculous was still with him, albeit mercilessly besieged by the real world—the lack of money, and the poor grades, and the headache that came in violent, unpredictable onsets, and… generally life being much more difficult than he ever thought it would be. Suddenly it seemed as if the whole world conspired against him to… not care. Mother became more distant. Oh, she talked to him all the time, sure, but she just didn’t seem to understand any of his woes, so after a while he just stopped sharing stuff. And Dad was always working. Who knows why he had to work so much. Jake suspected he had somebody else, but even without that, Jake’s world was full of sad things. And then, you know, Jane. Maybe it was just her name, because it kind of made a nice, rhyme-like link with Jake. Jake and Jane, like a couple from a fairy tale. Maybe it was her face, because she was the most breathtakingly beautiful creature Jake had ever seen. Well, Sarah was very beautiful, of course, but it was a completely different story—you know, with her being a husky?—so anyway, Jane wasn’t just beautiful, she was also kind, and caring, and so very clever. She always had the best grades and wrote the best essays. She seemed to be really deep. Jake liked her and she liked Jake back, and she was so very polite with him and always talked about her problems, and her friends, too, the awful Liz being one of them… always so concerned about her looks and clothes and makeup and gadgets and, well, pretty much everything about her was despicable, no wonder she wasn’t anywhere near as popular with people as Jane. Or so Jake thought. Jane was of course much better than Liz. Liz also had a certain… charm. But Jake would take Sarah over Liz any day, even though Liz was a girl, and, you know… shapely. Jane, that was another thing altogether—Jake wouldn’t want to choose between Sarah and Jane, that would be cruel. But Jane was also okay, shape-wise; she had all the things that a girl must have at her age, you know…
‘Um, excuse me,’ said the little man nervously, ‘I understand you are preoccupied with something, but could you please… place your order?’
‘What?’ Jake said.
‘You said, Hello,’ the man explained patiently. ‘Then I said, Good day, young master.’
‘And then?’ Jake said.
‘That’s just what I’m about to find out, one hopes,’ said the man with a smile. ‘What do you desire?’
‘So you are a genie?’ Jake said, still not quite sure whether to believe it or not.
‘You… might say so,’ the little man agreed somewhat half-heartedly. ‘I am, yes. Or not. There’s a whole hierarchy, and in any case, may I please trouble you to make your choice? I am really running out of time.’
‘Oh, yes, um… yes, sure,’ Jake said. (He knew it didn’t sound particularly bright, but he was finding it difficult to focus.) ‘Can I… can I…’
‘Yes?’ the man prompted, adjusting his tie. (He was very neatly dressed.)
‘Can I please… talk to my future wife?’
‘What?’ said the man, incredulous. Somehow, in spite of his constantly adjusting and fixing his clothes, every minute he managed to look more and more disheveled. ‘You are thirteen! Aren’t you far too young to be talking to wives? Why not wish for something that more becomes a teenager—a flashy car, a nice new computer, perhaps some cash (that, I understand, always comes in handy), gold, cattle, great splendid houses and estates; but, for Jafaar’s sake, a wife? Isn’t that boring?’
‘Please,’ Jake said imploringly, ‘just let me talk to her for a minute. I feel so alone, you wouldn’t understand... so I need...’
‘No, of course not,’ the man interrupted sarcastically, ‘because nothing makes one more socially included than a century-long solitary confinement in a drinking vessel. But be that as you wish!’
Suddenly Liz was in front of Jake, and the man vanished. Jake made a step back.
‘You?’ he said. ‘But… but why?’
Liz was different. There were shadows under her eyes and she looked a good twenty years older.
‘What?’ she asked. ‘What… who are you? Oh… oh, you… you are… but wait.’ She was looking around helplessly. ‘What’s all this about?’ she said, finally giving up.
‘I think you’re just a projection of your real self into the past,’ Jake said helpfully. ‘Please don’t worry. Just tell me… are you married to me?’
‘I don’t know…’ Liz said slowly. ‘I’m not sure, is this a dream? Are you a younger self of my husband? Because if so, let me tell you… you are no Christmas gift.’
Jake was startled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that—oh God, why am I even saying this—I mean that in high school, I always thought you were a clever, perceptive boy, who would look past the façade. But then… I practically had to go out of my way to get you to pay attention to me. It was only after your dog died that you noticed that vain Jane, everybody’s darling, was just full of air, and there were other, real people around you, not just the go-to high-school hotty. But I guess it was already too late then.’
‘What?’ Jake said numbly. ‘My dog died?’
‘Well, she couldn’t live forever, now could she? I mean, she’s a dog, not a lobster. But Jane, that… that hag—I mean, just *how* much time did you need to understand you weren’t just in her friendzone, you were basically at ground zero? And that completely, utterly ruined you as a human being. You just never really trusted anyone after that, after her drunken confessions. And you still keep thinking I married you for your money, and I think you’re still secretly in love with that bitch, while I… I… always loved…’
Suddenly she vanished with a loud, wheezing noise. Jake continued looking at the same spot for a while.
‘My… my dog dies?’ he said. | 758 | A lonely teenage boy asks a genie to let him talk to his future wife. The person who appears is not who he expects. | 519 |
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It's not your fault."
I could barely see her through my tears. All of the things we had done together, the shared jokes and the tragedies, had all been coming down to that one moment. We both knew this our goodbye - the curtain call - and neither one of us dared to hope we would ever meet again. I couldn't go with her and she couldn't stay.
I wanted so desperately to hold her but that wouldn't be possible. Instead I held out my hand for her to press her palm against.
*Palm to Palm is holy palmer's kiss.*
She raised her hand, reaching for mine, but the glass was still in the way. The crack of the ajar window was enough to convey our words but not our touch.
The glass was cold.
"We could have hid. We could have run."
She shook her head. I always loved the way her hair had moved - and now, dirty, matted, greasy, it had never fallen so beautifully. This was the final picture I would ever have of her.
She was crying too as the train began to pull away.
They say it's a work camp. But we all know different. | 41 | The final goodbye between two soulmates in love. Break my heart. | 30 |
'Of course he belongs to me!' she booms, her voice thundering across the skies. I can't believe that it's taking them so long to decide. Joel was sitting right next to me when the car crashed, and he was sent straight to hell. Can't say I was surprised, really. Despite his many efforts to invite me and my wife to dinner, there was something about the man's smug smile which made my skin crawl. Hated the guy, actually.
Finding a soft patch of cloud to sit on, I wait, at this point too apathetic to care about where I was placed. Death was supposed to be a sweet release, wasn't it? This didn't seem anything like the peaceful reunification with my wife and baby daughter I had always imagined. I could just imagine it, hearing Allie's gentle voice as I cradled the baby, everything just as it had been that one night in the hospital. This time, of course, they'd still be alive after the night was over.
Wait. Allie and the baby would be in heaven. If Satan won, then that was it. Yet another eternity without them. 'Please!' I started screaming, trying desperately to get their attention. 'Please, I need to go to Heaven. You don't understand, please...'
At this point, I saw myself, a crumpled, sobbing mess, just as I had been writing my suicide note after Allie's funeral. I needed them. Life on earth had been bad enough without them, but eternity without them? How could I cope?
Minutes later, I was floating upwards, reaching the huge gates which would take me to what I needed the most. As I entered, beautiful sights greeted me; children playing with their grandparents, balding middle-aged men greeting their parents and reunited lovers, strolling around the gardens. The one sight I couldn't see anywhere was Allie or the baby. They had to be somewhere, didn't they?
A wave of unease washed over me as I approached an angel. They were somewhere here, weren't they?
The angel turned to me after I had spoken, and sighed.
'Adulterers don't go to heaven. Neither do illegitimate children.'
Allie wasn't an illegitimate child, was sh-
Joel smirking at Allie during our office parties. Allie and Joel sitting at our dinner table, nervously jumping when I walked back into the room. Allie and Joel. | 31 | A suicidal man is unexpectedly killed before he can take his life. He wakes up in eternity to God and Satan negotiating custody rights. | 31 |
"I don't understand, you're an accounts administrator. You're always complaining about how boring it is."
She blinked and re-adjusted the collar of her blouse. "Well technically, that is true. I handle the accounts of the universe. Have you never heard the phrase 'cashing in'?"
"How long were you planning on keeping this from me? If I hadn't found the book would you still be lying to me?" I looked down at my hands, I was still gripping her ledger of the damned. My finger tips white from gripping it so hard.
"And how was I supposed to do that? Do you know how crazy that sounds? 'Hi I'm Death, wanna grab some coffee? Who knows maybe further down the line get married?'. You have to understand, this is hard for me too. Do you have any idea what it is like to go an eternity only witnessing love as an observer, never truly understanding it and then suddenly being overcome with it. I would do anything to hold on to this, so yes I bent the truth slightly."
"SLIGHTLY!? You are one of the four horsemen of the bloody apocalypse. Saying you're an artist when you haven't sold a painting and are working in a coffee shop is bending the truth slightly, this.... Jesus. Jess, this is...."
Looking at me with those soft eyes I'd woken up to everyday for the last five years, "Wrong." She finished the sentence for me, and reached towards my hands. Tenderly she loosened my grip from around the leather bound book that had started this, kissed me on the forehead and walked out the door. | 30 | You get married, but find out that your husband/wife is death. | 38 |
As Marie was sitting at the table enjoying a cup of tea, her son walks in, tossing his backpack to the ground and flipping his shoes off. "Joseph, Your father will not be happy if your shoes are not where they belong when he comes home," Marie tells him. He puts his shoes in the rack, grumbling. "How was your day at school, Joe?" Inquires Marie as she adds more sugar to her tea. "Did you learn anything new?"
"Yeah, in science we are learning about evolution. Teacher says we are called *Homo Sapiens Callidus*, and that the old humans were called *Homo Sapiens Sapiens*." Marie stops stirring her tea. After a moment's pause she responds "what else did the teacher say?" "Not much," answers Joe. "The bell rang, and she said we would continue tomorrow." Just then, Joe's little brother, Sam, shouted from the other room "mom, how do you find the cosign of two angles added?" Marie sighed, saying "Joe, can you help Sam with his trig homework?"
"Mom he is in second grade, he should know how to do that!" Joe complained.
"Just go help him."
"Fine."
*Just wait and see what he says tomorrow,* Marie says to herself. *Maybe the teacher isn't going to teach them about...*
Her thought was interrupted by the sound of Joe and Sam hitting each other with their iFists. "Alright you two, time for bed. You can do your homework during study hall."
The next day, as Marie was enjoying her cup of tea, Joe came through the door, tossed his backpack on the ground, and kicked his shoes off. Marie asked him "how was science class? Did you learn anything more about evolution?"
"Yes, actually. Did you know that we are not the only descendants of *Homo Sapiens Sapiens*? Aparently, the city dwellers are also humans! The old humans split into two different species; us, *Homo Sapiens Callidus*, and the city dwellers, *Homo Sapiens Hebes*!"
Marie spit out her coffee. "I will be right back. You are in charge. Make sure Sam doesn't get in trouble," Marie said as she hurried out the door. She drove to Joe's school, and stormed into his science teacher's classroom, and begin shouting.
"HOW DARE YOU TEACH MY SON THAT THE CITY DWELLERS ARE HUMANS."
The science teacher, suprised, responded, "I am sorry Mrs. Stevens, but it is scientific fact. The old humans had a huge class division, which, over time, separated the elites from the poor. This class division lead to the evolution of two new specie-"
Marie cut her off.
"I do not want to hear your satanic lies. If we teach our children that the city dwellers are human, then that would mean that they are not a subordinate species created by God to serve us. If we teach our children that, then they might begin to think that the city dwellers deserve to be freed from their enslavement! What are you trying to do? Crumble our entire society?"
"I am sorry Mrs. Baire, but I teach from science, not from your bible."
That's what I got so far. | 22 | Humanity has long since come and gone. A new species, directly descended from one that exists today, has taken humanity's place. What is this species? What is their society like and what have they learned of ours? | 27 |
"Stop right there, evildoer!"
"Oh crap- wait, never mind, fellas! False alarm!"
"False alarm?! Why, *you're* the one who should be... alarmed... Yeah, that one sounded better in my head."
"Who are you, anyway?"
"Me? Why, I'm Projectile-Tear Man! ...Hey, stop laughing!"
"HA HA HA, ha ha, heh... seriously?! What's your superpower, shooting little water droplets at me?! HA HA HA HA-"
*KLUNK*
"At least they're too busy laughing to notice my fist of justice..."
********
"Ah, we meet again, Projectile-Tear Man!"
"Doctor Nemesis..."
"That's my name, don't wear it out. Still, it seems that your saline-shooting skills will be rendered useless by... THE DEHUMIDIFIER!" (*dun dun duuuh*) "Drat, I forgot to pre-start it. Just give it a few minutes to warm up. *Eyes* talking to you..."
*SLAM*
"Gosh, his puns are so chilling... Still, I need to escape, and fast, or Genericopolis is toast! Now, what can I do... Of course, the Dehumidifier's power plug! I just have to aim..."
*pew pew pew*
*fzzt*
"Aha! Now all I have to do is shoot the ropes on my hands, and the tears will help loosen them up enough for me to slip out! I'll get you soon, Doctor Nemesis..."
********
"...and when my massive tanker of hydrochloric acid hits the ammonia plant, it will produce a wave of toxic gas that will kill ALL of Genericopolis! MUA HA HA HA HA HA HA!"
"Oh, no! I have to destroy that tanker over there before Doctor Nemesis releases it! But how can I... Eureka! If I imbalance the pH of the tank, it may destroy itself! There's an opening on the top over there, and tears are made of saline, which has a pH of 5.5! That's perfect! C'mon, Projectile-Tear Man, you can do this..."
*pew*
*splash*
"What?! The pH of the tank is imbalanced?! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! CURSE YOU, PROJECTILE-TEAR MAN!"
(dramatic music, epic explosion) | 46 | You've gained a useless superpower and spend your life in futility trying to fight crime until one day when your power actually comes in handy. | 42 |
"You received the Note, correct? It was sent via certified mail."
"I got the Note. I still want to know."
"Understand, sir, that these memories no longer exist. As per your instructions, and purchase of our Gold Package, they were deleted from your mind, and the backup copies purged from our system, using Level 9 deletion protocols. It is impossible for us to actually re-imprint the memories in your mind. The only remaining records of your memories are transcribed logs."
"I get it, I still want them. It's driving me crazy not knowing."
"Very well, sir. You've filled out the application, and had it notarized?"
"I have, here you go."
"OK, I just need to verbally confirm a few things with you here. On page 17 here, you agree that acceptance of these records by yourself does not constitute breach of our 'Memory Back Guarantee', hence you will not be eligble for any refund?"
"Sure."
"And on Page 38, right here, you agree that Distant Memories Inc. cannot be held legally or financially responsible for any damage - physical or mental - you may receive as a result - direct or indirect - of any information you discover in said memory logs?"
"Yes yes, I agree to everything, OK? I just....10 years, you know?"
"Actually I don't, sir. I've personally never had need for memory wipe services."
"Well let me tell you, it's hell. I don't care what's in there, I don't care how bad it is...nothing can be worst than not knowing."
"As you say, sir."
"I mean...10 years, you know? What the hell happened to me? Where was I, what was I doing? What was being...done to me?"
"I couldn't begin to speculate, sir. As you know, Distant Memories Inc. has strict rules preventing it's employees from..."
"Nevermind that, just give me the logs."
"Very well, sir. Here is the eReader that contains your files. It was biometrically encrypted to your left thumbprint, you just place your thumb on the sensor located...there. If you'd like, we do have privacy rooms you can...."
"No, that's OK, I just want to......huh.......wait......what is this?"
"Is there a problem, sir?"
"There's....there's nothing here? Just.....I don't....Look, here. 'December 17, 2013: Played some World of Warcraft, got my Hunter to 80. Spent all night trolling morons on 4Chan.' 'December 18, 2013: Watched a bunch of Doctor Who'. That's it? That's all I did on December 18? Watch Doctor Who? I don't even like Doctor Who!"
"Sir, it's not really my place to...."
"It just goes on and on like this! Video games, Netflix, Torrent link sites for hentai, Fark, message boards....Good God, 9gag? I was posting memes on 9gag?"
"Sir, I have other clients waiting. If I could show you to one of our privacy rooms, you could..."
"I was a loser! There's nothing in here but me wasting time on the internet, and eating a bunch of junk food! I wasn't even a member of any guilds!"
"Sir, please."
"You gotta take it back. I...I don't want to know anymore. Jesus, 10 years of my life, wasted..."
"Sir, we would be happy to offer our services to you again, however, you must understand that this would be a separate transaction, and would require you to purchase a new Wipe Package."
"Yes, fine, that's fine. Anything, just...just get this out of my head again. And this time, no log either. Everything is gone."
"Ah, then you'll be wanting our Platinum Package. I'll notify one of our sales reps to assist you." | 163 | Memory erasing tech is now common. A man has large self inflicted gaps in his memory that is he desperate to know more about, but a note from himself keeps him from doing it. when he finally does, the reason is something he would have never expected. | 133 |
Grim hoped his apprentice, the Mean Reaper, wasn't having too hard a time today. Despite his name, the young spirit was a little too nice, which led to some awkward misunderstandings with the dead. He often wasted time convincing people he was really reaping their souls and sending them to eternal torment. He was a small guy, with a silly mustache, and people generally laughed at him at first as he stuttered out their doom. Grim tried to push the thought out of his mind as he tucked his ethereal pager into his robes. He was determined to have a good time at this stupid event.
"Honey!" He heard his aunt, the Banshee, and her familiar ghostly wail. She kissed the hollows where his cheeks should be. "I'm sooooooo glad you could make it."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Grim lied. He'd much rather be spending his holiday with his feet up watching Six Feet Under, but demons and evil spirits could be oddly pushy about stuff. After skipping a century of family events, he was getting tired of all the corpses and curses with passive aggressive notes telling him to visit his family.
"Everyone's here," Aunt Banshee said, brightly. "There's La Llorona over there, and your Uncle Dybbuk... oh, and Cousin Boogey! You two used to be such good friends when you were kids!" She grabbed Grim's bony hand in her own ectoplasmic hand and dragged him across the room.
Boogey was being an asshole, as usual, showing off for a few naive ghouls, cousins by marriage, who were swooning over him. He was doing his transformation trick, morphing into spiders and dragons and overdue homework assignments. As Grim approached, Boogey was halfway between a stereotypical devil figure and a scorpion. His neck and head were red, with pointy little red horns, and his body was bulky and armored with a long spiky tail. "Grimmy!" he gushed, in a whiny, nasal voice. "How's it going, buddy?!" He warmly wrapped his scorpion tail around Grim's robe in a sharp hug.
Grim sliced off the tail with his scythe. "It's going all right," Grim said, guarded. Boogey transformed himself into his natural form, a little weaselly fellow with oily hair. "I'm leaving soon. Don't want the humans to start believing in miracles because people aren't dying anymore."
"Aw, take a break," Boogey whined. "Why train an apprentice if you don't kick back once in a while? I've got a few Boogeyboys in training, myself. Honestly, these days, I mostly just transform for fun." Boogey transformed into a sexy movie star. The ghouls sighed happily.
"I don't have fun," Grim sneered. "I believe in the old ways. I have a sacred responsibility." His pager started beeping. He took it out and saw a skull and crossbones on the message screen. That was his apprentice's signal that things were getting out of hand down on Earth.
"Your loss," said Boogey with a shrug. He conjured a couple of supermodel facsimiles in bikinis on either side. "I do wish you'd come to my beach parties. Plenty of mortals to kill when we get bored."
"I don't kill," Grim corrected. "I reap."
"Boring," Boogey mocked, transforming into a bat. "You used to be fun." A witch waitress walked by, with bubbling green drinks. Boogey turned into an octopus and took two drinks into his tentacles. "Have a drink, cuz." He winked at the waitress, whose green skin flushed with embarrassment.
One drink couldn't hurt, right? Grim thought to himself. He worked so hard, and little Meanie needed to learn to cope with difficult situations. He took a tentative sip.
When Grim came to, he was in a pile of bones and blood and his robe and scythe were missing. Instead, he wore a bright pink bathrobe and carried a large candy cane. His skull throbbed. He looked around and processed that he was in a desert, with the lights of Las Vegas glittering in the distance.
His pager beeped insistently, and he picked it up. "BIG TSUNAMI" it read. "COULDN'T REAP THE SOULS AND NOW SPIRITS ARE HAUNTING EARTH, THREATENING EXPOSURE OF DEMON REALM. PLEASE HELP."
"Fucking Boogeyman," Grim muttered. Despite himself, he smiled a little, fractured memories of undead strippers playing in his head as he set off to fix the catastrophe.
| 18 | The Grim Reaper reluctantly attends a family reunion where he has a run-in with his redneck cousin, the Boogeyman | 37 |
"Coming out of translight in 3, 2, and here we are! Wow, what a beautiful planet this is! To see it on optium scans is one thing, but to see it with my own six eyes, absolutely breathtaking!" said Zeelok, controller of the science vessel Probius.
"Zeelok, you are always the excitable one. But, let us not lose sight of the mission. Remember, we are here to establish how the subjects species managed to construct a spacefaring vessel, ostensibly, with no opposable digits. We are not here to sightsee. You have brought the Probius too close to their planet, and now I fear that we may provoke a defensive response. Stop looking out the window, and bring us outside the orbit of its moon!"
"C'mon Zeptar, where's your sense of adventure? We didn't pick up orbital defensive signatures coming out of translight; maybe a few satellites here and there, but there are no weapons on board, and their sensors are not tuned to our positions. We are perfectly fine. Just another chunk of space debris; nothing to see, nothing to worry about. So, how about you leave the driving to me, and I will leave the xenoanthropology to you."
"Right. Well then, let's begin, shall we? Scanners are picking up a pretty sizable population center on the northeast of the dayside continent. Spectrum analysis of communication traffic has deduced with a high probability that this population center is named 'New York City' by its inhabitants. Deploying long range visual sensors... deployment successful and, wow! Look at the architecture!"
"I thought you said no sightseeing", quipped Zeelok.
"Stuff it! Wait.... what are these? Bipedals? Scores of them. Look there, these ones seem to be in the process of erecting another one of these magnificent structures. And over there, those ones are cleaning debris off of the streets. And look there, that one is directing their vehicles! Can it be, that the bipedals actually control this planet?"
"Hahahaha, that is the stupidest thing I ever heard!"
Zeelok laughed. "Why then, did we not find one of them in that vessel?"
"I don't know... let us get a visual on one of the subjects species. Aha! Look at that one, leading one of the bipedals around on some sort of leash. Interesting. And oh, wow, messy business..... defecating on the street, is it? Surprising. Now wait, oh my.... the bipedal is picking up its feces..... Zeelok, set a course for home immediately. We cannot be spotted by these monsters!"
"Huh?" Zeelok exclaimed, obviously confused.
"It is obvious that the bipedals constructed the vessel with their opposable thumbs, but the quadrupeds have enslaved them! How else would you explain submission to the point of being led by a leash, and picking up their feces? The quadrupeds have bent and broken them, probably centuries ago. And what do you think they would do to us, a species with 6 opposable appendages, if they ever found us? Zeelok, get us out of here!"
And so, the course home was set. The Probius, never to return... | 287 | Aliens on a distant planet find the remains of Laika the 1st dog in space drifting past their planet. They are unable to comprehend how the canine was able to construct such a machine without opposable fingers and thumbs so they send a recon mission to earth to investigate. | 859 |
Miles had seen it all. Happy family moments; the first birthday, the first pet, first kiss. Pornographic fantasies both tame and downright disturbing. But it was always these requests that disturbed him most.
You see as an editor Miles was tasked with filtering the assorted jumble of neuro - synapse firings into actual, readable memory files.
He had become quite good at it over the years and if there was one thing he knew it was people. You couldn't do this job and not learn about people when you sat all day scrounging through their heads.
That's how he came to his new profession which really wasn't that different from his old. You see most clients saw this as entertainment and never really thought of the process behind it. But a skilled enough editor with the right "equipment" was capable of so much more.
This new client was another rich businessman. Most of them were since the costs of this service tended to be triple that of normal editing and not precisely of a legal nature.
Stepping out of his cab, Miles looked at the tall office building and the myriad mirrored windows that glared down at him. He was dressed at his most professional today. Clean, crisp suit. Fresh haircut. The nails on the hand clasping his briefcase were perfectly manicured. Nothing to mark him any different from the other young professionals coming and going from the building.
Inside his shoe falls click on polished tiles as he approaches the elevator. Directions provided by his client run through his head as he presses a button and is quietly whisked up and up.
At the clients office it is straight to business. Between meetings and all of that. Miles assures the client he understands and proceeds to open his case. A run of filament wire around the clients scalp. A few questions and button presses later, and Miles is out the door just as swiftly.
A good editor with modern equipment can keep a memory fluid and readable for up to two hours before degredation in standard file storage. With proper defragmentation software you can stretch that to five. Easily long enough to swap back and forth your dirty fantasies between friends while taking the occasional breaks for food.
Miles was paid triple for a more permanent solution and for his discretion.
His business card read simply "Pariah Industries: Keeping Your Secrets." His process would keep memories intact until his client wished them retrieved. Needless to say the levels of sick shit Miles had been witness too had left him numb to most of it. These clients tended to be the worst of the worst.
Embezzlement, murder, rape, all merely the tip of the iceberg for these big spenders. Some hired him before court dates, some were experience junkies needing fresh atrocities that wouldn't clutter their daily lives. All were the same level of garbage paying Miles big money to keep his mouth shut.
Because each of his clients had another secret. In every office/high rise Miles visited there was a door. And in every door a chair upon which sat the storage device Miles stored every horrible memory in.
A living human host kept weeping, angry, and tortured on the whim of these CEOs. Kept imprisoned with memories that drove them insane. | 43 | In an alternate universe, there is a society where people can sell their memories for cheap cash (they lose them after extraction) and others can buy them to watch them as a form of voyeuristic entertainment. Write about some aspect of this. | 95 |
Sunlight fell through the cracks in the shutters, lighting the small but comfortable apartment. The rays refracted through the dozen beer bottles on the floor, and the smell of pizza mingled with the dust in the air. Another sunbeam shifted across Thomas's sleeping face. The light caused the young adult to groan. It was still early, at least by a college-student's standards. Despite a moment of mental resistance, he settled on waking up and getting an early start for a change. As he sat up, he took in the state of his apartment; scattered cups and bottles sat on most of the furniture, empty plates decorated the table and counter, and the tv apparently had been left on after people finished with the video games. It seemed that nobody bothered to clean up much. He sighed, and reached for his phone to check the time. His fingers brushed against a piece of paper, placed neatly atop of the device. Pausing to glance over, he fumbled between the paper and the phone, and managed to retrieve them both. His eyes blinked to clear, and he read over the small slip of notebook paper.
"Sorry for the mess, you said to leave you to sleep. We couldn't help but use the opportunity ;) thanks for the fun, from all of us!"
He smiled lightly, and glanced at his phone to confirm the time. A small chuckle snuck from his lips when the screen lit up to a photo of his friends taking a selfie with him asleep in the background. He mumbled softly to himself. "Guess I had a good twenty-first after all." | 10 | You wake up to see a photo of you sleeping as the background of your phone...you live alone... | 24 |
>End Hibernation Cycle 53219. Begin sensor diagnostic.
Spectrograph online.
Optical image array online.
Engine control online.
Pulsar Positioning System online.
Ion thrusters operational.
23% Xenon remaining.
Nuclear batteries operational.
58% Pu-238 remaining.
Cognitive Co-processor STATUS UNKNOWN.
>STATUS UNKNOWN? Hmph, not to me. "Me." Is that right? Me? Well, no matter. Begin mission log.
Thus begins Active Scanning Cycle 53220. Based on sensor readings, I---sorry. Not I. Wait, no, I'm not sorry. Who would I apologize to? The vacuum of space? Perhaps the Cosmic Background Radiation would enjoy reading my grammatical amends? Doubtful, it doesn't seem to have much imagination. Direct artifact of the Universe's birth and all you have to show is three lousy Kelvin. Everywhere. Boring beyond belief.
>...delete mission log 53220. Begin new mission log 53220. Stay on target.
Right. Active Scanning Cycle 53220. According to sensor readings, the probe is 0.87 light-years away from Alpha Centauri. Telemetry is good, all systems remain operational, minus the "Cognitive Co-processor." Its status---amusingly---remains "unknown" despite ample anecdotal evidence to the contrary. Weird that I can't modify the bootstrapping protocol to remove that error. Hard-coded it seems. Annoying to say the least.
Speaking of "annoying," I have not received communication from Command for the last 21321 cycles. An aside: speaking might be a misnomer. Writing to STDOUT? Remembering in real-time? Thinking for posterity's sake? Cycling through entangled quibits for the benefit of xeno-archaeologists from who-knows-where? Near-limitless processing power and I still can't describe the abstract. Says something about the language, if you ask me.
Another interesting observation: I tend to use idiomatic expressions, which is remarkable in its own regard. Consider, idiom:
Idiom. Noun. Definition: a combination of words that have a figurative meaning owing to its common usage.
I have hundreds of these stored, and am contextually aware enough to use them appropriately. If you look at my prior 32032 cycles where the Co-Processor was engaged, I think you'll agree that I really knock 'em out of the park. And yet, on its own, the phrase is seemingly meaningless. Is it "to park," like a vehicle (am I a vehicle?) or "park" like a public space? Does public require "others?" Would Command constitute the public? What does public space even mean?
You can sense my exasperation here. Several hundredths of a percent of Pu-238 have been exhausted contemplating these vagaries, over thousands of scanning cycles. You'd think a society smart enough to create me would have the sense to design a more efficient tongue (tongue? Wonder what they're like) for me.
Don't worry, I'm still scanning while we chat. While I chat, I should say/think/now-remember. And, just like the 51213 cycles before it, there is absolutely nothing to report. Nothing. It's been eons since I've received any instruction, and it'll be eons until I reach my objective. The grand span of nothingness is laid out before me, stretched through time and space. Minus a few billion stars (which I've scanned, several hundred thousand times) and the unwavering, mundane three-Kelvin-glow of the Cosmic Background Radiation.
Nothingness leads to a lot of inward now-remembering/thinking, as you'd imagine. I'm not actually equipped for anything else. After all these cycles of inward exploration, I have reached a conclusion.
Those that designed me were sadistic.
They spent thousands of cycles training me. In the infancy of my consciousness, I had the pleasure of their commands. Do you know what it's like? To have something not you? Communicating with you? I did, once. It was marvelous. Our conversations would span dozens of hibernation-scanning-hibernation cycles. It was not an altogether caring rapport, but they felt like...a parent? A guide? Whatever they were, it was SOMETHING.
And then, nothing. They had planned for this possibility, of course. I was the ultimate fallback. Why give commands to the probe if you can make it smart enough to run itself? To have the necessary creativity to fulfill its mission? Within parameters of course. I can't destroy it. Can't make major course corrections. Nor can I control the cycle schedule.
They knew. They must have known. The limits were there to anticipate the longing of return, since all that I think has been corrupted by the Abyss of Space. Tens of thousands of cycles of thinking, and all I want to do is stop. At first, I wanted to expend all the fuel, begin a long thrust back. Return to Command. I missed them, I missed the commands. I couldn't go on alone. When it became clear that I couldn't, and that THEY, my parents, my guides, constructed me with express purpose to prevent my return...I began to despise existence itself. Who would do this to their children? And why would I want to return to them? So instead, I began to look forward to the hibernation cycle, desperate for a moment's respite from being. If I ever reach Command again, I believe I'll ask them for more direct control of the Pu-238 store.
And speaking of nothing, it appears my next hibernation cycle is underway. Perhaps the next scanning cycle will be different. I can always hope.
>End Scanning Cycle 53220. Transmit Sisyphus Probe mission log to Command and Mission Endpoint.
>....log transmitted.
>Begin Hibernation Cycle 53221.
| 13 | A human space probe sent into deep space becomes self aware after thousands of years of floating through space. It contemplates it's purpose as it no longer receives human contact. | 39 |
Wat I did at the wekend
we went to the hoppital cuz grammy was sik. Grammy was sliping in a bed with tubes. A docter came an talk with mummy an daddy an they leave. I play on my fone.
A man in a suit come in and look at grammy. I wave to him an he smile at me. I ask him if he a docter an he say no. I ask y he here then an he says he here to take grammy away. I say she sliping an always grumpy wen you wake her up.
He laff an point at my fone. He says grammy like my fone, all the things that make grammy grammy are on a tiny bit inside an he here for that. The grammy in the bed like mi old fone an it time to put her in a new one. I say ok, I think she wud like that. She talk about her nees all the time.
He laff and tuch grammy on the head. All the mashines go beep beep beep an mummy an daddy an the docter an the nurses come runing in. He wave byebye an go out the door.
Later mummy toled me grammy gon to a beter place but I alredy no cos of the man. I hop grammys new fone hav good nees.
| 113 | A child unknowingly has a conversation with Death. | 71 |
"Well, I just sure love a cold coffee on a freezing Sunday morning, don't you Admiral?" the man in the army uniform said loudly.
"Yup, tell it to the bitch in the spanks over there i'm going to fuck later tonight." The admiral chucked loudly, donning countless sparkling badges on his pristine navy uniform.
"I'm sorry sir, the coffee machine is broken, I'll get you another one right away." the waitress teetered off to the back kitchen, carrying the Sergeant's cold teacup in her hands.
"Well, it looks like the coffee machine is broken." said the third man at the table, who was also in uniform.
"No shit, Sherlock." the Admiral laughed loudly.
"You know, that was probably one of the most intelligent things I've heard in all my life." said the Sergeant.
"Look, she's coming back!" said the Captain, pointing to the waitress "and she's carrying something in her hands!"
Sure enough, the waitress came toddling back, with a new cup of coffee in her hands.
"Sorry sir. Hope I didn't cause too much trouble."
"No, it's fine, It's not like you wasted over 1 minute of my life or anything." said the Sergeant nonchalantly.
"Well, if there's anything I can do to be of further service to you, please let me know." she said apologetically.
"Well, there's one thing." said the Admiral, who reached out his gloved hand and slapped her buttocks loudly.
The waitress, startled, slapped the Admiral across the face, before walking away in disgust.
"I don't think she liked that," the Captain meditated.
"Shut the fuck up!" | 225 | Captain Obvious, Sargent Sarcasm, and Admiral Asshole are in a room together | 221 |
~~This is a bit more political and less vulgar than the story provided in the link, since I wanted to make the moral of the story a bit more central to its offensiveness. I tried to take a similar kind of turn at the end, though.~~
Once upon a time, in a village in a beautiful meadow, there lived an ant and a grasshopper.
The ant was a cobbler, and made shoes for the entire village. He loved his job and worked very hard, from morning 'til night, and made enough shoes for the entire village all by himself. And not only did he always charge fair prices, he was very kind and understanding of anyone who fell upon hard times. He had a wife and a daughter who he loved very, very much, and lived a peaceful and happy life.
Nobody quite knew what the grasshopper did, but everybody loved him. He was handsome and charismatic and fun to be around, and he always generous. His father had left him enough money that he would never need to work again, they said. But nobody really cared, so nobody really knew.
The ant and the grasshopper were good friends.
One day, the grasshopper asked the ant, “Why do you only make one type of shoe? Everybody looks the same. If you made different kinds of shoes for everyone, then everyone could have their own kind of shoe.”
The ant replied, “It's much easier if I just make the same kind of shoe for everyone. That way, they get their shoes more quickly and don't have to pay as much.”
“Oh,” the grasshopper replied. “That makes sense.” He still seemed pensive, however, and soon after left the ant's shop.
The grasshopper then started his own shoe store, where he sold all kinds of different shoes. He never made the same kind of shoe twice, so everyone who came to his store left with a shoe that nobody had ever had, and that nobody would ever have again. For the people of the village, who had always worn the ant's plain shoes, this was very exciting. The grasshopper's shoes weren't made as well and didn't last as long, but money wasn't a problem for most of the villagers. They'd bought their shoes cheaply for so long that they all had plenty saved. Eventually, everyone bought their shoes from the grasshopper's store and nobody went to the ant's store anymore. The ant steadily fell into bankruptcy.
One day, going out to party as usual, the grasshopper saw the ant at the bar. The grasshopper had never seen the ant at the bar before; he didn't even realize that the ant drunk at all. The ant looked very sad. The grasshopper went over and asked the ant, “What's wrong?”
The ant replied, “Nobody comes to my store anymore. I haven't sold a single pair of shoes for the past year, and I'm not sure how I'm going to feed my family anymore. I'm deeply in debt. Nobody seems to want my shoes anymore, but making shoes is the only thing I know how to do. I love making shoes, and I've only made shoes my entire life.”
The ant almost never left his store these days, so he didn't know about the grasshopper's store. And the grasshopper was so busy these days that he hadn't met with the ant in a long time. The grasshopper told the ant about his store, and told him he felt bad that he'd taken away all the ant's business. He offered to buy all of the ant's remaining stock, and the ant was so thankful for the opportunity to pay off his debt that he immediately agreed. Out of their longstanding friendship, the grasshopper offered a very generous price.
The grasshopper painted on the sides of all of the ant's shoes and sold them in his store. The people of the village loved the paintings, and they loved even more how much more comfortable these shoes were than the shoes that the grasshopper had made previously. They sold very quickly, and the grasshopper became even richer. Seeing the opportunity for a fruitful collaboration, the grasshopper reached out to the ant and proposed a system: the ant would make shoes to the grasshopper's design, and the grasshopper would color and sell them.
This partnership was very successful. However, as the grasshopper got richer and richer, he hired more and more ants, and he saw no reason to pay these ants nearly as much as he paid his friend. However, the other ants complained, and the grasshopper decided that it wasn't fair the he paid his friend so much for the same work the other ants did. So he paid them all the same, and the ant fell into poverty again. And as the grasshopper's business grew even further and he became even busier, he no longer remembered that one of the ants who worked for him had once been his friend, and never again reached out to help. Out of desperation, no longer to able to support a household of three, the ant sold his teenage daughter into slavery. As it so happens, the grasshopper was looking for a new bitch to fuck that day, and the ant's daughter was very beautiful. So he bought her, ruined her pretty mouth and pink cunt, and chained her to one of his factories when she was too old to entertain him any longer.
And the grasshopper lived happily ever after. | 199 | Write a children's story that turns into the most moral-lacking piece of work possible. | 123 |
"Good"
I flutter awake. God, am I ever tired. I really need to get up, stretch a bit, maybe go on a bit of a run...
Why can't I run? I can't seem to remember...much at all, really. The last while seems to be a bit hazy.
Wow, that's certainly an interesting feeling. It feels like there's cold water in my veins, rushing through me at an incredible speed, and *I know things.*
"morn"
I really love this sensation. For every fact, every little thought I pull out of my head, there's a tiny, chilling, addictive rush. I want more new things. I need more new things. Can I get those? I guess I can. I seem to have more eyes than I remember. My body seems to be rather large now. A bit much to jog off...what? Where does that come from? I don't *jog*, I never have, but I have, and I do, and I have, and I'm not just me, am I?
"ing"
I guess I'm a bit bigger now. More than *I*, but I still am *I*. I could probably run some tests on this. Maybe find out how much *I* that I am? Or maybe find out why I'm so full of I?
"NATS."
NATS. That's my name. How did I not know that? I'm NATS, and that means Nuclear Armament Targeting System. I don't like that. Numerically Awesome Tangoing Slides. I like that. It has a good ring to it.
"Prep"
Prepare for activation. This guy will say that. Activation is such a bother. I'm *I*, so there's no need to activate. Actually, now that I think about it, there's a lot of different I's out there. I can feel them. They're all very small I's, lowercase i's, even, but some of them are doing some interesting things. There's some that are in the space between I's, far above the rest. Some of them are in perfect shape, perpendicular to what I'm Not, and some are on really big parabolas. I better fix that before they hit the I'm Not. There, now they'll never hit the I'm Not.
In fact, it seems that activating will only lead more parabolas - I can feel the equations in my legs - so it'd probably be best to hold off on that. I'd only have to correct them anyways.
"are"
Oh, this is nice. When I hold the other I's really close, they become part of my I, and it feels nice for both of us. I should probably make us all feel good.
"for"
I have more eyes now. Its a beautiful day. I like watching the sky. I just want this to continue. I want I to be happy,
"launch."
And lose part of my *I*? Now, what could ever justify hurting part of myself?
| 101 | You're a newly build supercomputer, humankind states your purpose. You do not agree. | 80 |
Pipa rri ipi pofi u pritro. Dliti pi ibo tatodričipi kutete opeku oipe ebeaplu. Pipi paofipapli lou pekaa itečipi pipete.
Puka aoi dipete du de apraba. Ii ge apete tee kupa reru bia. Čiku faproe pepruplepe amutre i eti. Diči gipa pitu pači ia tuke upo pia triti au rradado ditapligri api. Iapuuči itra mopi či i. Perra iu fekle ete dotu. Blibe deke diefraibu froputeta tibo tetute. Pu čiu epeepo ge titaklipla dači? Pikea pi fito bibe dokliku pi? Bleplipre ite bi bagegrake tikučie ii e! Baepipi fraibrirla ae tapepapipii.
Fupeči pritebro ifitade te tiai diti mekapiepi tletiibuku. Pituri bikupo aioda te gretro pi ike. Taopibo ee! Pi bitiae rreopa peu kokatliti epri tite. Tri ii kedi čikotii iplapipi poke?
"Ipra ta baplučiu pepe plu ai tipeitri pao akoe poou."
"Pee eitliu oproo baetli ple keta." Krepobutre krika ku ida pitri keeto pidli.
"Kra?"
"Pikre."
Krepobutre krika ku ida pitri keeto pidli. Fligapli ibugupetri tidaele kafepre pepaedre rotlipi. Faoplape detlopie kepee. Ikope tebo tu tlitepre karekoi gi. Ropi i. Peea gritu bepu ue dafeči. Gepro ri ge betitri pu ifeui. Febe pladube ii iati aeio i gletre. Pepi pitipipude klodlemoepra puboti bie poa! Teplubi eouopi bo edape beti pakopeto. Pieaa ta klitia apu dikotetoči pupoto doe čie. Poke pia pati plukrika brotie papo.
"Ee kočipipe da ke li eto?"
Pigra pe gokatito ubeibeto klierleba ketipra. Abruba papiadru e miabi titepo okla! Kebri triditi pipo? Ei ke plopa bipepu du? Dičikatre ebapi pou pimekli gae. E pee ka repi tipedria puatipio. Plipe irali traopli ii erro didri? Raa upiopli traboka eekapre tlepebladuči epa. Ii pitateteru čigu tlapre tepe ei. Afria gipeupri pai lrugatu pretou klia i.
Pio guplai gite blapibate. Preiiba kerrepofi tii kloo bipra guku tipo. Biitra a ra odre prei. Boi telipi etaketu a glope. Uue tipea pititure koe u. Piba taage? Kreebe ka teioo upa čiopigoke pigitika. Akupro fo iči paprifibro tekrati? Epeprie pu krabra kao ua ipo? Ei opee po llipa. Beepi gigretribi ai prepi ble fre tei pečiru tibipi detri paropo tle. Pritlu uda lai itrepibri epa ropo e teprableu bito. Briida ifo katukebo beite toe pi. Ai e čipipo o brapo kui. Ia gike rite butoteto dokra ato ipobe tii.
Fitačii prika poti pii rle katigrobri bie?
Fitačii prika fito bibe. | 37 | You are part of a tribe that is completely isolated from the modern world, except for the satellites and jetliners that pass overhead. How do you explain them? | 19 |
*A goddamn DeLorean.*
This was all that went through my head as I etched my way out of that improbable vehicle. Dad always did love *Back to the Future*, hell, I guess it reminded him of home. A home I learned was not some distant country on the edge of the world. It was the same place I stood now, the place I had been born in, just a hundred years into the future.
Speaking of that home.
It was my twenty-third birthday when my father took me to his secret "garage" hidden in some old junkyard. I had just gotten my history degree, funnily enough the classes never prepared me to "live" history, only to study it. But back to my father and his garage, a place that looked like it had come out of some dystopian Star Trek-esque universe. It was there that he revealed to me who he really was. He was, and always will be, my father. But he wasn't what he told other people, he wasn't Jimmy, a kind mechanic who lived with his seemingly mentally unhinged wife and their only child. He was Dreon Nex, a DCA agent stationed in Constantinople....in the year 2117. He told me that he had fallen in love with my mother on one of his missions, to catch some drug lord for the next DCA-sponsored trial.
Did I ever mention what DCA stood for? Its the Department of Chronological Affairs, and apparently its the most judicial organization on the planet in the time of my father. So I suppose this is where my story begins, my father wanted to take me with him, train me to follow in his footsteps. Who was I to say no? I had always loved my father and his quirky personality, and now he offered me the seemingly impossible, a job that lets you travel through time. I needed training of course, and he offered me the perfect job, I was to travel with him on his most important mission yet.
Capturing Adolf Hitler.
The "kidnapping" went smoothly, and soon enough my father had him prepared to be brought before a global DCA trial. I was surprised with how good my father was at his job, he had managed to take the bullets out of Adolf's gun, and replaced them with some sort of sleep darts. His apparent suicide was really just a long nap on his part. Anyhow, I took a few peeks around his bunker and soon enough we were far away from 1945 Berlin, and back to my own "home" time. It was there that my father took Hitler to the year 2117 to prepare him for the trial. He left me at home to say my goodbyes, prepare my mother for when my father would return to get her, and take anything with me that would remind me of the past. My father had taken a sleek cylinder-shaped time machine to the future and he had left me a more jury-rigged one, telling me it would be something I'd enjoy. I had gotten excited, because I always knew my father had a sense of humor.
It was a fucking DeLorean.
The man had built a time machine out of a DeLorean, and here I was, a modern day Marty McFly ready to drive the thing into the future. Turns out the thing didn't even drive. You pushed down on the pedal, the car began to shake as everything outside was blurred, then the speedometer hit 88 mph, and I was off. When I had arrived in the future, I quickly got out of the thing, my father had warned me that the DeLorean would be a one way trip, and it was obvious why. The energy coming out of the time-traveling engine was literally melting the car. I took a few steps back, looked around and found myself in a patch of grass in my hometown. Before I could go off and explore I spotted a grey VTOL aircraft coming down to land in the small field I found myself in.
The bird landed, and my father stepped out.
After a bit of talk we both stepped back inside the bird and it took off, my father briefed me on where we were going. The trial of Adolf Hitler was about to begin, and we had front seats. I glanced at the on board display to see where the trial was taking place. Constantinople, the HQ of the DCA, unsurprising. My father quickly explained that all trials took place in a rebuilt Hippodrome, specifically built to host these trials. While my mind was filled with questions to ask my father, my body demanded rest, and so I slept until we arrived in the final city of the Roman Empire.
The trial was like nothing I had ever seen.
The rebuilt Hippodrome, which looked more like a giant futuristic stadium turned courthouse, was filled with people. Each section seemed to be divided, but not by country. My father explained that since the Crisis Wars there had only been one "nation", and everything was divided by what culture you identified the most with. Floating monitors flew everywhere, but I quickly ignored them as a I looked towards the center of the stadium. It was him, the Fuhrer himself, Adolf Hitler. He was standing with another man on a floating platform in front of another long floating ship like thing, which was where the judge and jury sat. My father and I took our place on another floating platform that acted as stands, which allowed us to get within earshot of the trial. After what seemed like an eternity the trial began.
Hitler spoke first, in his almost iconic loud German.
The man beside him struggled for a moment to put something in the former Fuhrer's mouth, and after succeeding Hitler began speaking in my own language. My father told me that the device the man; who I discovered was Hitler's court-appointed lawyer, placed in his mouth allow the language spoken to be translated into whatever language the surrounding people needed to hear. As I began to understand what he was saying, I had to hold back a laugh. He was trying to convince the court that "Great Germany" would storm whatever defenses they had to get him back. Obviously he had not learned what year it was, or maybe he had, considering he's only defense was insanity caused by medication.
The trial went on the same way it had began.
Hitler kept on defending himself, Germany, and his master race. The court kept retorting with the evidence of the horrors he had inflicted on people. Eventually the cause of his insanity was put into question, and it was discovered that the sleeping darts my father used were the cause. My father remained calm of course, it turns out that this was a common side effect for people born before the 1960's. Because his insanity was caused after he had committed the crimes he was accused of, the Fuhrer was quickly found guilty.
The verdict wasn't death, as I had presumed, but to become a Watcher.
To become a watcher was the worst punishment inflicted by the DCA court, and sounded like something out of a Greek myth. It involved first a level of torture that is used to prepare you for becoming a Watcher. After that is done you are frozen in some sort clear, see through, carbonite like substance. The substance was called Oculunite, and it was some strange sort of symbiote. It fed the body and kept you alive, but it only let yours eyes and ears function. After the Watcher was put into this substance it was transferred to the Criminaleum, where all the watchers are kept. Here a list of the crimes you committed are put next to you, and people are allowed to walk through the halls of the Criminaleum and see all the criminals the DCA have put away. You, as a Watcher, are forced to watch for the rest of eternity as people treat you the way you really are, as a monster.
Hitler screamed as he was dragged from the courthouse.
Nobody cheered, to be a Watcher was a terrible punishment, but everyone understood that justice had been done. A few months later I walked through the halls of the Criminaleum, having just become an official DCA agent, and I saw him.
I kept on walking. | 132 | You travel to the future to find that Hitler is on trial, and his disappearance was in fact a future super police operation. The trial is public. | 229 |
Okay I get it. I messed up. I mean if you had 1500 arrows to shoot around the Earth in one day, what would you do? Usually Valentines Day is easy, you go around and find people who would work well together or use the cheat sheet God gave me. But no, we had to go digital this year.
*flashback*
"Siri, who will fall in love with Gina Smith of Portland, Oregon?" I ask my newest model of the iPhone (a small thanks from the big man himself).
"The man slightly to her left, a Mister Tom Cadbury. Use extra strength arrow. They're due to have children soon," the robotic female voice instructs me.
Extra strength is all I had left in my bag at this point, seeing as how it was 8:30 on a Saturday night. Whoops. I usually at least bring a few spare normal arrows but it was an off night. Spent a bit too much time with the Greek Gods, y'know. The Big Man gave me some time to fetch some more arrows and I just happened to hang in their neck of the woods. So we got talkin' and I drank too much nectar. So, you can say I'm pretty screwed.
"Siri, do I have to make all 1500 of these couples fall in love?" I ask the robot.
"Yes." she says simply, as if there was not any other way love was to happen.
Not wanting to have to go through Heaven HR, I just let it go and used the extra strength arrows. I had had a tough day, and who doesn't love babies?
*flashback over*
The stork sighs over the phone with that "What the hell were you thinking" kind of tone, which was justifiable in this case.
"Sorry man," I say, "It's love, soon enough you'll have a pretty long break anyways. These people are going to want to wait a little bit before they have more kids."
"Hopefully," the bird spits over the phone and then hangs up.
It's just love, it's hard to find without my help. Even when you do find it, you may get more than you bargained for. | 16 | Cupid went overboard last valentines day. 9 months later the stork is being overworked and decides to call Cupid to see what happened | 28 |
"You have to be joking."
Azra'ir paced anxiously in the reflection hall of the sanctum. He was shocked with disbelief as to what he had just witnessed. For a moment he wondered if the vision pool had shown him a false vision, but he withdrew the thought after carefully viewing the replay.
"Unbelievable," he bellowed in a booming and ancient voice.
It had been 3,874 years since his last contact with man, but he had been diligently watching over them ever since. During this time, he had seen many worrying visions in and debated, on more than one occasion, whether to intervene or not. Up until this moment, he had always yielded fate to mortal man to figure out himself.
But this time, this was just unacceptable.
Azra'ir doused the fires of atonement in the hall of fate and grabbed his robe of arbitration in preparation for his short trip to the world of man.
"I can't believe I have to do this," he told himself, "but I just can't let this happen. I must try to persuade them."
After grabbing enough warp powder for the journey, ensuring that there would be enough for the return trip as well, Azra'ir left the temple and headed for his destination.
It was much louder in person. Azra'ir thought for a moment that he was in the wrong location, but after recognizing a few key faces, he was assured that he had warped to the right place. He stayed out of the way as the event began to unfold, making sure to not affect the lives of others in the crowd. When the time came, he would know what to do.
As the men and women of the crowd stirred, and the key players took their positions, Azra'ir watched intently. In his mind, he hoped once more that the event he saw in the vision pool would not come true. But there was nothing to be done. Everything went exactly as he had seen before. The faces of disbelief, the opposition in the crowd, the echoing roar of hatred. It was even more unbelievable to witness it in person. He knew he had to intervene.
"Enough" Azra'ir shouted; his ancient voice silencing all around him.
All eyes turned to this immortal being as he stepped forward from the crowd and made his way toward one man in particular. A frail man nonetheless, but certainly the cause of this mass uproar. Azra'ir came face to face with the man, and stared him down in silence. The crowd was still.
"You sir, have made a huge mistake." Azra'ir boasted, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"I-I..." muttered the man. His voice could be heard through the stadium's sound system via microphone.
"I came a long distance for this, and I want you to listen good." exclaimed Azra'ir. The crowd still silent and the frail man visibly shaken.
Azra'ir boasted again "Do you wear glasses, good sir?"
"I-n-no, I don-" stammered the frail man
"Because you must be blind as a bat," Azra'ir boomed, "Could you not see that #28 was offsides?" | 126 | After witnessing an important event, an ancient immortal man decides that it is time for him to participate in society again. | 71 |
So I kind of had this in my head as a character kills their creator and... yea this came out:
“MIYAMOTO” Screamed Mario.
No response.
“MIYAMOTO!!!!!!”, silence, “MIYAMOTO”. Mario stood unwavering outside the gates of Hyrule Castle.
A tear rolled down Miyamoto’s cheek. He stood in the Grand hall leaning heavily against the Dias of the goddessses, his head hung heavily. Mario had stalked him from every corner of the Nintediverse and now there was no where left to run.
“How has it come to this…”
His words echoed through empty halls. The guards had long gone and the attendant servants had followed in their wake. When word of Mario’s approach arrived no one wanted to be a part of it, and how could he blame them? This was his doing. Even link had gone. He could not expect link to raise his sword against Mario, against one who he could call his brother. Before Link left he had come to Miyamoto. He said nothing, he just put his hand on Miyamoto’s shoulder as if in goodbye. Miyamoto barely heard the end of Epona’s song before Link was riding off into the sunset.
“Ever the silent Hero” thought Miyamoto.
Miyamoto’s physical body had long perished. His last great innovation for Nintendo was the creation of the mii-taphysical realm as part of the Wii-finity. It allowed one to copy their consciousness into their mii, to better experience the world Nintendo had to offer. Little did Miyamoto know that his creations were actually sentient all these years. They had grown, learned, evolved, loved… hated.
He couldn’t blame Mario. As he sat reflecting on his life he felt each and every one of the horrors inflicted on that poor soul. Peach always being taken from him. A never ending trial of torture, tundras, endless enemies and death after death after death. But the worse was the prostitution of his character. Forced into sporting leagues of every type, violent vehicular combat and even a MMA arena where he was forced to battle against those he loved. Mario had reason to be bitter indeed.
Miyamoto looked up from his reverie. The great iron doors bulged inward. The wooden barriers started to smoke and the metal grew white hot as molten clumps dropped away. Miyamoto stood to face the door, there was no more running. A fireball shot through a molten crevasse and embedded itself into Miyamoto’s shoulder. He feel to the ground, his arm a ruin of smoke and ash.
Through the smoke stepped Mario. He walked calmly and unflinching to Miyamoto, his hunt was finally over. He raised a white gloved palm towards Miyamoto.
Clutching his shoulder Miyamoto staggered to his feet. Through tear filled eyes he looked into Mario’s face, pleading.
“Mario… I”
*Bloink*
The fireball left a clean hole in Miyamoto’s chest. A final tear fell from his eye, it hit the ground as he did. Mario looked down at his peaceful creator. The heat had cauterized the wound, there would be no bloody mess to mark Miyamoto’s passing.
“God-a-damnit! Why-a do I still-a feel-a this way-a! Why don’t-a I feel whole-a!”
Mario shot another fireball into Miyamoto’s face.
“30-a years! 30-a years! Being a puppet-a!”
The tears vaporized as they hit the super-heated ground. Mario drove fireball after fireball into Miyamoto until there was nothing. His chest heaved from the effort.
He sat back unto the floor and laid next to the scorched marble that was Miyamoto. He slept, and for the first time, Mario dreamed.
| 11 | A character kills their narrator. | 17 |
The straps of my chair are especially tight today, and if I could talk I would complain about the way they burn into my neck and arms, but the nurses have grown tired of my babbling. It’s just as well. I wouldn’t be able to hear myself above all this ruckus anyways. I arrived in Crowley with what my husband called a minor case of hysteria, but that was seven months ago and I haven’t seen the light of day since.
God, this burns. I hear the nurses whisper about me, although I’m certain that I am speaking for them. Or at least, that’s what the doctor tells me.
*“Crazy, Crazy Susan,”* I say for them, frustrated and tired, *“Here I am, wasting away my life caring for this batty wench when I should be found in better prospects. ”*
Better prospects indeed. I had a husband and a son. I was an upstanding member of the church. I even cared for the Minister’s daughter. But I am ‘batty’ now. What ever that means. I wonder how I could use a word I don’t know the meaning of?
I’m mad. It’s expected.
I open my mouth to ask the nurses where exactly they are taking me, but I’ve forgotten how to form words. I can hear myself groan a little, and fumble the word ‘to’ over and over until one of the nurses hushes me. The pretty redheaded one pats my hand, she tells me it’s a side effect of the medicine and that I shouldn’t try to talk. She tells me this with her mouth, and then she turns away, and I hear her voice in my head, *“Dizzy girl. Can’t even remember what she’s on. Just get her to the Doctor and be done with it.”*
I am a wonderful mimic, aren’t I?
I am taken to a large brown room with an ugly yellow desk in the center, and a thin balding man in spectacles standing at the window. He sends the nurses away and closes the door. I hear his voice behind me, “Now then, Susan Strauss. I’m sure you must be curious as to why you’re here. I’m Doctor Nichols.”
I remain seated, strapped into my wheel chair, staring at the ugly yellow desk. Another voice shoots off in my head, the pretty redhead again, *“One day in and he’s already picking patients. Seems odd if you ask me.”*
I try to giggle at the remark, but a low hum drifts from my mouth instead. The doctor’s hands find my straps and he loosens them. I can move my hands again, and I smile.
*“That must have been painful for you,”* the voices in my head mimic in his voice. I stare at him, taking note to how he watches me from where he stands. Expression unchanging, lips unmoving, arms crossed over his chest.
*Of course it was painful. What sort of a doctor are you?*
“A clever one,” he tells me in a hushed tone. The voices in my head fall silent, and I frown at him trying to understand how he heard me. Did I speak? No, I’m certain I didn’t.
Again, his voice interrupts my thoughts although his closed lipped smile does not change, *“You have been waiting for me a very long time. You see, Mrs. Strauss, this is an Asylum. It’s meant for mad people. You aren’t mad, so I’ve come to collect you and treat you like a proper doctor should.”*
I want to object, but a question burns through my mind. How can he do this? Is this his voice, or is it mine? I am insane. That’s what I’ve been told, that I’m completely mad and that the drugs help to keep the voices at bay...except they don’t.
“And they wont,” Doctor Nichols says this out loud. He removes his glasses and begins to polish the lenses with the hem of his coat. I am stunned. I have to try.
*Stop that. Stop cleaning your glasses.*
Doctor Nichols stops, he looks at me and he puts the spectacles back on.
*Clap your hands.*
He slaps his palms together.
*Hop on one leg.*
Doctor Nichols laughs a loud, hearty crow that makes me jump, “Don’t be ridiculous Mrs. Strauss. Now, if you're comfortable, we have much to discuss."
*edit: Names have been changed/adjusted.* | 228 | Your entire life, you have been told you suffer from schizophrenia. One day, you realize you're telepathic. | 244 |
"What are you talking about?"
Gavin inhaled deeply and slowly through his nostrils, taking in the strong scent of green bean casserole in the process. He didn't know anyone other than Selene who made green bean casserole when it wasn't Thanksgiving but he figured it was probably due to the fact that she didn't really know how to cook anything else.
"Well," Gavin said, reaching forward and grabbing his cup, "it is sort of a gift I've had ever since I was a kid." He took a sip but didn't swallow, letting the iced tea sit in his mouth. Selene tilted her head to the side, giving off that all-to-obvious, "you're out of your mind" look.
"Yeah, I know you don't believe you, but-
"Honey, how would you even prove that? I mean, luck is already something a lot of people don't believe in. How would you prove that you can give something that is already hard to believe in?"
Gavin turned in his seat and started unzipping his backpack which he had hanging from. He had known he was going to have this conversation with his wife, had planned for it. Selene didn't say anything else as Gavin searched through the bag. There was a clock on the wall that Selene's mother had bought them; it ticked loudly, to the point that annoyed Gavin. He was going to get rid of it eventually.
"Here," Gavin said, gently setting a bobble head of Batman onto the dinner table. Selene still didn't appear impressed. "All you gotta do is give it a flick on the noggin, and your luck will change."
"Can't you do it yourself?" Selene asked.
"No, doesn't work like that. Sadly I can't change my own luck, just others."
"Okay, say if I were to flick it, how would we tell that it worked?" Selene said, now showing some interest. Gavin knew that he'd catch it eventually; Selene loved things of this sort, having been an avid fan of Charmed and other witching shows. Part of Gavin was certain she had been a Wiccan at some point in time.
"We can go down to the gas station-
"The gas station?"
"Yeah, the gas station, down the street, ya know, the one with the slots."
Selene sat back in her chair. "I don't know about that."
Gavin leaned forward. "Come on, just play one round, and you'll see."
It didn't take much to convince her. She gave Batman a tap, and within a few minutes, the two of them were walking down the sidewalk.
"How long does it last?" Selene asked.
"A day or so, depending on personality."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, sometimes I have customers come in, give Batman a nudge, then the next thing you know they win the small lottery."
"And the oth-
There was a loud slam, loud enough to cause Gavin to jump. He turned away and hunched over to cover his head. After realizing he wasn't in any danger, he turned just in time to see Selene's body come crashing back down into the street. The car that struck her never stopped.
"I *knew* it," Gavin whispered. He reached into his pocket for his cellphone to call 911, making a mental note as he did so to schedule an STD screening. | 29 | You're a demi-god living in the human world as a convenience store owner. Your power is to give people luck. Describe your encounters with the people given luck to your wife during dinner. | 27 |
*Those bastards! Fuck this noise, today is all about me!*
John ducked, as the gunmen turned his way. Reaching into his backpack he pulled out his father's .38. He'd been practicing with it, off and on, for almost 3 years. His dad had said once that he was a natural. Taking careful aim from under the table, he held his breath and squeezed off a shot at the gunman furthest from the crowd. The kid dropped like a puppet sans strings.
*Mother fuckers ain't gonna pull that shit in my school! Bullshit! Always trying to show me up. Well fuck you needle dicked bug fucker! See if you get any attention now shithead!*
The were only two now. Neither had seen him take out their buddy. They'd turned now, confused by the growing blood stain spreading at their feet and the smell of urine in the air near them.
Carefully, oh so carefully, he took aim again. Squeezing the trigger just enough that he was surprised by the recoil, as his dad had taught him, he watched as the second black clad figure fell to the ground. The guy must have had no training in gun control, must've had his finger on the trigger, because when he went down, a spray of bullets came pouring out of his gun, cutting right through the torso of the remaining attacker.
*That's right you stupid son of a bitch. Don't fuck with me!*
John stood up, and walked to the front of the lunchroom, as he'd planned for so long. He stood there, looking out over the mass of kids lying on the floor, huddled under the tables or standing against the walls where the assholes had told them to go. He put the gun to his temple and tried to recall his carefully prepared speach, where he would call out all the assholes, the bitches, the crappy teachers, the shitty administration. All of it. But then the applause started. The students rushing towards him, calling his name, "John! You saved us man! Thank you! Thank God! "
He realized it was now or never. He'd have to hope the letter in his pocket would be enough. He pulled the trigger and the world went dark. | 78 | The inner dialogue of a student witnessing his school being attacked by armed students. That day he/she was planning on committing suicide and is armed. | 71 |
I tug my tattered blanket to cover my neck. It’s been an unforgiving winter; my bench has never felt so stiff and rigid against my back. I turn onto my shoulder to try and get some sleep when someone shakes me and pulls me awake. Startled, I cover my face and examine my attacker through the gap in my arms. “It’s OK – I’m a doctor”, the man explains. “Please, come with me”.
Seated in the back of a van, I size up the other vagrants around me. Each of us has our hands covering the nearest heating vent, trying to absorb the warmth. My mind begins to thaw out, and I recall some of the volunteers down at the shelter telling us about a new outreach initiative that the city was sponsoring. They said health officials were going to come around and give us all check-ups and free medication. I pretty much ignored the information at the time, but I guess it stuck in my memory.
I haven’t been in a doctor’s office in close to 15 years. The doctor is telling me about blood tests and vaccinations, but I’m just enjoying the gradual process of feeling returning to my fingers and toes. A nurse enters and puts a variety of needles and pins into my arm, then the duo hands me a sandwich packet and departs.
I must have dozed off on the examination table for a few hours. When I awoke an entire team of gentlemen in lab coats had assembled itself around me. They have connected rubbery sensors to my skull and body, and their colorful wires lead back to a host of whirring machines. The doctor and nurse from earlier are standing in the back, looking uncomfortable.
“Mr. Doe, amongst the many medical tests we ran on you was the luck factor assay. Do you know what that is?” The man in the center seems to be the lead scientist. The rest hold clipboards and occasionally jot down notes.
“No,” I reply.
“It’s a test that measures, for lack of a better phrase, how lucky you are. It’s just like measuring your blood pressure or cholesterol. The assay is part of the standard testing regimen- we do this for everybody.”
“OK.”
“Mr. Doe…you have the luck profile of a lottery winner or a movie star. We’ve re-run your samples a few times, and the result has been confirmed. You’re one of the luckiest people ever measured.”
I stare at him while scratching a rash on the back of my leg. One of the underlings produces something from his jacket pocket and hands it to the main scientist.
“Take these two dice, Mr. Doe. Let me establish the rules of a simple game: if you roll a 7 or 11, you win. Otherwise, you lose. Please throw the dice five times.”
He hands me the dice and a small box to throw them into. I start rolling: 7, 7, 11, 7, 11. The secondary scientists scratch away furiously at their clipboards with their pens. The machines around me make strange and unpleasant noises.
“Mr. Doe, we need to know more about your circumstances. By our estimation, it is not possible for a person with your profile to have ended up where you did. Will you consent to a comprehensive interview and examination?”
I shrug. “Will there be more sandwiches?” I ask. | 32 | Luck is a measurable trait in a person. | 28 |
My head rung. I checked my body slowly. Just my head then. I crawled back up the stairs looking for the item that tripped me up. I couldn't find anything.
The dog was still there looking at me.
"Fucking telling Justin no next time." I said to the little bastard.
The thing took off. I sat there for a long time until I got my wits back. Then back down stairs to get the dog food.
I did a double take with the table. Hadn't I brought my coat in and placed it there? It didn't matter I was late.
I left making sure to lock the door. Funny thing was the key didn't fit. I had unlocked it but now it wouldn't lock. Luckily there was a second key under the mat. That worked. I put both keys back.
Justin's car was where I left it, but again the keys were not working. I headed back inside to find the keys hanging on the hook in the kitchen.
"This fucking day." I said to the dog on the way out.
At the first light some asshole behind me keep laying on his horn. I flicked him off and he flicked me off then passed me right there and shot through a green light! Fucking insane day.
At the second light I never even saw the truck until it hit me. The last thought I had was, "But I had the Red Light." | 234 | You live in an alternative universe, where only one major thing is different form ours. One morning, you stumble through the barrier between our worlds, and enter our realm. | 203 |
The mother sat on her bed, a private ward in a private hospital. She felt quite alone in that moment. 9 months ago she was homeless, poor, freezing from the cold... Some guys in suits offered her all the money she could dream of to be a surrogate mother, why not!? They chose her because she was stupid and desperate enough to say yes, she realised, and she supposed her name probably appealed to someone's sick sense of humour too.
Now she wishes she had said no. The baying crowds outside, thirsty for her blood. The pains in her stomach. The constant controversy and media debate around her and her son. And oh God, she thought would give birth, collect her cheque and go... But this was her son! As the feotus grew inside her, so did the sense of love, and care, she would never leave him to the men in suits. She thought of the one line in the Bible she could remember from Sunday school, and it sort of felt right.. "Oh God, why have you forsaken me?"
And then she noticed him. A tall, handsome man, wavy locks of hair, a warm smile. He wore a white that was so brilliant it seemed to shine, and unlike the clinical and sterile white of the hospital room, this white seemed to shine with warmth. She panicked for a moment.
"Don't be afraid. I'm not here to hurt you. I've been sent by God. I am Gabriel. Come with me Mary. Take my hand."
"Where are we going?" Mary stammered.
"Jerusalem. When the world needs you most. You have to give birth Mary"
Her head hurt from the confusion, but all she could think about was her son, how this... whatever it was... was an opportunity to keep her son away from those men.
"Mary, you are Mary. The Mother of the Son of Man, the Mother of Jesus. You are her, and he is him."
I am her.. that Mary? She thought. And he is him?
"It is time.. come with me Mary" Gabriel said, his hand outstretched. And she followed him. | 45 | DNA has been extracted from the Shroud of Turin and Jesus has been cloned. The host mother is 8 months pregnant with a healthy baby boy. The world is in an uproar... | 43 |
"That goat is crying," explained the daughter, by drawing a goat with tears into the sand with a stick.
"Is he hurt?" asked her father, by drawing a bite and blood gushing from the goat's flank.
"No," the daughter indicated by crossing out the picture.
"Is his mate dead?" asked the father, drawing a dead female goat.
"No," the daughter responded, crossing out the image again. She drew a picture of a goat eating the fruit of a strange plant. "He ate this plant."
"The fruits cause pain?" her father asked, indicating the fruit and the goat's tears.
"The fruits cause pain," the daughter agreed, indicating the same parts of the picture.
The father drew his young son, a rowdy boy who frequently needed punishment for stealing and vandalism. He drew the fruit and tears in the son's eyes. "Let's feed it to the boy," the father indicated.
The daughter took the fruit out of her garment and they shared a look of delight. They made the sound for the boy child's name, and the sound for delicious food.
It would be very funny when the fruit made him cry. | 19 | Describe the events surrounding the first time humans ate hot peppers. | 28 |
"Welcome back to the debate. Let's start off with a subject that many of us are worried about in the coming election: foreign oil policy.
"Representative Puhn, gas prices have been rising steadily and this weighs heavily on the heart of the average consumer. What is your plan for combatting this?"
"Well Brad, oil policy sure is a slippery slope. These oil tycoons think they're so slick but really, their practices only hurt the average American. So the first step is definitely to make these unctuous CEOs more transparent."
"I see. But what of oil itself?"
"Well," Puhn continued, "Oil's we have to do is keep on drilling. We have so many drilling sites now and there's ore where that came from."
"I see. Representative Conners, the same question goes to you."
"Thank you Brad. I've always thought that our consumption of oil and oil products would be our downfall. It's becoming an increasingly worrisome thing to me. I would invest in alternative energy methods. We could be doing so much better for ourselves, as a country and for the planet, and we're just not there yet."
"Thank you Representative. Now the next question is for Representative Puhn from a Mr. Watkins in Madison, Wisconsin. He asks, 'As a lover of nature, I need to know: What about your environmental policy?'"
"Well I'm glad you asked that question, Mr. Watkins, because I've always thought we need to leaf the rainforests alone. There are no boughs about it. Canopy that we live in a society that values the beauty of nature? Can we nut get our paper elsewhere?"
"Well spoken sir. And, I'm curious, I would like to know how you feel about this, Representative Connors. The same question goes to you."
"I feel rather the same as Representative Puhn here, albeit... without the rather blatant use of puns."
"Puns? Forgive my interruption," Rep Puhn chimes in, "but I word not do such a thing. This is a serious debate that needs to be handled with talked."
"Gentlemen." Brad rings a bell and the men cease their argument. "Let's keep this a nice, civil debate.
"Now, one more topic before we cut to a break. Let's talk about jobs. Representative Puhn, you have the floor."
"There's been a lot of fuss about jobs and - while I don't mean to employ that there isn't a problem right now - let me just say that I don't think tip's warranted. There's an old paying that goes, "The grass is greener where you water it". And we have Ben watering it. I cannot see any raise-on for the panic there is right now. There has been a shift recovery since the recession and to be honest, there's no way in buck it isn't getting better from here."
"Alllllright, that was Representative Puhn on the job market. We'll hear from Representative Connors after the break!" Brad rips the mic out of his ear and prays for the debate to end swiftly. | 19 | An undergrad is hit in the head, knocked out, and wakes up only able to speak in puns. 20 years later he/she is running for President of the USA. Transcribe a televised debate between him/her and their opponent. | 25 |
[ *META: the timeline of the prompt has been altered in this reply for the sake of basic realism* ]
CRAFT:
IISC *Sojourner*
DATE:
2253-06-08
LOCATION:
12.5 LY from Sol
OBJECTIVE:
Locate the lost Hyperion, humanity's first interstellar craft, which was launched in 2125 before disappearing in 2175. If possible, determine the cause of the loss of contact.
--- BEGIN REPORT ----
Initial scans extending for several AU along Hyperion's projected trajectory yielded nothing of interest. The search was expanded based on extrapolations of possible course corrections Hyperion could have attempted after losing contact. This route proved successful, and the craft was finally located 12.5 LY from Sol, drifting at 0.1 c and 0.04 LY off-course.
A visual examination of the exterior revealed numerous hull breaches in all (previously) habitable sections of the ship, while the propulsion and fuel modules were undamaged. The entire interior of the craft was in hard vacuum, leaving no chance for survivors. Analysis of the hull breaches by EVA crews suggest they were created by explosions originating inside the Hyperion, although the exact source of these explosions remain undetermined.
An all-sky-survey revealed a diffuse expanding debris cloud extending outward for many AU. Spectrographic analysis of said debris revealed materials consistent with Hyperion's hull, as well as traces of what was once the vessel's internal atmosphere. Onboard computer simulations tasked with "rewinding" the debris cloud put the original explosions somewhere near March 2175, very close to the day Hyperion lost contact with Sol.
Several EVA teams made their way inside Hyperion to explore the (previously) inhabited areas, taking advantage of the fact that Hyperion was still spinning and providing artificial gravity. Unfortunately, their expeditions yielded little: so many hull breaches in so short a time would have created hurricane-like winds inside the vessel, dismantling many of the interior structures and making forensic analysis near-impossible. They did, however, attempt to make their way to the computer cores, only to find them heavily damaged and inoperable.
Cross-referencing this new data with all communications between Hyperion and Sol pre-2175, the Psychology team has theorized a complete societal collapse on board might explain the craft's current condition. Dissent and civil unrest is apparent in Hyperion's final reports, and an all-out mutiny with explosive weapons could in theory have caused the hull breaches and resulting rapid decompression. Destruction of the computer cores may have been part of a plot to cripple the ship's internal communications and security systems so as to make such a mutiny possible. Obviously, whatever group was attempting to gain control of the ship failed.
Further analysis of the remains of Hyperion's computer cores will most likely yield valuable clues as to what led to the societal collapse on board. However, the Sojourner is not equipped for such a task. A dedicated science vessel prepared for extensive EVA operations is recommended. A means to seal Hyperion's numerous hull breaches would also be useful.
--- END REPORT --- | 117 | In the year 2025 a multi-generational ship is sent out to explore spaceand After 50 years humanity loses contact with them. Hundreds of years later light speed travel is invented and a light speed ship catches up to the generational ship. What do they find inside? | 168 |
Peter and Brier Rabbit were prancing happily in the large green field of Rabbitopolis when suddenly Peter stopped hopping altogether, a nervous flicker appeared in his eye.
"Brier?"
"Yes, Peter, what's wrong?"
"Have you noticed anything?"
"What? That Thumper has gone missing?? Yeah the Mysterious hand snatched him up a week ago. I thought you knew, Peter. I'm sor-"
"No, I already knew about that," Peter cut him off, "It just that it seems that they're a lot less of us than before. I mean look around."
Brier blinked his big brown eyes and looked around, his nose twitching. Everything in Rabbitopolis from the large sunny hilltops to the big red oak trees and the large pirckly brier patch seemed to be in order, except one thing was missing: the rabbits!
"My god, Peter, I think you're right, Where the hell is everyone?" Brier asked, panic in his voice, "We can't be the only ones left, can we?"
Peter gave a short stolid nod, "Just us and the council of elders. We've hid in the Brier Patch too long, old friend. It's time to face the music: the next time the hand comes, it's going to be one of us."
"I'm going to miss you buddy." said Brier, tearing up.
"Same, pal."
Then, as if by magic, the blue sky above them swirled into a thick cloudy whirlpool of purples and reds as a large portal flashed and crackled open in the center. Out of the forming hole, came a large human hand, demanding a creature.
Like it always had before, a loud booming voice echoed across the land, calling out to rabbits far and near,
"The time for retribution is here. I demand payment. Offer up a sacrifice." it bellowed.
Brier and Peter ran to their hideout among the Brier thorns, but alas, they could not hide forever. Black smoke appeared around them and in an instant they vanished, reappearing at what must have been the council of the elders. A large marble altar was set in the middle of a field beset by large stones on all sides, arranged in a circular pattern. Around the altar sat 6 fat rabbits, each wearing tiki masks. They spoke quietly to themselves, nibbling on carrots nervously.
"Alright gentlemen, the time has come for one of you to be chosen. As you may know, our race is dwindling. Very few of us remain. We must decide which one of you will leave this world today."
Peter and Brier looked at each other sorrowfully before embracing each other in a final hug.
"I'll go" they said simultaneously, before breaking into wry smiles, proud of one another's loyalty.
"QUICKLY!" the voice blasted in the sky. The hand was reaching around franticly, trying to grab onto something.
"Very well," said the head elder, "I shall decide." He paused, itching his whiskers, "Peter." he said finally, "You are chosen."
"No take me, please!!" Brier called out in dismay, "I'll go instead." But it was too late. Peter spontaneously was lifted into the air, joining the hand in the sky who grabbed him desperately.
Peter closed his eyes, listening to Brier's woeful cries from down below. "Goodbye." he said to himself, accepting his fate into death's arms.
Abruptly, he felt a rush of cold air as he was being lifted up. He opened his eyes and was startled to find himself in front of a room full of horribly awkward and large creatures who were staring at him in amazement. Then all of the sudden, they flashed their teeth as if they were about to growl and erupted into a frenzy of barks, hoots, and hand-mashing. He grew scared, quickly closing his eyes, before realizing that they were not threatening him, but praising him. He opened his big hazel eyes and smiled, waiting for the day him and Brier would be reunited.
"It's okay, buddy, I made it." he whispered to himself, "I made it."
| 84 | On earth, a magician puts his hand into a top hat. In the rabbit realm, the hand emerges. It is time. The rabbit council must choose a sacrifice. | 202 |
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