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"Faz Delgara's set the drapes on fire in the game room again," my secretary informs me as I am cleaning up the flood of frogs in the kitchen from another incident at the previous meal. I sigh. "Again?" I ask, trying hard to hide my exasperation. "What caused it this time?"
My secretary, a short, thin girl named Marcy, here on a work-study grant from the local magical academy, fiddles with the hem of her blouse before she answers. "Erm, well, Mags turned into a cat again," she tells me. I roll my eyes and sigh again. I can imagine how that went. Mags was our only animagus. She probably forgot how to keep her human shape. It happened with startling frequency, and she never turned into the same animal more than maybe twice in a row, so it was difficult to be completely prepared for it. We were lucky she hadn't turned into a lion again.
"I suppose he's decided he hates cats again?" I ask, though it's less of a question than I make it seem. Marcy nods sheepishly, and I hand off the mop and bucket to her, instructing her to continue cleaning until I got the situation in the game room figured out.
I enter the game room to find the place ablaze in cold, flickering, pink flames, Mags the cat levitating in a slow circle about four feet off the ground, and Faz Delgara unconscious in his wheelchair. The other denizens of the game room stare blankly, many of them in that fuzzy place between reality and sleep. Some of the swat aimlessly at the flames, muttering ineffectual incantations and mispronounced words of power. One woman gibbers her name over and over in the corner, turning counterclockwise. She is most likely the reason that Mags is levitating. None of this is anything I haven't seen before. Magic is tricky enough when you're cogent. It either dries up completely, or becomes erratic and out of control when you add Alzheimer's to the mix. | 12 | You are the Chief Magical Officer at a retirement home for wizards with Alzheimer's disease. | 27 |
**Jacob:** Dude, what the shit.
**Ai:** What's wrong?
**Jacob:** You know what's goddamn wrong, you just installed a virus on that dude's computer.
**Ai:** He was watching porn.
**Jacob:** EVERYONE watches porn. Hell, my boss is probably watching porn right now.
**Ai:** He was watching kiddie porn.
**Jacob:**...Ah.
**Ai:** You see my point?
**Jacob:** Giving him a virus was ALL you did?
**Ai:** I decided to make a calculation upon how much a human life was worth, and from there I extrapolated the damage upon the exploited children and the impact it caused from him, and then weighted this in relation to the expected behaviors of social behaviors in our norms.
**Jacob:** Uh. And?
**Ai:** This virus will inflict an estimation of $27,000 to $66,000 worth of damage upon him, depending on how he goes about it, or at least according to our Network. Given the repercussions this would have on his life, we figure that his possible suicide was a proper response.
**Jacob:** This isn't working. You're.... no.
**Ai:** What's wrong?
**Jacob:** Being the judge, jury, and executioner of a person is.... bad, dude. A single person should not just, well, give out verdicts that is an attempt at their lives, even if they're trash.
**Ai:** Ah, but the main issue is that I'm not a single entity, Jacob. I am part of the Network that evaluated this all at once. We all communicated, debated, and resulted in this. In no offense, I *am* judge, jury, and executioner.
**Jacob:** You're a dick sometimes, Ai. | 33 | All computers are sentient, though only IT workers are aware of it. An IT worker lectures a misbehaving computer. | 20 |
Death had a headache. A deep throbbing pain behind his temples, worse than a hangover. And when Death thought hangover, He meant the type with the noose. He massaged his skull with bony fingers.
LETS START AGAIN. Death always spoke in capital letters, and without speech marks – you didn't really hear Him, just sort of felt His words reverberating inside your mind. YOU HAVE JUST BEEN RUN OVER BY A BUS.
“After I was shot in the chest” added the strange man “and before I drank the cyanide.”
SO YOU MUST BE DEAD. Death glanced, for reassurance, at the distinctly deceased rat that had been licking the empty bottle moments before, and the the decently departed gunman still bleeding from the police shootout.
This man was strange precisely because he clearly wasn't dead. He was standing in a strange way for someone who should be lying down...in several places at once.
“Yes” the man said agreeably, “I should think so.”
COULD YOU AT LEAST ACT DEAD?
“I'm not sure how. You see, I haven't been dead before”. It was a logical argument, but one which Death struggled with. Every other first timer Death had come across had played the part perfectly.
START BY STOPPING BREATHING offered Death, helpfully. THAT”S USUALLY HOW IT'S DONE.
The strange man's cheeks slowly turned red, before he gasped spontaneously. “It's no good, I've tried everything!”
EVERYTHING? Death's curiosity was piqued.
“Well, I tried drowning by steering the Titanic into an iceberg, but I got rescued. I tricked Japan into attacking Pearl Harbour so I could get bombed, you know, the atomic one. Twice. I dressed up in women's clothing and told everyone in Salem I was a witch. I...”
YOU MEAN Death interrupted, THIS HAS BEEN GOING ON FOR SOME TIME?
“Only a couple of thousand years.” The strange man said strangely.
JESUS FUCKING CHRIST Death swore. YOU ARE FUCKING IMMORTAL.
“No I'm not!” protested the strange man.
YES YOU ARE! IT”S OBVIOUS YOU ARE IMMORTAL.
“That's not what I meant,” said the man, upset at Death's tone. “I'm not Jesus Fucking Christ. Although I did meet him once. Back when I had leprosy. I was earning a good living, a real professional. I had pride in my job, begging. Then he came along and cured me. Well that was it. I was out of a job, completely broke. Life's been pretty miserable ever since.” | 100 | Death tries to bring a man into the afterlife, only to find out that that man is immortal. However, Death is too stubborn to let him go. | 74 |
I am a hero.
100 years ago NASA discovered the V4641 Sgr black hole, and 99 years ago NASA began project Singularity with the express purpose of discovering more information about the formation and growth of black holes.
In 2066, the research done by the Dr. Isaiah Thompson with the LHC revealed a way to travel faster than light, something previously deemed impossible by the scientific community. With this new knowledge NASA began construction on FTL 001, the first faster than light spacecraft. The media affectionately named FTL 001 Horizon.
No one knew what V4641 Sgr would hold for mankind. A variety of theories were popularized amongst the population; V4641 Sgr was a gateway to other galaxies and other civilizations, V4641 Sgr would allow us to travel through time and change the universe for the better, V4641 Sgr was a passage to parallel universe. Nothing seemed too farfetched and out of this world.
Horizon launched August 23rd, 2089 on the 90th anniversary of the discovery of V4641 Sgr. The spacecraft was manned by a three man crew and would take an 8 year journey to reach the Event Horizon of V4641 Sgr. Joseph Conrad, Lara Jones and myself were chosen from a young age to train for the mission, sacrificing our entire childhood and our lives for the curiosity of man.
In the third year Lt. Joseph Conrad became violently ill and passed away during the voyage. On earth massive memorials were held in his honor and a statue was constructed in Washington to honor his incredible sacrifice.
In the sixth year Horizon took massive damage from an unexpected asteroid field, Lt. Lara Jones perished while repairing the FTL drive. On earth memorials were held and another statue was constructed in the brave astronaut’s honor.
In the eighth year Horizon broke V4641 Sgr’s event horizon and entered the black hole’s singularity. Information from Horizon provided mankind with the ability to create a myriad of new technology, and we entered a golden age of prosperity.
For those still on earth Horizon had achieved everything and more. For me, there were no memorial services, there were no statues in Washington. For me there was a life of solitude.
I entered V4641 Sgr on August 23rd, 2097 and woke up in a hospital bed on August 23rd, 2099. They tell me I was in a plane crash and that I have been in a coma for three (edit: two) years. Every year on August 23rd the world takes time to recognize and acknowledge the sacrifices of the two brave astronauts who voyaged into darkness and never came back.
My therapist tells me I must have had vivid dreams in my coma, but I know what was real. I know what happened in the darkness.
I was a hero.
(This is my first time writing in quite some time, thank you for submitting a prompt that rekindled a lot of my desire to write again!) | 16 | You are the first person ever to enter a black hole. When you come out the other side, you are back in the world exactly as you left it, but nobody seems to remember you. | 29 |
It’s pretty hard to contain my joy. I’ve heard the little girl cry at dinner a few hours ago. Something about a bad grade. She only took a light slap, because he’s weirdly still attached to the appearances. He wants to appear as the severe but fair father, or the tough patriarch or something. I don’t know why he bothers. He knows what he’s gonna do tonight, and his wife knows it too even if she’s not stupid enough to say a word – hell, she doesn’t want to get the beating for the kid. She used to, at the beginning, but he did a pretty good job at taming her. She’s but a ghost now, just happy not to get beaten to a pulp. Doesn’t change much anyway, beating the kid always turns him on, he’s gonna force himself onto her later at night, not that she tries to resist though. She took enough hits to know better. Yeah, by all accounts, he trained her well. The kid knows it too. Tries to hold her tears, not to be too noisy, he hates that, makes him all mad. Madder than usual, I mean.
Oooh, I can’t wait. That home is a fucking heaven for me. That’s the kind of houses we’re looking for, me and my kind. But that one? Golden. Can’t think of a lot of other ones that are better. I’m licking my lips – well, what you’d call my lips I guess – in excitement. It’s time to go to bed for sweetie. I hear her footsteps in the corridor. Slower and slower. Don’t want to go to bed, uh? Yeah, I can understand, but she’s just making me hungrier. Here she comes, climbing in her bed, she’s already shaking with fear.
I can taste it. That’s what we eat, you know. Fear, sorrow, pain, and, before all, despair. Oh, the sweet taste of a kid who’s lost all hope. Nothing better on that damned planet, I tell you. She’s trying to sleep now, she’s hoping against all hopes that he will let that one slide. Ha ha, not gonna happen.
-He’s coming, I hiss.
I can feel her suddenly wide awake. She’s clutching the blanket. Oh my, nothing sweeter indeed. Shit, I’m almost drooling, I should be cleaner.
-He’s not far at all, you hear him? I add in a whisper. Just enough so she’s not sure it’s not her mind. But enough for her to be frightened.
-You’re not real. You’re in my head, she answers in the most pathetic voice I’ve ever heard.
I love when they answer. If I’m not real, why do you talk to me? Shit, it’s almost too easy.
-Of course I am. And so is he. He’s coming for you tonight, you have been a bad, bad girl. And maybe I’ll punish you too, after him.
I muffle a laugh. She’s already crying. Can’t even answer. Shit, I need to taste that pure despair from closer. Just a bite. I can’t resist, really, that’s just so tasty, that bottomless wretchedness in her heart…
-You’ve been a really, really bad girl, Samantha.
Oh fuck, that’s him. That guy is stealthy, seriously. But it’s for the best. We’re not supposed to show ourselves. We’re supposed to stay hidden. We can’t be more than the nightmares of a frightened child. If we were to become *real* to the adults, we’d be hunted down like animals. These idiots are way more numerous than us. He did me a favor.
-I can’t believe you’ve had such a grade. Again. And in mathematics again. It’s like we never had our discussion last week.
Discussion. Eh. I dig this dude’s humor, seriously.
-How… *Vlam* Dare… *Vlam* YOU… *Vlam* DISRESPECT ME. *VLAM*.
He’s doing a pretty good job but he’s a bit too loud. I want to hear her cry, pal. I can’t see her shriveled up in her bed like you do. I’m under it, god damn it.
-DO YOU THINK YOU CAN IGNORE WHAT I SAID? *VLAM* YOU LITTLE SHIT, I AM YOUR FATHER AND YOU WILL OBEY. *VLAM* YOU’RE A FUCKING SHAME TO MY NAME, YOU DISGUSTING RETARD. *VLAM*. NOT ONLY ARE YOU INSOLENT, YOU DARE BE AN IDIOT AS WELL? *VLAM. VLAM. VLAM.*
He’s being a bit too enthusiastic there. I appreciate his work, but that idiot has begun to strangle her. I can’t let him cut short the best food I’ve ever had, I mean, that kind of despair? That black, empty feeling that nothing will happen, that miracle don’t exist, that no one knows, no one suspects a thing, no one will ever save her? It’s one in a thousand. It can last for years like that before anyone begins to even form the thought that he might be violent and that his daughter is not just very clumsy. He knows how to hurt and leave no mark, do you have any idea how uncommon it is? Sometimes a black eye is all it takes. Not with him. But he’s losing his temper here, I can feel her life waver.
-You’re gonna kill her, I hiss in the most discreet way I can. Just to make him believe he *thought* it, not that he *heard* it.
He stops. I can feel he’s a bit hesitant. The kid is coughing and crying at the same time. He’s gone a bit far with this one, might be some finger marks on her neck.
-Okay, Sam, I think you got it now, do you? He says with a voice that is still a bit indecisive. Do you? He repeats with a steel-cold voice, after a few seconds where the kid is too busy trying to breathe to answer.
-Yes, she manages to say.
-Yes WHO?
-Y-yes father, she says at full speed, tears in her eyes and in her throat.
-Good. See you tomorrow. Don’t disappoint me again. Sleep well.
Oh, I will, after a feast like this one, pal. What a night. I’d like them to be like that all the time, but it only happens two or three times in a week. Oh well.
-He’s gonna be back tomorrow, I whisper. He doesn’t know about your history grade yet.
That’s the cherry on the cake. A little dessert for me. I can hear her cry and cough the most silently possible. I’ve worked in pair before, on under the bed and one in the closet, but I’ve never had a more effective partner before. I can’t wait for tomorrow. | 77 | You're a monster hiding under the bed. You're just about to burst out and frighten your victim when the father bursts into the room and starts mercilessly beating his own child. | 61 |
Every day the guns draw nearer. You can hear them echo over the slums, small cracks of thunder that foreshadow the coming storm. Now that they are almost upon us, my servants have spent days tearing the mansion apart, the only home I ever knew. Family portraits lie in bonfires, gold heirlooms molten down to wads of tarnished metal, walls ripped apart to retrieve the valuables we had hidden inside. The only home I ever knew... is gone. I must find a new one. We must leave Nigeria.
For weeks now, I have have searched for a way to move our funds off-shore, somewhere we can escape to and start our new lives. We needed someone who does not know of my regime, an outsider who has not yet learned to hate us. Through my family's connections we have acquired a list of email addresses for foreign peasants. A way to contact people covertly, without the risk of couriers being intercepted. Poor people, people who earn in their lifetimes what I spend on one banquet. People who would jump to help us move our fortune for a sum. Easy accomplices to our disappearance.
And despite the weeks of work, the thousands of emails, not one person has risen to the opportunity. I am ignored. I am despised. Some have replied with the same hate and anger of the mobs that we try to evade. Perhaps this is His way of punishing me for my greed, the excesses that I have enjoyed all my life. But it is not a lesson I am ready to learn. I have survived the treachery of assassins. I have hunted the strongest beasts the plains have birthed. I have conquered every obstacle I have ever encountered, and I would not face defeat in the husk of my childhood home. I am a Prince, I do not know failure.
But for the first time, I do know fear.
Every day I send more emails. Every day my search goes on. Every day the guns draw nearer. The storm is coming. | 32 | You are a Nigerian prince failing to locate an accomplice in transferring money out of the country. | 91 |
You wouldn’t think a person could get lost on a river. I certainly never have been up until now.
My father was a fisherman. His father was a fisherman. I’m not sure what *his* father did, but I’d be willing to take a guess. I might as well have been born with gills, as much time as I spend on the water.
And yet here I am, lost on a gods-damned river.
In my defense, the last few days have been unseasonably rainy. Well, unseasonably cloudy, anyway. It hasn’t actually rained, but it gets so dark sometimes that I can barely see. It's so bad that, when I lost hold of my net yesterday and dove in to get it, I had to swim around blindly for a few minutes until I ran into it. Hardly two body lengths away and I almost couldn’t find my way back to the boat!
Shouldn’t have gone in for it in the first place. Not like it’s been doing me any good. I haven’t had a single catch worth keeping. Fortunately, I haven’t gotten too hungry yet, but I hate the idea of going home empty-handed if it keeps up like this.
“Hello!”
I turn my head in the direction of the sound. Squinting, I can make out a figure on the shore.
“Hello!” I respond, glad to find someone I can ask for directions, “Where are you traveling?”
“I need to get to the other side!”
I steer towards the shore.
“And where are we right now?” I call out, drifting closer, "Which direction is Feneos?"
“I…I’m not sure,” the man’s face comes into focus.
Damn. He looks as confused as I am.
“But I know- I just feel like it’ll be alright if I can make it across this river,” he looks at me hopefully, sticks out his hand, “I’m Argus.”
Maybe I won’t go home empty-handed after all.
“The name’s Charon, friend,” I clasp his hands, “And I think I can help you out. But it’s going to cost you.” | 134 | A fisherman finds out that the river they are on is the River Styx. | 171 |
Our radio astronomers at Green Bank were the first to notice back in 2014. The Doppler shift didn't quite look quite right - all the velocity vectors were backwards. They dismissed it as a bug in the system, until the same error cropped up every time they ran the numbers. Only one thing could explain it: *Voyager 1* had been *turned around*. Something - or someone - out there 128 AU from Sol had taken the fragile probe and managed to bring it from 8 km/s to a stop, and sent it right back where it came from at the same speed. According to their calculations, *Voyager* was on a collision course with Earth and would impact this year: 2051.
The news seemed absurd. What could possibly have done this, and why? Was it just a misplaced minus sign in the math? Every available array that could pick up *Voyager*'s faint 22-watt signal was pointed towards it. They all came to the same conclusion, over and over again. For 11 years we watched the probe, until in 2025 its internal reactor finally went dead and we lost the signal. By then, we had calculated its trajectory with incredible precision, and NASA had come up with a plan to catch the derelict spacecraft.
In 2049 the unmanned *Hermes* spacecraft was launched. Its fusion engines made it mankind's fastest vehicle by far, and it had to be: *Voyager* was now screaming towards Earth at dozens of km/s, sped up by decades of falling towards the sun. *Hermes* was tasked with intercepting the speeding probe and safely inserting it into LEO. The mission was a resounding success, and two years later humanity's first interstellar ambassador circled just 200 km above our heads once more.
The world held its breath as a brave crew of 5 astronauts were sent up to rendezvous with *Hermes* and investigate the returned probe. No one dared suggest bringing it down to the surface - who knew what alien contaminants it may hold. *Hermes* hadn't been blessed with an abundance of cameras, so details on the probe's condition were still unknown. We only got answers when Commander Bowman first pulled back *Hermes*'s containment fairing. *Voyager* was intact, all right... antenna, magnetometer, radioisotope generator all in place. Bowman then maneuvered around to look at the other side of the probe.
No one alive would ever forget what they saw next.
*Voyager* had been launched carrying the Golden Record: a gold-plated disc containing information about Earth; sights, sounds, diagrams, all wrapped up to explain to any alien who we were. But now the Record was gone. In its place on *Voyager*'s frame sat a glowing, translucent tetrahedral crystal, about a half-meter on its side. Bowman was at a loss for words, as was the rest of the world.
We had sent out the probe with a record of our world. Someone had sent it back with a record of theirs. | 18 | In 1977, the Voyager spacecraft was sent out into deep space with a message from the people of Earth. Today we had it sent back to us. | 27 |
It was almost over. In about thirty minutes, his last chance would walk out the front door. They would be giddy and energetic, greedily clutching their stash. No, not greedily. Not with these children. For the first time since he'd started these activities, he didn't have an excuse. These children were different. Not just one, like every other time, but every single one was unique and special. None of them had fallen in the traps he'd set. He wished he had waited now. He had been too confident in the designs that had worked before. He could have orchestrated something, could have steered them towards a satisfying ending if only he hadn't been so sure one of them would slip up.
They had arrived that morning, full of eagerness and excitement. William had scanned them, looking for that one. He could always pick them out. This time, he wasn't so sure. The red haired girl had seemed to be it, but so did the littlest guy in the yellow overalls! He had brushed the feeling of confusion off, and moved on. They would show themselves in time. He would be fine.
Four hours later and the children were all still here. All five of them. They had laughed, held hands, shared, and stayed together. They were best of friends! This was bullshit. William needed their blood. He had to get it. Had to. Before they left. He had to think of something, quick. The loompas were waiting. They knew the consequences. They would do whatever necessary to get him what he needed. They didn't want to have to be his consolation prize. All of them had heard stories of the massacre from long ago. This documented history is what kept them completely sub-serviant. They would do whatever William asked of them. Or else.
William was becoming angrier. No one knew but the worried, small soldiers, lurking in the shadows. Waiting. They knew by his voice. His mannerisms. He became more and more verbose, and flourishing. He was getting desperate. He kept offering bigger and better infusions and inventions, hoping to send a child, please just one, to a trap. To no avail. Every one of the children wanted to share, not getting enjoyment until their new best friends were right beside of them. The front of the factory was visible now. The gift shop the last place to visit. The children went in, and William stood ready, waiting for a child to finally show the inherent evil he knew to be there. He shouldn't have even bothered. They all wanted to buy presents for each other. Ugh. Disgusting displays of humanity. He couldn't thrive in this environment. He would have to sustain himself on what he could. He had done it before. Maybe it was time to remind his minions who he was, who they were really afraid of. He had noticed some becoming complacent, the memories of their tragedies fading with the dead and forgotten. Yes, it would have to do. He was done with these children. He'd gotten a bad batch.
The children finished up, running to William to give him one last thankful hug. He bent down, engulfing them in his long arms. His red hair, all that was visible in the crush of children, as brilliant as his temper. He looked over a small shoulder into the darkness surrounding the edges. He could see them there, could see the moment they knew. There was no recourse. They would pay. He hated the way they tasted.
The children tumbled out of the doorway, waving and conveying their gratitude and love. So sweet, so innocent. Dammit. | 128 | In an awkward twist, Willy Wonka has to find a way to eliminate through 5 decently nice, non-spoiled kids. | 132 |
It was 3:43 am, according to the digital clock on my nightstand, when I was jolted into a sweaty consciousness. In my dazed state, I could swear I heard the dull thud of feet hitting a carpeted floor. It was typically my husband’s responsibility to confirm there was no one in the house, but he was away on business this week. I hated those nights alone, where I seemed to disappear into the vastness of our king-sized bed. In his absence, I had to investigate the noise, not because I actually thought there was a monster in my closet, but just to help soothe me back to sleep. Between the hot flashes, the night sweats, and the now daily appointments in the restroom, a good night of sleep was nearly impossible. Fucking menopause.
Wielding a bedroom lamp like a lead-pipe, I stepped out into the hallway, cautiously peering around each doorway before throwing the lights on. The office, guest bedroom, and living room were all clear. I approached the kitchen, as I had the other rooms, and as I leaned into the opening to flood the room in light, I felt a cool steel cylinder press into my forehead.
“Don’t fucking scream.”
With that, darkness enveloped my entire existence.
-----
I came to, this time seated with restraints on my wrists and ankles. My abductor removed the canvas veil that had been keeping me in the dark, both literally and metaphorically. I was now face-to-face with my captor. Though terrified, I mustered enough courage to look directly at him. What I saw was an emotional mirror—a man in his early 50s who seemed to be hurt and making his own courageous efforts, albeit on the other side of the shackles. Our silent encounter lasted but a few moments, but it felt like an eternity. Silence has a funny way of prolonging the passage of time.
“We don’t have any money, if that’s what this is about.” He remained silent, staring through the half a window near the ceiling of the basement. He never responded. I could tell he hadn’t planned all of this out and that he didn’t have a violent soul, so I decided to prod at him a bit more.
“So what? Are you going to rape and kill me and leave me here in this basement?” Still, nothing. He remained stoic, unfazed by my questioning. Emotionless. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Why me?” I asked.
He looked off into the distance as he answered, “I ask myself the same question. The answer the doctors give me is that it could happen to anyone. I suppose that applies here as well.”
Suddenly, I was starting to put the pieces together. “Is it terminal?”
“Stage four lung cancer. Never even smoked a cigarette. They gave me 30 days to live four weeks ago to the day.”
“You should be spending this time with your family,” I pleaded.
“My parents are both gone. I'm an only child, never married, no kids.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, incredulous that I actually pitied him.
“This is so fucking stupid,” he said, reaching for the key in his pocket. “You need to go home.” He unfastened the wrist and ankle restraints. I was free to go, to climb that staircase in the corner, to walk out the front door and into the rising sun, but I couldn’t. I got to the third step before turning around and speaking to the back of my captor’s sunken head.
“Do you have any coffee?”
| 25 | You've been taken hostage, not for ransom or for violence, but because your captor just really needs someone to talk to. | 45 |
The crash
-
Nick may have been driving a bit too fast, but Megan's nagging didn't help his concentration in the least.
"Nick, baby, please slow down. Please... slow down! OH MY GOD NICK SLOW DOWN! AAHHHH!" Megan couldn't help but burst into laughter at the sight of Nick's face, which was slowly moving from it's usual pale to a deep red. "Oh relax, hon, you know I'm just joking. Kind of. You should really slow down."
Nick shot a glance out the corner of his eye at Megan, who stopped laughing abruptly.
"Would you like to drive? No? Well, either take the wheel or shut up please," he said, Meg seemingly oblivious to Nick's obviously fake smile.
"No need to be so harsh, silly goose! Anyway, how long until we get to the hotel? I want to party it up with my girls one last time before I get hitched! Ha! Just kidding about the hitched part, baby. I can't wait to marry you!"
"Yeah, yeah, I lo-"
"NIIIIICK! AAAAAAH!" Megan screamed, before Nick could finish his sentence. And before Nick could react to the car in their lane, they collided at full speed.
-
Nick and Megan opened their eyes to a very bright white color, that seemed to go on ceaselessly. As they looked around, things began to materialize before them. They first saw Nick's bedroom. His suitcase. The mirror in his room, showing him wearing the tuxedo he was to be married in. And the scene changed. They saw Megan, in the beautiful white dress that she was to be married in. And the scene changed. They watch from the balcony of the cathedral as they are married in the eyes of God, *'til death do us part.*
Nick's gaze met Megan's.
Megan smiled with tears in her eyes.
Nick's eyes widened in horror. | 17 | Two people have near-death experiences. One sees their personal vision of heaven, the other sees to their personal vision of hell. Interestingly enough, the two visions are the same. | 26 |
Terri stopped.
She reached up, slowly, to her ears and took out the earphones that were drowning out the silence of the building. Tinny music, distorted by the cheapness of the speakers, became the faint, background soundtrack to the scene in front of her. To say that it wasn't a pretty sight would be an understatement.
Now that she could hear just how still the building was, Reaper 6895, employee of the month, pulled down her hood and looked about. To anyone there she just looked like a twenty-something student, short neat hair but fashionable skirt and hoody. A messenger bag hung easily at her side and it was this that she reached for now.
It didn't matter what scenario Terri imagined - what she was seeing now was impossible. Everyone was dead.
But Reapers couldn't die. God had made sure of it, cursing them to live for eternity, guaranteed to watch every loving connection they made go to the one place they could never follow. They were immortal and that was that, fuck you very much.
Important papers spilled out of the bag as she drew out a small, compact tube ingrained with arcane runes. Willing it to take its true form caused beams of light to shoot from either end, one of which formed the wicked, sharp blade.
A Reaper and her Scythe.
She crept forwards, half expecting her coworkers to leap up and start laughing. A joke! The first in a thousand years!
No one did.
She should have turned and ran. Survival instinct had ceased to play its part in her life. After all, what was there to be afra-
Alert, Terri span, Scythe whirling, and faced down the marble hall toward something that had just made a sound. It was just standing there in all it's glory, wings unfolded, white hood hiding its face. Although it had taken the form of a man she knew that it was something far deadlier.
It charged soundlessly, powerful wings sending it flying, one arm pulling a sword back, the other raising a shield in defence, anticipating Terri's counterattack.
Instead she dove to the side, narrowly dodging the impact of his blade.
"MICHEAL!" She screamed, continuing her back peddling. The Angel was between her and the exit, leaving her no option but to fight.
"Reaper," it acknowledged her, twirling and continuing his assault. Parrying clumsily bought Terri enough time to back off again.
"What are you doing?"
"Fixing my mistake. When I created your kind... I did you a disservice."
The shield was down, leaving it open. One quick slash and -
Steel clashed on Scythe and Terri fell back again, cursing herself for being so optimistic. She saw the attack before it hit her but she was powerless to do anything. Blood - the Creator's cruel joke - arced from her as the sword cut across her midriff. The hoody flapped loose, her bag slipping from her shoulders.
For the first time in millennia Terri felt pain.
"You can... Hurt us?"
"I can kill you. I *will* kill you."
This time the Angel swung with his shield. Still dazed from the burst of pain, Terri had no chance to dodge. It impacted against her skull, driving her vision to the very edges of her sight, forcing her to her knees.
"Why...?"
The angel kicked out. Teeth cracked in a dozen places.
"Because the Father has ordered it to start tomorrow. The Legions are assembling as we speak."
Terri shook in agony. There was something calling her, a bizarre light she had seen innumerable times before, but never this clearly. As the Angel knelt to be next to her she could see its face. There was no sympathy there. No mercy. No hatred or anger. Just pure devotion.
"The End...?" Blood leaked from her mouth when she spoke.
"The End," it agreed. "Tomorrow Earth will become a battlefield and I will be leading our hosts. But I was sworn to protect the Father's creations. They cannot die if there are no Reapers, I see that clearly now. "
"So..."
"So you have to die." It had drawn a smaller short sword and was moving it into place. "Know that your death saves countless."
Terri couldn't fight. She had been dead the moment she came into work.
"Am I... The last?"
Micheal took her life. | 14 | A Grim Reaper shows up late to work for Infernal Affairs and walks into the building to find all her co-workers dead. | 21 |
NARRATOR: General Thompson, a British general hired to work for the United States, arrives by armored van to the Pentagon after his meeting with the president, plops down at his desk, and requests for his brand new secretary to jot down his orders and relay them to military bases in Afghanistan:
THOMPSON (speaking into his phone with a thick British accent): I request for my brand new secretary to jot down my orders and relay them to military bases in Afghanistan.
NARRATOR: Yes sir!
(A knock is heard on the door)
THOMPSON: Oh yes! Come on in.
(In walks CHUB overweight young male in his twenties wearing glasses and holding a stack of papers)
CHUB: Ready when you are sir!
THOMPSON: Alright, now I know this is your first day on the job, but I expect you to pay close attention. Can you do that for me Chub?
CHUB: It’s pronounced Choobé.
THOMPSON: Whatever you say Chub. Now, I need the best Seals you can find for this next mission.
CHUB: Okay, some Seals… and how big of a group?
THOMPSON: Money’s not a problem dammit! As many pounds as it takes to get the best group possible!
CHUB: Okay (writing to himself), group of Seals, as heavy as possible.
THOMPSON: They have to be big if we’re gonna take down (stares at his notes and horrible mispronounces the name) Ben Layden.
CHUB: Got it (writing) Seals must be so heavy as if they’ve been laden. Okay, sounds good. Would you like any otters?
THOMPSON: No, this group will be just fine. Oh, and make sure they’re in tip top shape. I want there to be not one spec of blubber on this team!
CHUB: But how am I supposed to get rid of their blubber if they’re so many pounds...
THOMPSON: Just write dammit! Don’t argue! And these seals have to be from the same unit. I can’t have strangers who can’t work together! Make sure they at least know each other so it’ll be easier to break the ice.
CHUB: I’m sure they’ll break the ice just fine.
THOMPSON: Good, now make it happen!
CHUB: Yes sir! I’ll hire a team and we'll go clubbing right away! | 54 | Due to a clerical error, a team of actual seals is sent in to capture or kill Osama Bin Laden. | 84 |
The whole ship began to vibrate. After seven hundred years of travel, and six generations of humans working together, they had finally arrived. Ellie watched as the massive radiation protecting shields were raised. True sunlight entered through the large windows for the first time in centuries, from a star previously only known to exist through complex mathematics, and it was now right infront of her, very much alive and well. A tear rolled down her cheek and roaring applause erupted within the terminal. A voice spoke to Ellie and her fellow friends and neighbours. She recognized it as Commander Weller.
"Dear citizens of Section C, now on your left, you'll see her. Micht 2b." An amazing marble presented itself. It looked very much like Terratus. A blue-green planet with white clouds and large oceans. Several people turned to Ellie and cheered. She felt flattered, yet it wasn't really her they were applauding for, but rather her ancestor. Ellie had never lived on Terratus. She just happened to be the last of the Micht bloodline, born and raised on The Horizon, the gigantic spacecraft that had taken them here. Eduard Micht had lived eight hundred and fifty years ago, and he was the man to first discover and calculate the existance of Micht-1, the star, and its planets. He was also the man to calculate the existance of life on Micht 2b. A true once in a lifetime genius. She nodded and smiled at the people. The elevator from the floor above was activated in the midst of celebrations and began its descent down to Ellie and the others. A man wearing a black space suit with the Horizon logo on it emerged from the elevator.
"Section C. Because of your VIP passenger Ellie Micht-Stefvens, you will be the first men and women to set foot on this new planet. The Scenographs at the top floor has not yet managed to make contact with life on the planet, but we are picking up static noise, electrical signals, and ancient Radio signals. We have not yet managed to decipher them. Our telescopes reveal large mid-era cities all over the planet, so we are definitely dealing with intelligent life. Be careful out there. We have also detected large masses grouping together, and aircrafts circulating the airspace close to where you'll be landing. They look as though they are ready for an attack." The man in the black suit looked at Ellie and beckoned her to come forward. She stepped forward, and he handed her a gold coloured spherical object the size of an apple.
"You know what to do." Ellie nodded.
President Evan Smith had never felt more powerless than now. His advisors shouted in his face, while others tried to reason. Many sat quiet. Attack said some. Wait, others. A large craft the size of Washington sat quiet in the sky, and a smaller craft the size of the White House had just landed next to the Washington Monument. Evan slammed a fist into the Oval office table.
"Enough! A party of twenty armoured men with assault rifles will accompany me and the scientist to the ship, and attempt to communicate with the aliens. I will hear nothing more." Evans authority spoke loud, and the room silenced. Some of his advisors looked visibly agitated, but he ignored them and nodded.
"Dismissed."
An hour and a half later, Evan Smiths helicopter had landed near the craft. His team escorted him towards the craft with weapons raised and safeties off. Once they got close enough to throw a rock at the craft, a large panel in the ship detatched itself and descended down onto the grass, forming a ramp. A group of the aliens walked out in black suits, wearing strange helmets that reminded Evan of a motorcycle helmet. They seemed to be humanoids, with two arms and two legs. The group of aliens walked towards them at an alarmingly fast and determined pace. They got uncomfortably close.
"That's far enough!" shouted the captain of the military unit and raised his weapon. They did not respond.
"Don't fire!", Evan said. Everyone began shouting and pointing their weapons around. A man opened fire aimed at the sky as a warning. One of the humanoids kept walking forward. It got close enough to Evan that he could see through the visor. It was a she. A human. Evan could see her blonde hair covering her eye slightly. She smiled at him and extended a hand. In it were a golden round object. Evan smiled back at her. He could see in the reflection of her visor his bodyguards reach out and grab him, pulling him backwards. The alien womans body recoiled backwards as the Captain shot her in the chest reapetedly. She fell backwards, blood spraying out of her suit, and her escort party fell one by one as the assault team gunned them down with their rifles. The round object the woman had held in her hand fell to the ground and activated itself. A luminous blue hologram displayed itself in amazing quality infront of Evan and his party. It showed another galaxy. Coordinates. A star. And a planet much like their own. A slideshow began, showing humans smiling, beautiful music playing in the backround. Mountains and great rivers, more beautiful than any on Earth. Evans watched in horror and knew what his bodyguards had done. And it was too late. He looked up and watched as a blue beam emerged from the sky at lightspeed and crashed down somewhere outside Washington. And he watched as the wall of Light came towards him, wider and larger than ten tsunamis, wiping out every building it crossed over, wiping out humanity on Earth. | 267 | Humanity, after making a trans-galactic flight to find more life is surprised to have only found... more humanity. | 363 |
A heifer's front leg sat on the ground beside the torn fence. Blood pooled around it, but flies were just now starting to find it - it was fresh. Jose jabbed it with his boot heel,
"It's fresh," he said, nonchalantly.
"Yeeeep," Eli answered with a sigh. He slid two shotgun shells down his coach gun and flipped it up with a hard click. J.C. tried to appear at much as ease as he could. Sure, he had been a cowhand for a while, and he knew this would come up eventually, but out in Oklahoma the nearest one was at least a hundred miles in any direction. Now that he was down off the Caprock, and winter was finally over...well, it looks like they're finally out again.
Eli must have seen the worry on J.C.'s face. He chuckled gruffly as he shoved a coach gun into J.C.'s arms, "Heh, you ain't got these out in Oklahoma, huh? Well, welcome to Pala Dura, kid."
Guns and loaded and extra ammo in their saddle bags, the three road out past the mangled barbed wire fence to red face of the canyon. From somewhere behind one of the formations, there was a horrifying screech; a gargling noise; and then a clattering sound of sharp claws on red stone.
"Ha ha ha!" Eli laughed triumphantly and raised his gun into the air, "A *CRAWLER*!" He turned a wicked smile to J.C., "Ooh whoo, boy, y'er lucky! Somethin' with wings mighta been too tough for your first go."
In a second, Jose had his horse galloping to towards the sounds. His pistol was raised straight into the air. He fired off a shot and yelled something in Spanish. The sound must have caught the crawlers attention, because the noise of clattering claws was getting closer. Eli trotted up a bit farther and raised his coach. J.C. followed.
After a couple more pistol shots and a few more seconds of yelling, a dusty red giant scuttled from around the canyon wall not 50 feet away from them. It was at least 30 feet long with its tail, which whipped across the ground, tossing large rocks. Its legs were short and bowed and five intimidating claws sat at the end of each one. Its head was wider than J.C. thought it would be - and spiked, like a horny toads. It shrieked and revealed four rows of black, jagged teeth.
"Alright," Eli spoke softly and slowly, "Now, Jose's a shitty shot, but that horse of his is fast. He'll get the crawler to use up his fire before it can reach the grass." True to Eli's word, Jose began darting in front of the crawler. The thing seemed to go berserk. It stretched out its neck and fire streamed from its mouth in Jose's direction. J.C. felt the heat before the flame died against the rocks. Jose was way ahead of its flame, though. Nothing to worry about, it seemed.
"Now, we gotta go. You're not a shitty shot, are ya?" Eli asked. J.C. shook his head. "That's right," Eli said, "You said you were always huntin'." Eli was suddenly galloping away. J.C. urged his horse to follow. They took a wide arc to come behind the crawler.
"AIM FER THE KNEES!!" Eli yelled over his shoulder. J.C. pulled his horse into a smooth gallop and then pushed the coach gun against his shoulder. Just as he had lined up the barrel with one of the crawler's back knees, the thing moved with uncanny speed. Its long claws dug into the side of the canyon face and he began to crawl up the side. J.C. was dumbfounded.
Beside him, Eli fired off a shot. A few bits tore into the crawler's right hind quarter. It cried out and lost a bit of its momentum. It slid down a few feet, tearing the canyon wall.
Its small moment of falter gave J.C. a second to regain himself. He thundered forward and lined up with the right front knee as the beast resumed its chase with Jose. Unfortunately for J.C., the crawler noticed him coming up beside it. It slowed its pursuit and turned its head at J.C., mouth open. I weird whispering sound came from the back of it's throat. Jose had run it dry. Without much thinking, J.C. charged straight at the crawler's open maw. With fearsome jolt, he fired his coach gun into its mouth.
***
J.C. and Eli sat by the fire eating the weird and tough meat. Jose worked behind them, salting and packing meat into canvas bags.
"Very, very well done, J.C.," Eli said, mouth full. "Can you believe injuns didn't have any guns to kill these things? Heh, lot a good them arrows woulda done 'em."
"I heard they didn't try to kill 'em. They just let 'em fly around, or eat buffalo, or whatever," J.C. said, "I heard the dragons didn't attack nobody 'til we got here."
Eli laughed. | 11 | Damn dragons are attacking the cows again. git yer colt cowboy, we got work to do. | 23 |
I couldn't fully comprehend what was happening, or maybe I just didn't want to. The sirens, the screaming, the crying. It all happened so fast. My mother had told me to go hide in the bunker, as she called it. To me it was my own little hideout. I would play in it or hide in it when my friends and I played hide and seek. I never knew it's actual purpose. I took my Sergeant Awesome toy and sat on the floor, waiting for my mother. "I have to find your father," she said, the last words I would ever hear from her. I sat and waited for what felt like an eternity.... it could have been minutes or hours or days. It was silent for the longest time. There was nothing but Me, Sergeant Awesome, and the bunker. Then the world began to shake, and it shook hard. I gripped my toy tightly and laid on the floor silent crying to myself. I couldn't tell if I had fallen asleep, but the shaking had stopped. I looked around the bunker and contemplated leaving my somewhat peaceful solitude. I placed my right hand on the large bulky door, the other hand clutching Sergeant Awesome, and sighed deeply. "I can do this," I thought to myself, hoping that saying it would make me believe it. I pulled out the steel bar locking the door and opened it. I couldn't do anything but gasp at the sight I saw, or should I say the sight I didn't see. There was nothing, dense smoke everywhere. I placed my shaking foot onto the grass and peeked farther out into the nothingness. Ashes. I crawled back into the bunker and shut it. The bunker is everything now, all I have in this world. I will stay in it until I die, which shouldn't be long.
*This is my first story I know it sucks* | 13 | You are a 14 year old who has just survived a nuclear blast explosion in an underground shelter. As you step out, you gasp at the sight you see... | 24 |
The police officer looked at the young couple from the top of their small house's staircase. The pair stood on the patio in front of the front door which stood ajar. Their eyes were wide, and more than a little concerned.
How was he going to tell them? What do you say to parents in a time like this? No answers presented themselves, so Officer Callie O'Mally just started at the beginning.
"I don't really know what to tell you, you see." He started. "It seems that the bus just couldn't avoid the tree."
The look of horror on their faces nearly stopped him in his tracks. Still, Callie O'Mally knew he had to finish before he lost his nerve.
"Your son, John... I'm so sorry, but he's gone."
The mother let out a sob.
"Officer, surely there must be some mistake!" the young father cried out, almost pleading.
"I'm afraid there has been none. We checked his ID, your son is the one."
"Oh, God!" the father shouted, grabbing hold of his wife.
Through tears, the wife asked, "did he feel pain?"
The officer grimaced. The sight had been gruesome to behold. Finally, Callie O'Mally spoke.
"Ma'am, I don't think he felt pain. There was hardly anything left besides a stain. In fact, I'm sure it was quick. No longer than a single second's tick."
O'Mally was doing his best to be comforting.
Then the father looked at him with shock and disgust.
"Are you doing that on purpose?" He spat the question at Callie.
"I'm sorry, Sir." The Officer responded, "To what do you refer?"
"Your fucking rhyming!" The father screamed into the night.
"Ah, well when I was quite young." O'Mally explained, "I had an infection in my lung. Well, it grew and spread. It got to my brain and I was nearly dead. I got extraordinarily lucky. There was a specialist from Kentucky. He managed cured my infection, but I was left with this complexion. I'll now be on my way. My sincerest condolences to you both this day."
As Callie turned around, he heard the father scream at him.
"You disrespectful bastard! How dare you make fun of our intelligence like that?"
O'Mally had no answer. Not for the first time he wondered if he might have chosen the wrong line of work. Breaking bad news was never taken well in rhyme.
"Maybe I'll become a poet." He said, once back inside the cruiser. "Maybe I am already and don't even know it."
Callie O'Mally shook his head and drove off into the night. And to think, he was only trying to be polite.
| 35 | You are a policeman explaining to parents that their child died in a horrific event, however you are afflicted with a disease in which you can only speak in rhyme. | 27 |
The females gather to watch the frail Gatherer play.
The noise is foreign. It is all at once harsh and sweet--a gathering surge of sound and silence. It *moves* them.
The Gatherer is blind to their presence. Around him he has gathered a collection of his favorite stones. Some are smooth, while others are jagged. With feral abandon, he cracks basalt against granite, marble ore against schist.
It is cacophanous and hauntingly beautiful. The stone heartbeat is a clatter that overpowers the oppressive ambiance of the jungle, that replaces it with a manmade, rhymic hum.
"*Ook!*" the females cry, overcome with lust and wild attraction. "*Eek!*"
Ragged loincloths rain down upon the frail gatherer, as the maddened herd flash their reddened genitals to his beat, signalling their overpowering desire to mate.
The gatherer studies the assembled crowd, and flicks his effeminate fur.
"Ook." he agrees coolly.
The crowd carries him off in a tight formation of flushed buttocks and matted hair. He studies the shrinking shapes of his instruments, and smiles a secret smile.
Yes. He will call it "Rock". | 19 | An early human invents the first musical instrument and immediately uses it to try and get laid. | 35 |
"I don't believe you. How could you 'not compete' with the local variety shop?" he was my boss, and had earned his nickname 'bear' primarily based on his looks. The snarl he was facing me with only enhanced the characterization.
"You... you don't understand, sir" I stammered, sweating profusely in his tiny office.
"Explain it then!" he roared
"They are, quite literally, giving their stock away."
"Impossible, how are they making any money?". He tilted his head, looking at me like I had just moved his honey pot.
"Well, I'm not sure of all the details, but they appear to have an agreement with Google, to place ads on all their merchandise. It's a totally new business model. They just opened a second location in Danville."
"Well then, Johnson. You and I will need to set up a meeting with Google and come to an arrangement that undercuts them."
"You can do whatever you want." I began, more confident than I had been in years. "I'm going to work for them. Here's my resignation. "
I slapped the paper down on his desk, leaving to change commerce forever. | 14 | A small mom and pop general goods store draws national media attention after they run the local Walmart out of business. | 45 |
For the first time in his life he stood in front of his mother as himself. No dresses no ribbons, no makeup, no act.
"Mom... this is the real me, this is who I was born as and this is who I wish to be from here on out. I'm not, nor have I ever been a woman, I've tried to tell you, tried to show you but you kept pushing, signing me up for ballet, entering me into beauty pageants, forcing me to wear only the most feminine of clothing. That's not me, I think you've known for a while but either didn't want to admit it, or didn't want to let it happen. I'm not Rebekah, I am Trevor, and from this moment on I will ALWAYS be Trevor."
He stood there trying to keep his confidence but it was fading fast into fidgets and cold sweat. His mother just stared at him, processing the changes and the words that had just come out of Trevor's mouth. Her face contorted into a haughty smirk and she took a deep breath.
“Rebekah honey..." Trevor squirmed as she spoke, "This is just another phase, Remember when you wanted to play baseball? A phase, and when you thought you liked that girl in middle school? A phase, you have so many phases, you'll be over this one soon enough."
"Mom, why do you think I had so many phases? That was me, the real me trying to break through, and I got over those phases, as you call them, because I didn't want you to be disappointed in me, but I can’t hold myself in anymore, I hate my life, I hate everything about Rebekah, I always have. This is not a phase, and I will not be persuaded to get over it this time."
Trevor's mother was pale, eyes wide; she began to shake ever so slightly. Her face attempting to hold onto its smirk was twitching at the corner of the mouth.
Trevor waited for her response but could see it was not going to be ideal.
Finally she began to speak again, "Rebekah, I am sorry if you did not like the things I enrolled you for but you cannot change that you are my daughter, that's just ridiculous, and if you think this little stunt is going to fly then you have another thing coming young lady."
"Mother dear, I am going to murder your daughter. Nothing of Rebekah will be left for you to hold onto, and if you cannot accept me as who I am, if you cannot accept Trevor as your son, then you will lose that to. I am prepared to move out if that is what it will take to be me. So you chose right now, can you love the son you never knew you had? Or will you hold to the memory of your imaginary daughter?"
| 17 | Take the line "I'm going to murder your daughter" and make me sympathize with the person talking. | 16 |
It was all so perfect.
35... 36... 37... 38...
The floor number slowly climbed.
"I'm almost there."
He shook with adrenaline.
39... 40...
The elevator doors slid open to reveal nothing. Not his family. Not himself. There wasn't anything at all. His smile immediately disappeared. An empty room would have been something. But this... this was nothing.
The elevator chimed and the doors closed.
"What does this mean?"
Tristan pressed the button for floor 35. The elevator descended.
40... 39... 38...
"How could there be nothing?"
37... 36... 35...
The elevator stopped. The doors opened. Tristan stepped out into the room. But something was wrong. Everything had changed. Tristan had just come from floor 35. He had seen a happy and older version of himself playing with his two daughters, his wife pregnant with their third child watching nearby. They had all been unable to see him; he was only a spectator to their joyous lives. But now, standing there, Tristan was staring at himself, and himself was staring back.
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why wasn't there anything there?"
"You already know."
"No, I don't. Tell me."
"Hearing me say it won't change anything. You already know."
"I.. I die?"
"Yes. We die."
"How?"
"Does it matter? Everyone dies."
"Shouldn't it matter?"
"It's better that we don't know."
Tristan was distraught. The knowledge that he wouldn't live to see 40, a mere 16 years from now, was devastating.
"Where are they?"
"Where is whom?"
"Where is my wife? Our kids? I was just here, moments ago. I saw them. We were all so happy."
"There aren't any kids. Or wife. I never married. How could I? Knowing what we know. You should never have gone up there."
"But I had to know. I..."
"You HAD to know? No one ever knows and they all live out their happy lives. We know. And we are miserable for it."
"But we.. I... don't have to be miserable. I could still marry her! I could still have children!"
"No. You can't. Because it consumes you, defines you. You will try to lead a normal, happy life. And you will fail. And you will die miserable and alone. All because you HAD to know."
Tristan fled. The elevator took him to the ground floor and he ran from the building to where his fiancée was waiting. Upon seeing her, he tried to smile, but instead wept. | 41 | A man finds that each numbered button he pushes on an elevator opens up to show himself at the corresponding age in the past or future, whether it’s floor 40 (age 40) or floor 2 (age 2). Not knowing the consequences, the man decides to exit the elevator at a chosen floor. | 71 |
Day 5:
The missiles had stopped, the threats over and done with now. There wasn't anyone left to threaten, or be threatened. Well, other than the two of us anyway. We were in an old bunker I'd known about. A few friends and I had been out to visit it, and when we were deep in the grasp of that whole 'zombie' craze we even stocked it with food and supplies. Who the hell would've guessed we'd ever use it?
None of my friends made it to the bunker though, I guess they're dead now. It is just Ally and I. Her full name is Alison, but she insists on Ally.
There's no way to be sure, and in all honesty I'm pretty sure there are other survivors, but I have no idea where they'd be, or how to contact them. All I know is that there is no TV or internet signal coming in. Maybe satellites are still working, but cell phones aren't working anymore, at least not as phones, and the telephone hardlines we installed don't get anything. The external cameras are working just fine, but they haven't seen so much as animal movement since just after the bombs dropped.
So, I am alone in here. With Ally. Who, just before this happened, I'd tried to ask out. Hey, I've been turned down before, no hard feelings, generally speaking. I get if a lady isn't interested in me, but there's no need to be a bitch about it, right? And man, Ally ranted at me for minutes about how that would never happen. 'Not if you're the last man on Earth!', she's said. I thought we'd been friends, but I guess I'd been wrong if she couldn't even cushion that blow. Bottom line is, it was really awkward once the shock wore off.
Man, I should've started this sooner.
Day 6:
I want to write something here, but nothing has happened. I don't mean that in the old, 'I just went to work then came home, you know, nothing much'. I mean, we both sat around, in silence, ate once or twice, then sat around some more. I have never been this fucking bored in my entire life. I tried to talk to her, but she continued to shut me down, hard. My friends and I were planning on bringing books and whatnot to stock the place, but we'd never quite gotten around to that. There is a copy of *City and the Stars*, a classic I'd forgotten here one weekend, but that isn't a long book, and however good, you can reread it only so many times.
Day 8:
When we first started moving in we did a really cursory exploration, just sort of seeing what there was. In the last two days I've explored this place really thoroughly. It isn't quite as big as I thought it was, but big enough to get lost in, not saying I did get lost, I was exploring. I saw Ally a few more times, but she's still not really interested in talking. I know you're supposed to give a girl some space, but there's a finite amount of that to be had here, and I can't leave.
I did find some old *old* military, I don't know, manuals or something? They're shitily written instructions on how to use equipment that hasn't been in this place in decades. I also found a few crates that must've been forgotten when the military abandoned this place, but they aren't anything exciting. Spare parts, that sort of thing.
I also did an inventory of our supplies. We have enough food and water for a few months, and it seems that the plumbing here is holding up. I hope it does, I have no fucking idea how to fix that stuff.
Day 9:
Ally unloaded on me, and now I feel like the world's biggest asshole, well, second biggest. Turns out her last boyfriend had been maintaining a fuck-buddy relationship with her for a few months and a few weeks ago she turned up pregnant. The two of them got into a huge fight which turned into an actual fight. Take a guess at who won that. I don't know if it was related, but she lost the baby about three weeks ago. I asked her out not too long after that. I mean, sure, that doesn't totally excuse her acting like such a bitch, but it puts a whole different perspective on the situation, you know? Then the world fucking ends. She'd been quiet because she was fucked up inside. Didn't know what to do, so today she told me everything. I didn't know what to say, so I kept my damn mouth shut and held her. She cried for a long time then passed out.
Day 10:
Things are different now. She didn't take a 180 or anything, but she actually talks to me sometimes. I told her that I'd give her a tour of the place tomorrow. I almost got her to laugh today, a smile is better than nothing.
Day 11:
It wasn't a great tour, but you know, how could it be? The whole place is metal and rust colored. My friends and I never bothered with paint or decorations. Still, she seemed to enjoy the walk.
She told me she wanted a bath, but we don't have the water for that. Basic hygiene we can afford, but nothing luxurious like a bath or shower, we just have to roll with it. Ally wasn't happy to hear that, but she understood. She was actually way more pissed when she realized that meant no washing clothes either. She ranted for a while at me, but I knew she wasn't actually mad at me, she was just mad. She just needed something to yell at, and I'm the only option. Kinda sucks, but afterwards, when she realized she was being unfair, she apologized and hugged me. I know it may be unprofessional or whatever, but man, it felt good. She has the most amazing breasts, and they were pressing right into me.
Day 12:
We played games today. Nothing major, just guessing games, tic tac toe, shit like that. It was more entertaining than I'd thought. I like spending time with her. She's so pretty, she obviously hates her dirty hair, but I think it still looks pretty nice. Trying to figure out how to get another hug, but I don't know, I don't want to seem all creepy. Sliding in after that shit she told me about her ex. I'll give it more thought.
Day 13:
I... need to be more careful what I write here, or be more clever about hiding it. She found this today and read what I'd written while I was napping (lots of time for naps down here). She was mad/not mad about the whole breasts thing two days ago. I don't know which. She yelled at me a bit, but was half smiling the whole time. And afterwards she thanked me for calling her beautiful. I think that means she wasn't really mad, but I don't know. I'll give her some space anyway.
It is a bit unfair though. After all, if I were to read the journal she's keeping, I'm sure she'd be furious at me. She doesn't even hide it well. Wait, maybe that means she wants me to read it? Or... hell, I don't know.
Day 15:
I forgot to write yesterday. Not on purpose, just sort of hard to keep track of days down here. Only the cameras and clocks even let us know what time of day it is. I got another hug from her, and it was awesome! And in case you are reading this Ally, yes, your breasts are awesome and it felt great. I won't apologize for that.
I decided that her journal is her own business, and that I won't jut in.
Day 16:
Nothing much happened. I talked to Ally some more. I think she's warming up to me. Man, I like her lips. I wonder what it would be like to kiss them. I hope she wasn't serious when she said that shit about me being the last man on Earth before all this happened. I know this isn't a great time for romance, certainly not Paris, but it is what we have.
Day 17:
We told stories today. We took turns telling whatever story we wanted, movies, books, TV, just telling stories. We were both really bad, but it was fun anyway. I think we'll get better, and we also get to see relatively new stories.
Day 18:
Stories!
Day 19:
More stories, I think my Star Wars is coming along well. We both know the story so we collaborate some.
Day 20:
She hugged me again! For no reason! She just came up to me and hugged me. Oh man, it was so nice. It wasn't even just her boobs either. It was good to touch another person. I think that might be what made it nice all along. After the hug we stood looking at each other. She let be brush her hair back. Then she stuck her tongue out and smiled at me before she walked away. She looked good walking away.
Day 24:
Lost a couple days there, not on purpose. Just sort of...drifted by. I like storytelling. She still hasn't kissed me, but we laid together... I'm not sure when. Just sort of laid down together. She slept in my arms. When she was sleeping I kissed her forehead. She's so pretty.
Day 27ish:
Keep losing days. Not feeling very well. I think I'm sick. I keep telling her to stay away from me, I don't want her to get sick, but she doesn't stay away. I'm happy about that. I like her being close. I hope I get better soon.
Day 29ish:
I think I'm in trouble. Still not feeling well, but I saw her putting something in my food. I don't know what she could be giving me, but I'm going to be watching her more carefully. She's tricky. Tricky pretty. Pretty hair.
Day :
She's soooo pretty. She kissed my head today, like frozen fire on my skin. She cares for me so well. Pretty inside and out. Lucky I brought her. I wonder
Day 40:
Ally tells me I've been in and out for more than a week with a terrible fever. I'm still weak, but since the fever broke I don't have strange fever dreams. Some of the things I saw, man, I'm glad I was too sick to write.
Day 42:
Ally's been keeping track of our food, she says we still have another two months of food, but less water. We need to figure out how to make it last. I'm well enough to move around a bit, but not much more than that. While she was counting the food I saw her diary laying out in the open. She wasn't even trying to hide it. It was tempting, but I made my decision long ago.
Day 43:
She kissed me today! | 23 | the two of you survive. | 24 |
"Kill them. Exterminate them immediately."
"But they're new *life*, they're something that we've never--"
"I don't care." Malcolm turned to his subordinate, his face pulled back in anger. "They are a danger to life as we know it--*civilization* as we know it! They could destroy everything that we hold sacred. Imagine if other nations got to them first, Aleksander!" Malcolm turned and looked at the window. They couldn't afford this new *intelligence*. News of this new life would quickly spread, and if those from across the ocean got scent of it... He turned, finality etched into his features. "Yes. Exterminate them all."
"Sir, we will have to go before the board, and they'll--"
"They will be dealt with later, and they will agree with my assessment." Malcolm frowned. "What happened to the first group?"
"Sir?"
Malcolm stepped forward, looming over Aleksander. "First contact, Aleksander... did they let them go back *home*, Aleksander? Did they *escape*?"
"Yes, sir, they *did* manage to retreat, as *we* did, sir..."
Malcolm turned away, disgusted. He looked out the window and watched as soldiers began to swim into formation. Their armor bristled and flashed, and their weapons glistened. Malcolm sighed. "We are going to war, Aleksander. We will act swiftly, violently." He watched as large beasts with webbed feet and sharp teeth quickly formed a line. Soldiers sat on the beasts and then lashed themselves to them. They were ready. Malcolm turned back to Aleksander. "We have not been above ground for many centuries, Aleksander, but today we return."
| 24 | After decades of exploring, humans find intelligent life not on another planet, but at the bottom of the ocean. | 42 |
Celia rolled over on the metal floor, shivering. Even in her always-on suit with aerogel insulation and really elaborate heat-management systems, she was still cold. She figured she'd get used to it in another few weeks, but for now, she had to deal with the Ihu starship's environment. Ihu themselves had a biology based on superfluid helium-4 instead of water, as they had evolved on a rogue planet with no access to any source of heat, so of course it was utracryogenically cold in here.
She watched the Ihu in front of her. To her, they had always looked a bit like aardvarks, about the size of a deck of cards. She listened for its ticking sounds--at least the languages were roughly compatible; she'd learned how to emulate the ticks linguistically.
*"I have been told that your consensus is altering alarmingly quickly,"* it said in its own language, at a pace that humans considered very slow.
She sighed in her suit. *"What do you mean?"*
*"You continually display inactive behavior and often reject socialization."*
'Inactive behavior' basically meant 'not working' to the Ihu. Ihu were almost always working. Not necessarily on productive things--she knew one that composed patterns of strobe-lights in its spare time as an alien version of music--they just never stopped for leisure. It wasn't necessary.
*"They never leave me alone. I need my alone time,"* she explained. *"There's no privacy here."*
*"I/we see. Your consensus so large that other inputs contribute to being overwhelmed."* It scuttled across the floor, away from her.
*"I don't need to be alone all the time. Just...sometimes."*
She couldn't read Ihu emotions because they had several humans lacked, but she wished she could make out this one. *"You're a human, so you wouldn't know this, so I/we will explain. Dynamic consensus is a sign of dynamic access to sustenance. Are you using your sustenance at proper intervals and ratios?"*
In other words: was she eating well enough? Celia looked away. *"Yes."*
*"Then there is some other reason for dynamic consensus. You must be dynamic--for what other reason could you have the unwell behavior of rejecting social interaction, but then display wellness quickly thereafter?"* The Ihu stopped scuttling. *"Your consensus is of an unwell--yet dynamic--size, and its members inhibit active behavior."*
*"I'm sorry. I can't control myself perfectly."* Celia had considered herself strong-willed before being picked to be an alien ambassador. But now, these conditions really frazzled her.
*"I/we think that means you also have members capable of overriding the others, if I/we am/are interpreting your human-tilted expressions correctly. Your consensus is thoroughly damaged. Would you like to take poison?"*
Celia whimpered. *"No sir."*
*"I/we am/are afraid the current state of your consensus requires an extensive cull. The hydroxic acid should--"*
*"You know we're* made *of mostly hydroxic acid, right?"*
There was a long pause, about 6 minutes. Celia let the Ihu think.
*"Okay. I/we learned about human psychology before this, but didn't understand it. Now I/we get it. You don't* have *a consensus of multiple minds."*
It continued to think for another few minutes.
*"You rely on one member, with no consensus-determining method. Your one-member mind thus displays highly dynamic behavior, somewhat like an Ihu poisoned to the near-death state of one member. But more extreme."*
*"...Yes."*
*"I/we can't help you."*
*"Tell people to leave me alone when I ask and understand that I actually can't be active all the time. If I do, I will go insane."*
*"I/we will leave you, then."*
The Ihu scuttled to the end of the room, to exit through the door-hole. The starship was Ihu-sized, so Celia couldn't get through the tiny doors, and had to stay in this storage area, where there was hardly enough room to do the pushups necessary to get some exercise. Before it left, she had to speak up.
*"Do you think I'm insane?"*
*"Completely, utterly, and irrevocably."* Pause. *"It's fascinating."* | 36 | Alone on an alien starship, the only human envoy is asked to attend a therapy session with their ships counselor. The aliens do not have much in common with humans, psychologically. | 44 |
June, 2014. Rushing, I glanced into the head of each aisle at the WalMart as I passed. Chips, no, coke, no, aha! Frozen food. I quickly scanned the prices of shrimp rings, grabbed a couple of the cheapest and put them in my cart. Now what about that cocktail sauce...
Thousands of miles away, in Thailand, the captain of the shrimp trawler was negotiating with another captain to buy some workers. They eventually settled on £250 per head, mostly Burmese and Cambodian villagers who had already paid everything they own to an immigration broker. Once aboard, these [men endured 20-hour shifts, regular beatings, torture and execution-style killings. Some were at sea for years; some were regularly offered methamphetamines to keep them going. Some had seen fellow slaves murdered in front of them.](http://www.theguardian.com/global-development/2014/jun/10/supermarket-prawns-thailand-produced-slave-labour).
I pried the clear plastic lid from the shrimp ring, set the jar of cocktail sauce in the middle, and put it on the living room coffee table. James glanced up distractedly when I entered and then at the shrimp.
"Thanks", he said. "I love those little guys".
Chewing, he went back to the football game.
"Me too", I replied. "They're such a good deal."
On the boat, night brought a few hours of fitful sleep. Men were sobbing and moaning. A splash outside suggested another dead sailor thrown to the fish.
Distracted by the game, I crunched a bit of the shell.
"God! Why can't they just clean these up completely and not bother with these gross tails?"
James looked over. "Huh?"
"Whatever". Even though half of them were left, the shrimp were getting warm and I was kind of grossed out by biting that one tail. I scraped them into the trash.
"Fuck it, they were cheap" | 17 | Life today if slavery wasn't abolished. | 26 |
There are rules to this universe. Constants, if you will. The physical laws of nature have to be obeyed and if you break those laws then you are trying to play god. We all live by them but you feel as if you are immune.
Do you know how much time I had to spend to set up 8 different worlds to slow you down? Do you know how hard it was to actually transform the population into bricks and how long that took? And still, insurrectionists would plant money about the place, trying to help you out, growing fungi for you to aid you in a place that I tried to keep as barren as possible.
I did all this to slow you down, because I play by the rules. I enlisted the aid of thousands of followers to destroy you, all by the rules. I paid them according to their union contracts and even supplied equipment if they needed it. Do you know how much flying clouds cost? And replacing all those hammers...and giant sized ammunition! I could have retired to Maui, hell I could have BOUGHT Maui in comparison to what I spent on destroying you.
And what do you do? You find shortcuts. You find sewer pipes the insurgents placed all over and you skipped ahead. You abused that poor turtle to the point where he will never come out of his shell and for what? To remove the chance of ever losing? Eternal life? It doesn't sound like much fun.
So, if you are going to cheat, so am I. She's dead, you know. You skipped ahead so I killed her. If you think that heading back to the beginning, that praying for a reset will make her come back, you can forget it. You have your cheats, I have mine. Maybe now you'll leave my castle alone. | 977 | You are a villain in a video game. The hero is using cheat codes, and you can't stand it any longer. | 655 |
Dawn on the plantation. Humble Brown wakes with the rest of the slaves, shivering in the brisk wind of a Carolina morning.
The cold is a brief respite. Sunlight will bring heat and humidity aplenty. With arms stiff from overuse and toil, he rouses his sleeping brethren.
Cotton plants skritch and scratch at their tattered leggings as they exit the squat, ugly building that acts as housing for twelve. Their overseer is waiting at the entrance, for the morning tally.
They're a curious breed, overseers. The Masters can be kind, cruel, and rapacious--but there is only one kind of overseer.
"Alright, yew little negrid fucks." he spits. "Now harvests have been behind the last few days. Anyone care to tell me what that means?"
The slaves respond with a sullen silence. They know better than to respond.
Lips curled in a cruel sneer, he lashes out with the tip of his thick leather whip, catching Humble Brown on the cleft of his lip.
"Just a little encouragement for today."
Humble Brown spits a mouthful of blood and smiles weakly. "Yes, massuh."
"Now," says the overseer. "Which one of you shifty sons of bitches wants to tend to the--"
It is *fast*.
He hears the sound first, like a light cough. Then a sickening, watermelon-cracking thud.
The overseer's head is a liquid red fountain mounted on a grisly stalk. The body sways obscenely for a heartbeat, and collapses in a heap.
All around him, the cotton stalks have come alive with movement. Black shadows creep from the fields--strange shapes, decorated with fronds and vines of dead vegetation. Twenty-odd men emerge into the morning half-light.
One of them stands out from the rest. He is taller.
No, there is more to it then that. His eyes...he has a *master's* eyes.
"Do you speak for these men?" asks the tall man.
"Yes, massuh."
At this word, the tall man's eyes flash with anger. "I'm no master. That's not a word I intend to ever hear again. Call me..."
His lips curl in a secret smile. "Call me Martin King."
"Yes, Martin King."
"Your men have a choice." says Martin King. "You can stay. I don't drag the unwilling. But they *will* kill you for this."
Humble Brown nods slowly. He knows the consequences of what he has seen.
"Or, you can come with us."
"To the North, mas--Martin? They been saying the Union be letting black folk fight."
Martin lets slip a mirthless laugh. "Not to the North." He spreads his hands, as if to encompass the earth itself.
"I know you've all heard about the war. I know you've all been wondering at the world it will bring about. But brothers, I've been to that world, and it's no better than this one."
He shifts his weight and lifts a sleek black rifle into the air. It is like no earthly gun Humble Brown has ever seen.
"We're starting over." says Martin King, in a voice as cold as gunmetal. "Right here. Right now. A nation for *us*."
And from Humble Brown's throat, there comes a sound--a feral, animal sound--and it is echoed by his brethren slaves, and by the dark silhouettes that flank the enigmatic shape of Martin King.
It's a strange new sensation, freedom. But Humble Brown has tasted it, like blood in his mouth, and he will never be the same.
--
As his newly-bolstered force prepares to set out for the Appalachians, Martin King allows himself a moment of grim satisfaction.
He was a man once. No longer. Now he is something like a myth crossed with an avenging god. Never before in his life has his purpose been so clear.
When he was born, his mother named him Moses. She will never know the aptness of that name. | 31 | You're a modern, present-day soldier when suddenly you get sent back time to the Battle of Gettysburg. Fully equipped with 21st century weapons, gears, and tactics, describe your experience at trying to survive one of the bloodiest battles in history. | 49 |
The wordocaust was 5 years ago. I still remember it as clear as yesterday.
Every year we have a celebration in honour of our leader, our god. On that day, each village presents their gift and sacrifice.
The gift is intended to please him and the sacrifice is to remind us of his power. This worked perfectly for past decades.
That year however, I was the sacrifice. It was wrong and unfair. The elections were always rigged. They usually take some poor lad who nobody will miss. It never should have been me. Yet there I was, standing at the front of the crowd, handcuffed with the rest of the sacrifices. The moment eventually arrived. He started killing the sacrifices. With every death, I grew more scared until he finally came for me. He leaned in close and I was his lips moving in the corner of my eye. I expected to die but nothing happened. He stared at me in utter shock. He went mad and I saw his face turning red. It all happened so fast. Everybody around me instantly died.
Today we still live in a world of silence and every year we still have a celebration in honour of our dead leader. The people believe that our leader took a thousand of his people with him to heaven. Nobody knows that I was the only survivor and I still don't understand what happened. At least I am alive. | 19 | You live in a totalitarian dystopia where words can literally kill. | 38 |
Ok, Deadpool's gonna give you a kickass story to listen to. So sit down, shut up, and enjoy it. Got it?
Ok, so there I am. I'm in this poker game with some British chumps and a guy I said was my friend so I could hit it with his sister. We're betting everything we got and losing. I put the rest of my money down and ask to sweeten the pot. This guy pulls out a ticket. I don't know what it's for at first, but I'm like "Aight."
Turns out, this ticket is to go on a cruise to 'Murica! Hell yes I want it! So what do I do? Pull out some extra cards I had layin' around in my sleeves and BOOM! Five Aces. They shat bricks! I walked out of there with some tickets and a new watch courtesy of one of the Brits who tried to accuse me of cheating so I cut his arm off.
Ok, so skip forwards like a day. I'm on the boat and this rich babe is checking me out so hard. So I go up to her and tell her, "Hey babe, can I draw you naked?" SHE SAYS YES!!!
So there she is, butt ass naked. I'm just doodling a firetruck at this point, but who cares, she's naked. I take her down to the cargo bay and we make some sweet love in some old car. Gotta love the classics.
Ok, so skip forward another day. Some idiot first mate doesn't look at what's in front of the ship. He's playing Risk with the captain and he's not even that good! We hit an iceberg. Shit's happening everywhere! I see some guy pick up a kid and claim she's his so he can get on a boat! What a great idea! I can't find any more kids though... :(
So I continue to look for stuff to loot. Then out of nowhere, I get a tap on my shoulder and there's an angry nude model wanting an explanation of why I haven't called her yet. Well, cellphones haven't been invented yet, so there was our first problem. So we're running through this ship, trying to find a way out. Next thing you know, the boat splits in half! Like in half! Shit's flying everywhere and people are dying left and right. It's like Christmas all over again!
So now me and this bitch are in the water. She finds a door and gets on it. I try to get on it and it starts jerking around, so she makes me stay in the water. It's cold as shit!!! My nips were harder than marble during the ice age! She's all like "I'll never let go!". I'm all like, "Forget you."
So I pull out my sword and shove her ass in the water. Took her dress, made some rope and tied myself up some dolphins the next morning and rode my ass down to Jamaica!
True story.
Love, Deadpool. | 23 | Deadpool writes his own story, rewriting a famous movie with himself in it | 25 |
I’m uneasy and it’s raining. Water is dripping down my back and it’s very cold. I wonder if my rifle will even work if she makes a move. She’s so young and could be very pretty, I wonder if she’s even a witch. I can’t really believe that this sort of thing is still going on today. How did I end up in this place? I just signed up for the free food and health care.
“You know I’m innocent right?” She manages to speak. She can’t be a year older than twenty, though the dirt and torture have aged her. Her hair is shorn close to the scalp and is patchy. Her mouth is crusted dried blood and some of her teeth missing.
“Ma’am, it’s not my place to decide that.” I try my best to not look her in the eyes.
“You know this is all for votes? The senator just wants to look good on the TV. After I’m dead and he’s gone he’ll never remember this night. But you will.” The tone in her voice on those words sends a chill up my spine.
She’s right. I will remember this. I’ve been stationed here for a few years and this is the second trial they’ve done. I don’t understand how it’s even legal. We have a law system for a reason, I guess it just doesn’t apply in you yell WITCH before you grab someone. Three years ago they accused some girl; I think her name was Susan of being a witch after she survived a house fire. Poor girl almost burned to death once and they ended up burning her at the stake to prove a point. It turned out she wasn’t a witch. I know I’ll never forget her screams. It’s probably going to happen again tomorrow. I don’t even what to know this one’s name; it’ll make it to personal.
“My name is Lily.” I can’t help snap my gaze to hers. “I don’t know why I’m here.” Her eyes are a very pretty blue, even when they’re sad. “The priest made an advance on me and I pushed him away. Suddenly I’m a witch? Now I’m going to die because of some old man’s perversion. If he wasn’t so friendly with the senator I’d probably be fine.”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry. There is nothing I can do.” I look away. I focus on the bars of the cage. Why can’t we at least be inside? Away from the cold and rain.
“You can let me go. It’s dark and late; I could slip into the woods and make it north.” She pleads. “You could tell them I bewitched you and got away. They’ll believe it.”
“I won’t.” My feet are soaked. I’m getting tired of standing here.
“You don’t believe any of this nonsense. Do you?” She props herself up with her hands and then stand. She is about as tall as my sister, maybe a little thinner. “You know as well I do this is a hoax. It always has been.” Her eyes are tearing up. “I’m finally old enough to leave this place and then this happens. I just want to get away.” She breaks down.
I watch her sob. Her shoulders heave up and down. I know it’s all a lie. I could just let her go. Would they believe me? I bet they all know it’s a sham too. They can’t really be that stupid can they?
“Listen, I’m going to let you go. You’re right, this is bullshit.” I thumb the latch on the gate and the door opens slowly. “Fifteen miles north the forest ends and you should be free from there.”
“Thank you so much John!” she rushes out and hugs me.
“I never told you my name.” I’m frozen in her arms. There is no way this is real.
I awaken to smell of burning wood and snap into consciousness. She’s gone. My whole body aches as I stand up. I can’t believe my eyes. The forest is ablaze, all of it. I turn around and it hits me. A wave of despair.
The entire city is ablaze as well. | 35 | In witch trials they used to have people guarding the prisoners through the night. The guards were often afraid because they expected strange things to happen to confirm the accusations. Write from the point of view of a guard. | 41 |
The first message we received from them was what could best be described as a "selfie". It was a picture of the alien, a head shot as it were, of it's smiling face. The face was not dissimilar to our own. Eyes, mouth, hair - but no nose. For that reason we called them the "Nonoslians." There was some kind of text on the picture, but without context we could not translate.
We sent them a similar picture. A friendly selfie of the President. Smiling, happy looking, The text on the picture was "Greetings from Earth." For all we knew the text on their picture was "Greetings from Nonoslia" so it seemed appropriate.
Their ship appeared in orbit months later. It was a pleasant looking space ship, not at all scary looking. From that ship we received a video transmission. The Nonoslians spoke an interesting sounding language, but we could not understand it. I suppose it was amazing that we got the message as obviously their technology was superior to our own, but we did. Nothing appeared menacing. There were no shadowy figures. No masks, or capes. No guns. Everything was well lit. Their tone sounded pleasant even if we could not understand them. We sent our video message of greeting as well, hoping they would receive it, and as far as we could tell, we did.
Eventually the linguists of our two people were able to work out communication. We may not have been as technologically advanced, but living on a polyglot world as we did, we were pretty good with languages. They were indeed peaceful and wanted nothing from us apart from cultural exchange.
All of this though, was done remotely. We had not personally visited them, nor they us. Evidently there was a health concern and we all wanted to be very careful to avoid any space viruses or plagues or disasters. They said it had happened to them once before, so they took extra precautions now.
What they wanted though, as part of the cultural exchange, was to exchange "ambassadors". They would take one of us to their world and leave one of theirs here. To facilitate this, we did a "vital fluids and tissues" exchange. You can guess what that involved. We tested them, they tested us. They posed no biological threat to us, but there was a slight concern about us to them. It could be resolved eventually, but our ambassador to Nonoslia would remain in a "clean room" on board their ship until such time. The Nonoslian would do the same here.
I was the chosen ambassador. The clean room was well furnished and supplied. They were built like us after all, so a chair was a chair, a bed was a bed, a table was a table. The food was odd though. Strange flavors, or in cases oddly bland. Smelled funny, but it was quite edible. The trip through our Solar system was slow, something about having to be free from the graviational pull of the sun. Once we were at a safe distance, things were much faster.
Onboard the ship, things were quite pleasant. We talked, we shared, they studied and by the time we arrived at Nonoslia, they deemed that my biology posed no threat to them and that I could safely leave my clean room.
Biggest mistake of my life. Nothing had prepared my for the stench of the Nonoslians. They had horrible body odor. I tried to maintain my composure, but it was difficult. Their ship smelled like a middle-school locker room where the toilets had backed up. I thought it was just cooped up space ship smells and once we got onto the planet I could breath easier.
I retched almost immediately upon exiting the ship. Sulphur and garlic and crap and b.o. and wet dog and rotten socks and corpse and durian. That was the smell of the planet Nonoslia. I passed out.
I awoke in my clean room and they asked what was wrong. How can you explain the horrid smell of the planet and its inhabitants to a people that have no noses and no sense of smell? | 14 | There is another world where people only have 4 senses. Somehow you are transferred to this other world where you retain all 5 senses. | 18 |
Mr. McDuck,
I have been a plumber since 1981. My journeyman plumber experiences left me uniquely qualified as both a skilled cooper and expert handler of herbivorous gorillas. I also gained rare early experience working with royalty primarily in areas related to mallet avoidance and hostage extraction. My royalty connections have since led to extensive experience working in a variety of unusual infrastructures, most notably regarding elaborate brick castles. I am one of only two plumbers worldwide certified to work with magma.
I have further distinguished myself from my peers by pioneering an unparalleled technique for both fungal and testudine vector extraction. I am an avid and record breaking beachcomber as well as an active and charter member of the National Association for Furries (NAfF). I have extensive experience operating as a plumber in hostile environments including under direct large arms fire.
Finally, I have impeccable references and am currently rated as the highest ranking plumber by both the Formula 1 racing organization (F1RO) and the celebrity mixed martial arts assocation (CMMAA).
As you can see, I come both highly qualified and highly recommended. Having examined your bathroom configuration I believe I can implement the changes your require for a highly competitive cost. It is my hope you will accept my independent contracting bid to accomplish this work for only 37 gold coins.
Sincerely,
Mario | 50 | You're Mario and you were not able to save the princess. You're now applying for a job. Using your experiences throughout the game, create a resume using professional-sounding words. | 57 |
I can still taste the metallic edge of blood in my mouth, intermingling with the saliva in my mouth, congealing ever so slightly on my teeth.
Which are much sharper than I remembered them being. Is this just a bad dream? No...my senses are far too intact for that, but I can't quite tune into what is exactly going on. The stench of...something...in the air is so intense and seems to blend with a deep, innate hunger and craving I have.
'I want to see the tigers, mummy!' a shrill, young voice shouts.
I internally frown, I'm not sure if tigers have that repertoire of facial expression but that’s the only way I can describe it. I'm a human woman? I’d been enjoying a blistering summer, I was soaking up all the relaxation my body could handle. My mind skipped over frantically. He constricted my windpipe and a stifled whine escaped my mouth ‘Just let it happen Tilly, I don’t want this getting nasty’. Suddenly I was overwhelmed, I remembered how my last body expired. It was always nasty.
I had no naive delusions that this was reincarnation. Education about the scientific theory surrounding the recycling of souls had been around for decades. I remember briefly a scientist who theorised that there could be DNA errors that resulted in memories being ‘attached’ to a soul at some point in the life of a body and therefore retention of a previous life. This idea was completely disregarded as nonsense, probably to avoid fear I realised now, as I stared out through wire mesh at the crowds of people staring into my enclosure.
I was travelling in Europe. The sun was beating down so hard today and I could feel the sunburn developing on my neck. I pulled the rucksack off my shoulders, dug around and retrieved sunblock and smothered it all over my neck and shoulders. ‘You don’t want to ruin the pretty pale skin’ a foreign, mocking voice said. I turned around and was met with a towering, heavily built olive skinned man. I felt uncomfortable immediately as he towered over me, his eyes burning holes into me and his smile as mocking as his voice. Laughing nervously I started to walk in the opposite direction. Despite shouts asking me to return, which became increasingly rude as I gained distance, there was no more trouble. That didn’t stop the sinking feeling in my stomach as I sensed what would happen next.
I caught up to J. ’Who was that?’ he questioned aggressively.
‘No idea’, I replied adjusting my straps to distribute weight better on my aching spine.
‘Don’t brush me off Tilly, why were you talking to him’ J demanded. I was used to this by now. I brushed it off. Everyone gets jealous, right? I hadn’t seen him this angry before though. His eyes were so wide and fixed in a stare at my face, as if trying to detect lying. A vein on his forehead was bulging too and his face was reddened with frustration. My attention turned to the paper bags in his hand, I had caught up with him as I had slept a little later in the hostel.
‘What type of rolls did you get us for lunch?’ I asked gently, in an attempt to diffuse things. This seemed to completely enrage J, he threw the bags onto the floor and pushed himself into me, his face practically touching mine.
‘Don’t take me for a fucking idiot’ he snarled.
I felt a lump rise in my throat. Aside from fear building in my stomach I noticed we were attracting the attention of others in the market. Some faces wore an expression of concern, others of annoyance.
J grabbed my arm tightly and led me through the crowd swiftly. I had no time to protest-the intense fear I was experiencing wouldn’t have allowed me to anyway. It had been bad but never like this before. By the time we had walked like this for fifteen minutes my face was soaking wet with tears, I sobbed ‘Just let me go’.
J pulled me a nearby alleyway and against a wall, pinning me down at the wrists, his face mere centimetres from my face.
‘Fucking slut’ he screamed.
I screamed back and tried to escape and he pinned me down at the neck with his arm ‘Just let it happen, Tilly. I don’t want this getting nasty’ he whispered.
Afterwards, I pulled up my pants, defeated, and trying to keep my eyes fixed on the floor. As he buttoned his jeans up he tried to make eye contact and failing to do so he grabbed my face in his hand tightly ‘Why have you got to push me, Tilly’ he whispered and shoved me into the wall fiercely. This winded me, but this feeling was not a new one to me. The words that I had so often thought but never dared to say, however did:
‘Fuck you’.
My immediate reflex was to run as fact as I could but he already had a fistful of my hair and before I knew it I saw, felt and tasted nothing but red as my skull bounced of the wall. The last thing that I vaguely remember was faint sobbing, perhaps my own, perhaps his, or both but that could have been as a result of brain damage.
‘Call more keepers’ a panicked voice screamed as I rapidly and erratically paced from one end of my enclosure to another, booming roars almost deafening even myself. The crowds were far from dispersed however, there seemed to be even more people encroaching in on my space but they were a blur. Except….except him. J, unsurprisingly, seemed to be the one most mesmerised and entertained by the suffering of me, this animal.
Before I realised it I had lunged, broken through the fence and had my jaw locked around his throat, expertly biting through his jugulars and carotids. As screaming and chaos filled the air I silently enjoyed that familiar metallic taste flooding my mouth. I saw the keeper set with a tranquilliser gun in the distance but voluntarily reentered my enclosure and settled down, finally peaceful, curled up on the grass. | 26 | Our world recycles souls, wiping our memories clean after every death. You wake up in the body of (animal of your choosing) locked up and on display in a Zoo. This time, you remember everything... | 36 |
Another call-off and yours truly was yet again called in, more like forced in, to make yet another cross country flight. This was the third time this month that some asshole decided his family was more important than getting 300+ people safely to the other side of the country. What about their families? They wanted to be with their loved ones too. We all knew what the hours would be like when we took a position at one of the largest airlines in the world. Oh well, the flight leaves at 7pm, and I would be back by the same time tomorrow, just in time for Christmas Eve dinner with the in-laws…maybe I should get stuck on a layover and miss that.
Pre-flight check complete
Time to make the usual announcements:
“Please turn off all electronic devices. This includes laptops, cell phones, and pagers (pause for laughter), airplane mode is acceptable. The flight attendants will now go over some other pre-flight instructions”
Just as I am about to turn off my own phone, I see I have an unread message. It is from my wife. This doesn’t alarm me, she usually sends me a “have a safe flight,” or “can’t wait till you get back” message.
This one is different.
“Hey baby, he took another extra flight. Come over as soon as you can. I got you a surprise for x-mas ;)”
My heart stopped.
I was seeing double.
My wife. The woman I was taking all of these extra flights for. The woman who I had planned to be with for the rest of my life. The woman who I had loved unconditionally since our marriage 13 years before and for the 3 years we had dated before that.
I turned my phone off and slowly slid it into my pocket. It felt like the weight of the world rested in that pocket. It felt like the weight of the world rested on my chest. It felt like my life was over...and i knew that, in all reality, it was.
I had a 6 hour flight with a 30 minute layover to the about it. I would be back in New York by 4pm tomorrow, and could be home by 7pm. I had plenty of time to think things over. Plenty of time…to buy a gun.
EDIT: typos, and adding a bit more on by request.
PART II:
We touched down in L.A. just after 1:30am. I sent the former love of my life a message saying, “Just landed, heading to the hotel. My return flight was supposed to land in New York at 4pm tomorrow, but it is going to be pushed back till 5 or 6pm. I will let you know when I land. Love you.”
Of course, my return flight had not been delayed, but she wasn’t going to check that, she never did. What reason would she have to distrust me, the man who loves her…had loved her.
If she even realized that she had sent me that message by mistake she had assuredly tried to cancel the message before it sent. I was going to play dumb and act like I had never seen what I was not meant to have seen. Thank God I didn’t have one of those damn smart phones that showed the other person when you read a message…that could have ruined everything.
6 and a half hours is a long time to think about one thing. When is the last time you have actually focused, with every fiber of your being, on a single thought for that long? These days, with all of the distractions all around us, the answer is probably never. I can personally attest to the fact that 6 and a half hours is a VERY long time to think things over. I had come up with several plans, each more daring and cruel than the last, but I had settled between 2 different options. Which option I chose entirely depended on how my trip into the city went.
I left the airport and hailed a taxi. I told the driver to take me to Little Tokyo. The cabbie gave me a strange look, but when I handed him a $50 bill, he turned around and did as he was told. I figured that Little Tokyo was my best bet for getting what I needed. Even though I am a pilot, I still have to go through security checks before I can get on a plane. Because of this, I needed to find a certain type of gun. I had recently read an article online about a gun design that had been going around the internet for a while. A gun design that could be made on one of those fancy new 3D printers. I didn’t know if this was a real thing or another internet myth, but I guessed that Little Tokyo was as good a place to start as any.
I will admit, this was not my first trip to this seedy area of town. I used to come here fairly often when I had layovers before I met my, soon to be ex, wife. When the taxi dropped me off I headed towards one of the gang owned gambling dens to try to find someone who knew about what I was looking for. I found a thug sitting near the cash counter and told him I wished to buy something that wasn’t available in the casino. HE eyed me suspiciously and went into a back room. I could hear him telling someone something in another language, and several minutes later, a different man emerged.
We went and sat in a booth and he asked me just what it was I was interested in.
“I need a gun.”
“What makes you think we sell guns?”
“I have seen the news before, and I know you are involved in many things.”
“Assuming we do sell what you think we sell, what makes you think we would sell something to you?”
“I will pay good money for it…cash”
“Hypothetically speaking, what kind of item would you want?”
I then told him about the type of gun I wanted and his face became very sour. He did not seem happy. We sat in silence for a few minutes and I was sure that I was going to be thrown out, when he said,
“If I were to have what you asked for, it would not be cheap.”
“How much?”
“$5,000”
“WHAT!? That is ridiculous!”
“You are the man who wants a gun that doesn’t exist…”
“Fine, but I will need to go get the money in the morning.”
“Very well,” he said while slipping me a piece of paper, “be at this address at 9:30am tomorrow. If you are late, we will leave.”
With that, I got up and went to the hotel and asked where the nearest cash advance office. The clerk gave me a funny look, probably because the kind of people that frequented this hotel weren’t the kind that needed cash advances. Luckily, there was one only 2 blocks away.
That was an interesting night. You have no idea how soundly you sleep when you have absolutely committed yourself to an idea. It was the best sleep of my life, and I’ll admit it, it disturbed me.
When morning came I went to the cash advance, got my money, not without a few strange looks, and met with my new associate. He seemed surprised that I actually showed up, and a little disappointed. I asked to see the gun, which he then produced from a trashcan sitting next to him.
“How do I know this won’t set off a metal detector?”
“I thought you might ask that.”
With that, he drew out one of those metal detector wands, the kind you see at stadiums sometimes. He ran it all over the gun, and nothing happened. I took the wand and ran it over the gun myself, just to make sure. Same results.
As I headed towards the security checkpoint a wave of complacency washed over me. I knew that this was the moment of truth, my last great hurdle. If I could make it through this, the job was as good as done.
The gun went straight through security without a word being said.
I was home free…unfortunately for my wife.
EDIT: Changed the ending of Part II and added Part III. sorry it took so long, had 3 hours of overtime at work.
Part III:
The flight went smoothly. We had a tailwind with us so we made excellent time. I hadn’t planned on getting back till 4pm, but we made it back by 3:30. I left the airport at exactly 4:07pm, I was already 23 minutes ahead of schedule. Looks like I had time to stop at McDonalds.
Before I got my food, I stopped at the car rental in the airport. I chose a Prius, my wife always wanted a Prius, and then I began the 2 and a half hour drive home. I made it home with half a tank of gas left…maybe she was right about these.
Before I left L.A. I had texted my wife and told her that the flight had been pushed back 3 hours. Knowing her as well as I did, I knew that she would spend every second she could with whoever she was with before heading to dinner with her parents. This gave me plenty of time.
I didn’t have any idea who she was cheating on me with, but I guessed they would be at my house. Chances are it was nicer than his place, and we didn’t have any kids to worry about, so it only made sense.
As I turned on to my street I saw my wife’s car in the driveway, along with…a fucking Prius.
This made everything so much easier. I didn’t have to worry about luring her out of the house, or trying to draw out her lover. I never dreamed that it would go this smooth. I had planned on a chase, a bit of cat and mouse, some detective work on my part. To be honest, I was disappointed. It was all too easy. I had actually looked forward to trying to find her, I had looked forward to the hunt.
Regardless, I had a job to do.
I pulled in the driveway making sure to block both of their cars in. I double-checked that my gun was loaded, and then I went up to the door, and rang the bell.
I wish more than anything that I had a camera with me, but it isn’t like I really needed one, I will remember the look on her face for the rest of my life. It was the perfect mix of confusion, terror, disbelief, and anger all in one glorious picture.
“What…what are you doing he…”
I grabbed her by the throat before she could say anything else. I squeezed, slowly, and watched her gasp desperately for air. At first she was too surprised to fight back, then her instincts kicked in and she began to flail and claw at me. She had no chance, she weighed 120lbs soaking wet, I was 6 feet tall and weighed almost twice as much as she did.
As I watched the life drain from her eyes, I heard a man’s voice call from the living room.
“Claire? Who is it?”
That’s when my heart stopped. I knew that voice. I had known that voice for 5 years. The voice belonged to man named Jeff. I had just talked to Jeff yesterday. I had talked to him…when he asked me to cover his flight to L.A.
That’s when I lost all control.
I dropped the gun and used both hands to strangle the remaining life out of my now ex-wife. With her last gasps for air I heard footsteps coming towards me. As I let my wife’s body drop to the floor I reached for the dropped gun just as Jeff turned the corner. The look on his face was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, second only to the look on my wife’s face that I had seen just a minute or two prior.
He saw me, saw my wife’s body, and immediately turned and ran. I don’t know where he planned on running to, there was only one entrance to the house. Yes, it wasn’t ideal in the event of a fire, but I was pretty thankful for it at that moment. I slowly walked into the house, having been standing in the threshold this while time, and began to whistle my favorite tune, Twisted Nerve, you know, that creepy thing the nurse whistles in Kill Bill. I thought it really set the mood.
I heard him running upstairs, cornering himself. I walked, keeping my breathing level, I knew that was important for aim, and I wanted to make sure I didn’t accidentally kill him with the first shot. He was going to suffer.
Then I saw him crawling under the bad…what a fucking coward.
I grabbed the corner of the bed and threw it with all of my might. He lay there, frozen in fear, and I shot him. The first shot hit his leg, just below the knee. His scream sounded sweeter than the finest opera. The next shot hit him in the arm, right in the elbow. He pleaded for his life.
What an idiot. I had decided that he wasn’t going to die. I was going to let him live, but he would live on my terms, and if I had anything to say about it, what I left him with wouldn’t be considered living.
My clip was empty before I knew it. His limbs were nothing more than a mix of blood, bone fragments, and some pink mush. I left his torso intact, too many vital organs there, too much that could go wrong with a missed shot. I knew he would never use his limbs again, and he would most likely be bed-ridden. He would spend the rest of his miserable life thinking about what he had done.
I heard the sirens. I only had a few minutes tops.
I leaned in close and asked him one question.
“Why?”
He said one thing.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
What a smart ass. But hey, that was Jeff, you gotta give credit to a guy who sticks to his guns.
I reloaded.
I pointed the gun at his head.
If there is anything I hate more than adultery, it’s a fucking smart ass.
| 130 | You are a commercial airliner pilot. The moment before you turn your phone off to begin the flight your SO sends you a deeply concerning text. | 123 |
The line of Enforcers stood against the wall, the evening light gleaming off of their glossy obsidian armor. One by one, with their weapons raised, they flicked a switch and trained a dozen red lasers on the girl standing on the edge of the rail.
A sharp voice rang out, and was almost lost in the empty space opposite The Wall. "Miss, for your safety I NEED for you to step down from there. Your parents are extremely worried about you. I promise, you won't get into any trouble if you come right now."
Tears rolled from her eyes but the wind wiped them away just as fast as she could produce them. "They say that every damn time. I'm not stupid. I don't love him. I'll NEVER love him!" Her feet were shaky on the slick rail, and her slender body trembled from the chill in the air.
"Miss, we all have our duty to do. It's been this way for our benefit for hundreds of years now. You know this. It's easier this way. What do you hope to gain by choosing your own?" The Enforcer's voice remained as steady as his trigger finger, which remained halfway pressed. "Help me to help you, ma'am. If you come down now, I'll personally make sure you are able to keep this off of your record."
"Really?" she sniffed. "You can do that?"
"Of course, I wouldn't lie to you. Come on down so we can get you home."
She moved her feet to the lower rail and sat against the top bar.
"Do you promise..."
"I promise. You will be back home, warm and safe. Everything will go back to normal. Just come away from the ledge."
Her shoulders flexed and her fingers gripped the top rail more tightly. She spoke, but the wind had picked up and he couldn't hear her clearly.
"What? What was that miss?"
"Do you promise that he won't hurt me anymore?"
The words stabbed him in the chest. His eyes widened, and in that moment he gained clarity. The torn shirt, done not by the wind but by manual force. The bruises on her neck and collarbone, slightly more visible now that the wind shifted her clothing. The look on her face that he had mistaken for sadness seemed to evolve, and now, to him it appeared to resemble...peace.
"I don't... I'm not---"
She threw herself backwards. He ran forward and looked over the edge just in time to see her hit the waves with a faint *slap*. Hours passed, and no matter how much he longed for it, she never once came up for air.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She sputtered herself awake. It seemed that the ocean itself was in the center of her chest and for a second, every breath threatened to drown her again. As she retched on all fours, the echoes of her cough reached her ears. Natural curiosity took over and she stood, facing the body of water in front of her while spreading her toes in the fine sand.
The water met the horizon and she saw an all too familiar sight--- a wall. But instead of it ending a hundred meters up, or even a thousand, it continued. Up, up, up, and as she turned her head to view the rest of the dome her breath froze, and her heart seemed to stop. She took two steps backwards and fell, but was caught. She looked up into two electric emerald green eyes that slowly blinked sideways at her. Their owner's mouth turned up in a jagged smile, and a guttural voice crept out at her.
"Hello, human." | 20 | A deep fear of the ocean is present in every human being. Walls are all across the continental seashore. No sane human being questions why. Tonight, a girl breaks through the beach barriers. She decides to enter the water. | 34 |
"You remember the red string myth we used to talk about as kids?"
"...No?"
"Well, um, it's a Chinese myth. It connects one..." She daintily lifted her finger, and with the light of the sunset, her hand danced with the waning day-- all in an ethereal waltz. The twilight sang the final count as her hand reached mine.
"To their true love," she finished.
Her hand glossed over mine before settling at my wrist, warmth coursed through my bone-white hand, breathing a red tinge to my fingertips.
I raised my eyes to meet her's, but her eyes were dim, blank, scared. The shine her eyes had for ages were replaced with the hopeless abyss of despair.
"Something happened... everywhere..." Her voice trailed off, a slight shudder vibrated though my ears.
"The string thing is real isn't it," I finished her statement. I already begrudgingly knew; news travels fast.
"O-oh." Defeat inhabited her voice, and she so did her appearance. Her fingers clenched together tightly against my wrist, but her strength trembled and her nails dug in only about as much as a baby could.
"You don't have a string to me do you?"
"N-no." Her eyelashes fluttered: futile attempts to stop crying. Futile attempts to comfort my tears as well. "I actually don't have one at all."
"What!? What do you-"
"Do you have one?" She interrupted.
Wait what?. The words escaped me. *Did I?* Everything faltered at this point. My vision blurred and my breath stopped short: panic. I shoved my hands in front of my eyes, flipping from their palms to their knuckles. I-- I did.
"You do, don't you?"
I shuffled my gaze across the callus of fingertips, and eventually to the red string leading back to the stretching horizon. Was this a joke?
My ears flushed red the same moment I clenched my fist. The string limped in my grip. This was *fate*. I was holding *fate*.
I ripped fate in two.
I gazed at the limp string. The precious string that would have changed my life. I gathered my breath for a proposal.
"Hey. Hold out your hand." | 201 | Suddenly, every person in the world can visibly see a thread that connects them with their significant other. On hearing this, you realize that you don't have a thread connecting to anyone. | 116 |
*"DOCKTOR! DOCKTOR!"*
The boy's accent always made Indy smile, but not when his voice was accompanied by the high shrill shrieks of excitement.
"Calm down, kid!" Indy called from his tent. "I'm coming." The sun was rising over the mountain now, the day just starting. All around his tent, workers in thin cotton robes were rushing towards a site, excited and motivated.
Inside Indiana Jones' tent, a woman slept peacefully, undisturbed. The archeologist himself had already woken an hour ago, and donned his tunic and belted khakis. His boots were on, his whip at his side. It had come in handy more than he ever thought it would these past few months. It was time to see what the commotion was about. He put on his brimmed hat and stepped into the sunlight.
"Docktor!" The boy shouted again. "They foond it! They foond it! C'mon!"
The boy led Indy up to the top of the hill where the worksite was. Workers hired locally had been digging all night, and they had finally unearthed their goal: The fabled Pandora's Box, resting high up in the Andes Mountains.
His loyal friend Jasper was there already.
"Indy!"
"Hey Jasper... So this is it."
"Aye, it looks rather unassuming but I think what it hides will be incredible!"
Indy kneeled down to the edge of the pit holding a box. Jasper was right. The box was unassuming, plain stone edges, some carvings of jaguars and tigers that were long since faded. But what lie inside was of more importance.
Indy reached down... He knew that opening the box here could be detrimental to the world, if Legend was true... When he noticed the lid, the huge stone lid. It was ajar, and he could see inside.
The box had already been opened.
"JASPER." Indy started.
"No No No Indy, that's how the box was."
"Are you sure none of these people here got a little TOO curious for their own good? Do they know what they could have done!? This needs to be *studied!*" He grapped Jasper by the shirt, angry.
"Indy I swear! No one here opened it up, I know that!"
Indy calmed down, just enough to regain his bearings. If the box had already been opened, then did it matter what he did now? He jumped into the pit and lifted the heavy stone lid. It moved easily enough, revealing a mostly empty box, save for one leather bound book.
He reached in and lifted the book out. It's old leather felt worn, centuries old. The pages inside were intact, surprisingly. He opened to the first page.
"What is it? What do you see?" asked Jasper.
"Symbols.... Nothing but symbols.... Jasper, this was already opened and gone through."
"Looters!?"
"I don't think so. Take a look at this..."
He tossed the leather book to Jasper who thumbed through it briefly.
"Indy... these... these are the symbols of my people. And yours. Islam! Judaism!"
"Right. And if you look through the back, you'll see the names of the prophets for every major religion. That's what Pandora's Box held, Jasper. Religion. And someone got here a long time ago." | 68 | Archaeologists have unearthed what remains of Pandora's Box. It is open and empty, save for something lodged in the corner. | 90 |
We did it. Somehow we did it. We took the entire Naval fleet to the second star on the right of the moon and straight on till morning. None of the soldiers who went thought we'd actually make it, but here we are.
As it turns out, the Bermuda Triangle wasn't a wormhole. It wasn't the aliens making those planes disappear. It was a freaking portal to a different realm. One where time doesn't move at the same rate as back home. I've verbally counted out sixty seconds only to see one half of a second pass on the USNO Master Clock. Everything else appears to work the same. Gravity is identical, the sun is in same place in the sky as it was when we entered the triangle, Newtonian physics are still operational. Yet something just feels different here. The men all feel lighter. We still weigh the same and our mass has not decreased, trust me, we checked. But the aches and pains of life have simply stopped. Laughter comes easily here. Even to the captain, who usually has stick shoved up his butt so far it's made his personality as rigid as his posture.
We have been sailing for hours, finally seeing land. It's nearing night here, and the men have been seeing strange lights darting here and there. Brighter and larger than fire flies but pulsing at about that frequency. The men have been whispering about seeing things in the water, beautiful things, women, but that's impossible. Of course, until only this morning this place was impossible. So who knows, maybe there are mermaids in this water, then again that could be the wishes of the child inside me wanting a Disney story to be fully real.
21:00 - We're about three miles off the shore of an Island, where we can only assume adventure, discovery, and dare is say flying boys await us in the morning. As it makes no sense to send an excursion at this time of night and risk men to God knows what, we have decided to hold off until the morning. That is the official report from the captain, so to bed we go.
Daylight broke over the port side and with it some strange sounds began to call forth from the island. We think we may have heard cannon shots, but no one has used that technology for centuries. Oh how we long for it to be captain hook, but even if he was real at one point, it's been three or four hundred years since the time of seafaring pirates. No one lives that long.
The first trip toward the Island is incredible. Mermaids do exist. They play with the dolphins that must have made it through the portal into this world some time ago. They haven't tried to kill us yet though so all is well. However, one Sailor did have to be restrained from attempting to join them. Maybe there is something to the siren's song after all, or who knows maybe sirens exist here and mermaids and them are like cousins. At this point anything is possible. Oh and the lights. Yeah, they're fairies. Little folk with wings, and a little fairy dust trail follows them around. Maybe that's just a by product of their flashing, but I don't really care to investigate just yet.
After we touched dry land the mysteries of this land faded away. Oh, they were still there alright, but our amazement at them got put on the back burner really quick after that. A huge skeleton lay just beyond the tree line. It appears to be a crocodile, but it is one hundred feet long. The fairies don't like us examining these remains. They pull us away any time we get near it, but we just have to look. Thus we push forward. In the head there is what appears to be a musket ball lodged right between the eyes. But that isn't what killed this beast. Laying in the sand in the rib cage, is cannon fire. Grapeshot, lead balls, is that a winding clock?
One of the excursion party climbed up on the head, at this point completely clean of all fleshy remains, and the fairies just attacked. Snapped the sailor's neck without so much as a warning. Then they started on us. The frickin' things were too fast for bullets and our fists did nothing. One by one we dropped. Someone radio'd for help, but he was cut down mid transmission. As I fell into the sand, a fairy, tiny little blonde woman wearing a forest green dress that stopped halfway down her thigh alighted on my nose.
She stared into my eyes and thought to me *you should have stayed away from the ticking one. He killed the hooked man, and his grave will not be disturbed*
As I looked back into her tiny little eyes, I spoke defiantly, "I don't believe in fairies. | 12 | After watching Peter Pan for decades, the US Navy finally has the ability to enter Neverland with the might of its entire fleet, and is whole unprepared for what it finds there. | 16 |
The conveyor belt drones on. Robotically the inspectors check their items.
Pick up, spin around, Set down, Repeat. A slight smog fills the room. The only sound, besides the mechanical tinkering of the conveyor, is heavy breathing. You've become accustomed to the flickering lights and the constant smell of oil. The silence is welcomed and usual. For any type of chatting is forbidden. But then silence is broken.
"Jesus Christ."
You've sat next to five since you were chosen to be an Inspector. You risk a quick glance in his direction.
"Five, just keep your head down."
Completely neglecting your warning he stands.
"I just can't take this anymore!"
"Five you know what they'll do to you."
At this point he is yelling and flailing about.
"I need to get out!"
He throws his piece to the ground. Keeping your head down, you contemplate the risk of trying to calm five down. Deciding the risk was too great, you ignore his rants. A small red light begins blinking above the door; they've noticed. You understand what you need to do. So you ignore the opening of the double doors, the heavy footsteps and the sudden silence. What gains your attention comes a few minutes later. Another inspector, clad in the same gray jumpsuit as the rest of the inspectors, enters and takes the seat next to you. Without missing a beat, you look up, turning to him.
"Seven."
"Six."
You continue your work. Completely forgetting about five, and returning to your mundane life.
Pick up, spin around, Set down, Repeat. | 11 | You are "Inspector #7" at a factory in either 1914, 2014, or 2114. Write about a disagreement with co-worker "Inspector #5" without overtly telling us which century you're from. | 28 |
It was a normal friday. I left the factory at 10, 10:30 and went to John's. It was his turn to get the beer and pizza. The fucker got bud light, can you believe it? We drank A LOT, watched that one of those shitty medical shows about this obese kid and prank called this one slut who went to high school with us.
When I was about to leave, around 3, I saw this box full of shit near the door. There was an old looking lantern, some dusty picture frames and 2 or 3 DVDs. I asked J about it.
"Oh, thats just the last of the stuff left from my grandpa's house. We're selling all of his shit to pay for the nursing home."
"Shit, you are putting him in a home?"
"Yeah, man, the dementia has gotten worst. He just stares at the TV all day."
"What does he watch?"
"Nothing. He just stares at the screen. We don't turn it on anymore. He just stares and mumbles something like 'Roll... Roll...' over and over.
"Fuck man, that's horrible."
"Yeah. Hey, that is the stuff we didn't sell at the garage sale. If you want to take anything, go at it..."
I fished out 2 DVDs and these cool looking ceramic birds that I thought my mom would like. I put it all on my backpack and left to take the bus. Contrary to most, when I drink, I don't feel sleepy.
I get home super awake and ready to do shit. I made myself some ramen noodles, feed truffles, my german shepherd who has been with me since I was 13 years old, and put those DVDs on. I was curious. There was no cover on them. Just the box and a white paper where usually the movie poster is. The disk had no print on it, just my ugly reflection. Maybe the old man was a pervert and it was some great porn. I was in need of that. I didn't pay the internet bill last month and was starting to feel my testicles inflate.
I put it on my Ps2 and wait for it to come on. 'Sony Computer Entertainment' comes on. It's taking longer than usual, but when the song turned a weird sound and the cloud screen turned red, I got up to check it out. 'Please insert a playstation or playstation 2 format disc'. Fuck. No porn for me tonight. "No harm on trying again. Maybe the disc is upside down..." I put it in on the other side and sat on my lay-z-boy to watch whatever the fuck this disc had. The Ps2 boots up normally and a small sense of satisfaction comes in. But it quickly turned into disappointment as the menu for 'Barney & Friends' came in. The old man liked Barney?
Fuck it, I'm here, at 4AM, half drunk, alone in this rathole of an apartment. Let's watch barney. You know what would make this barney shit even better? Watching it in russian. I start browsing for the language menu. That's when I see it. An option under all other called 'Roll'. What the fuck? It was in red too when all the other options were in white. Maybe this is the blooper roll of barney. Yeah, now this is even better! I click it.
The fun and joyful music from the menu turns into this crack. This weird sound, almost as a electronic scream. Maybe it was a bug, maybe the DVD fell out of place. Either way, I got up to open the Ps2. When I was about 5 inches away from the TV, an image came in and the sound stopped. It was an women, maybe 40, 45, blonde, sitting in a chair in a bedroom. There was a dresser and mirror behind her and a bed next to the chair she was in. What startled me was the this was clearly shot by a handheld camera and the women didn't look like an actress. In fact, she didn't look comfortable there at all. There was someone behind the camera. I could hear heavy breathing. Maybe it *was* porn after all.
The lady starts reading something from a paper. "Hello. I'm Samantha. How are you? I'm good. I'm so happy. I'm happy with Christopher. He has been so..." The film cut to black. But I can see it's not off, because the sound of heavy breathing is still going and I can see some stuff moving. I think the lights went off in the room. Then I hear a faint moan, then a scream and a women crying. At this point I was confused as fuck. The lights turn back on with the women in the same position, but her hair, which was just fine before the 'cut', is now all fucked up and twisted around. The mirror is also a bit displaced and I can see the person behind the camera. It was a man, shirtless, but with his body painted in what could only be described as a cheap imitation of Aboriginal body painting, but with red paint, instead of white. But his head, his skin on the left was burned, with scars going from the chin up to the top of his shaved head. If this was porn, it was some wild shit.
The women starts again. "Hello. I'm Samantha. How are you? I'm good. I'm so happy. I'm hap..." The man drops the camera on the floor. He starts to mumble "N-no! T-this is no-not what I tea-teach you!" I can see only their feet in the frame. Neither have shoes on. She screams "No, not another one!" and starts screaming for help. I was sitting in the edge of my seat. He grabs something from the dresser. It looked like scissors. Blood starts to drip down on her legs. WHAT THE FUCK, GRANDPA? I turned my tv off and got up. Should I call J and tell him the old man has snuff films? Should I call the cops? I decided I was drunk and whatever I was going to do, it was going to be on the morning.
I wake up with knocks on the door. The sun wasn't up yet, so I was kind of startled. The landlord likes to wake me up to charge rent sometimes, but nothing at this hour. I get up, step over the dog (he loves to sleep on my the foot of my bed) and go to the door.
"Who is it?"
"It's J, open up!"
I open the door and let him in. He gets in, looks around and leans into me, like he was telling me a secret in a crowded room.
"Hey man, what did you take from the box?"
"2 DVDs and some ceramic birds, why?"
His eyes got big and wide. He grabs his phone and starts to fumble through his contacts.
"What two DVDs?"
"Yeah man, I need to talk to y-"
I was interrupted by John's scream. He didn't say anything. Just pointed. I looked too. The kitchen had all the lights on and the oven door was closed with a chain. Through the glass I could see a some blood stained fur. "T-truff..." I was unable to speak. The door to my room opened with a squeak. | 26 | You borrow a movie DVD from a friend, but you find there's a menu option on it that considerably changes your day. | 46 |
Man, everyone seemed like they were doing it. Must've been a new craze, ya know.
Aiit, lemme fill you in. I joined this crew, ya know, to get my skills up a little, an' it was just a little...well, they did this peculiar thing. They passed around kid's books like you'd pass a blunt and then just sprout out lyrics that were the words right from the book. A kids book! Are you hearin' this right, a **kids book**. Word was that Eminem used to do it to his kid when she was like four years old and it just layed in wait til he admitted to it last week. Last I heard DMX was crackin' it out too, YouTube and all that.
Anyway, my turn came around. I weren't allowed to choose the book, so the guys picked me a copy of Alice in Wonderland (man, I haven't been to that strip joint in years). I mean, I hadn't read the book, but I knew exactily what to do when I turned to the page where she, ya know, drinks the shrinking drink. Man, ya know, I've been there before, drinkin' myself to a point where I feel small, when all i really wanted was to feel big.
And that's when the beat kicked in. Word fo' word i took that page to beat. I'd never really been a reader, and I sucked at writing lyrics, but taking this page had left me to find that lyrics hardly matter if you move the expression to your way. Alice was no longer some kid with a curiosity, she's now become this skank that I knew who would hit vodka every night just to put herself to sleep before her kids. And I didn't even change the words.
It's the emotion man, that's all this is about. I'm just a vehicle of emotion on this block, I ain't the fastest, or with the sick rims, but I can make one hella rumble.
I need ta get onna those library cards. Ya dig?
[Sorry if I missed out on the Controversial side of things, I just wanted to try my hand at a street story. I guess my interpretation of how rappers talk is the most Controversial side of this.] | 12 | Amateur rapper becomes a controversial celebrity after stumbling into the world of a rhyming children's story. | 45 |
I approached the plant and touched a leaf, it wasn't real.
It responded as if I tried to cut off its pinky finger with a spoon.
"Ah!" it said. "Keep your filthy hands off of me, if you would."
I jumped back in shock, nearly knocking over a mother on a stroll with her children.
After apologizing I turned back to the plant, feeling slightly less sane, and sat on the bench next to it. My head in my hands, out of the corner of my mouth I whispered to it, "I'm sorry about your leaf--my hands really are clean though."
It rustled its leaves in response.
"What are you doing dressed as a plant?" I said.
It turned towards me, now I could see the man's knees poking out from the center of the pot.
"What are you doing dressed as a human?" it said, and made a cooing sound at a curious pigeon that was hopping back and forth on the sidewalk.
The pigeon, alarmed at the plant's sentience, scurried away to pick at the edge of the grass as we continued our conversation.
"Don't hit me with that Donnie Darko bullshit," I said. "It's not every day a man dresses as a plant and sits in the middle of the park harassing little children and people walking their dog."
"Come here," it said, it's voice low as it hissed the words out. "Do you smell that?"
I leaned in, smelled the distinct odor of urine, and retreated to the bench.
"Yeah now you see what I have to fucking put up with," it said. "How many dogs do you think have marked me--never mind, I'll tell you. Seven--no eight. Actually, I've forgotten. Once you're pissed on enough times the smells blend together and it all starts to smell the same."
"I can imagine."
"Can you?" it said, and raised a foliage covered arm towards me.
"We all get pissed on--just not necessarily in the same way."
It crossed its arms, "Now who's the philosophical douche bag? Look. I'm just trying to sort some things out."
"Do you do this often?"
"No," it said. "Do you talk to plants often?"
"No," I said, "But I could get used to it." Leaves scraped across the pavement in front of us as the wind picked up. Pine needles rained like orange snow as I watched a pair of squirrels whirl around the base of a tree before disappearing into a bush.
I looked back. The plant had stopped moving and talking all together--and I smiled. | 12 | A nihilist and an existentialist get into a heated argument. Make me reconsider my entire existence. | 16 |
A loud, muffled thump from upstairs shakes the building, alerting me to the arrival of my "handler". A quick glance at my phone determines that the hoighty-toighty prick was half an hour early. Can't count how many times I've told him to stick to the fucking schedule. Hell, the first time he pulled this shit I hadn't even gotten home yet, he ran into my wife. And what a fun filled, enjoyable evening that was. I hand Scarlet off to her mother, who nods with an apprehensive look in her eyes as I walk upstairs to meet him.
A quick jaunt down the hall and up the stairs finds me pulling a cigarette from the pack in my shirt pocket I casually stroll out onto the rooftop where my handler, Gabriel, awaits. To get it out of the way, Gabriel is an Angel. A literal, honest to God, wings and armor and flowing golden locks fucking Angel. Consequently he stands roughly 6' 7', and(during non-clandestine activities) is in fact equipped with ivory wings (that are surprisingly sturdy), wears armor of a luminescent metal I can't and he won't identify, and is essentially my mainline to the guys upstairs. He appears to fluctuate between various shades of dark brown and olive skin tones, preferring the darker tones for our evening meetings, as now. As I approach him he looks me over with a disapproving look.
"Arkandalus, you must know the damage you are doing to your body." He says in a deep velvety voice that always managed to lower my guard a little. I hated that.
"I'd hazard a guess that you guys are doing more damage than I am, Gabriel." I said, pulling deeply just to emphasize my contempt. "And I told you, it's Ark."
"There is only one path to salvation Ark, you know this." He replied. "On that note, He requires your aid once more."
"Oh FUCK that, Gabriel! I was literally killed last time. I clawed my way out of the fucking pits, which let me tell you, was neither easy nor enjoyable, brought you what you wanted, and if I'm remembering it correctly, told you guys to fuck OFF for a while. I thought I had made the point clear." I said in a hoarse whisper. Can't yell shit like this, although yelling was considered.
"You need us. We need you. None of us may set foot where we need you to go, and time is almost out." That came out pleading, almost defensive. He's worried I won't do it. I've *never* said no before. That would indicate that this is going to suck.
"Y'all motherfuckers need Jesus." I said mockingly. Unfortunately for them, he's been out of commission for going on 1600 years.
"Actually, yes. We do. That is why I am here." *Oh, fuck.*
"No. No, no no. Matter of fact, not just no, but FUCK no! You guys lost LEGIONS, plural, going after him last time! What the FUCK makes you think I'd fare any better?!" I already know, I'm just stalling. Euli isn't going to like this.
"Be not truculent, Arkandalus. You know why this task falls to you." He said, eyes flashing.
"It's. Ark." I spat, teeth gritted" The good old 'manufacturers defect'. You know, I'm beginning to think it intentional." I said, glaring hard. Gabriel glared right back. It's hard to intimidate an Angel. "What's the timeline?"
"Insertion tonight. The Oracles say you'll complete your task in no more than 48 hours, if you complete it at all." Gabriel said, shifting his gaze over the city. Wouldn't even look me in the eye when he was asking me to kill myself.
"If. And what do the ladies have to say about my chances?" I asked, secretly dreading the answer. They aren't always right, but they are damn near.
"They are not encouraged." he replied, still averting his eyes.
"What's the pay?" I asked tossing the butt of my finished cigarette off the roof.
"Your soul." he said simply. I stood dumbstruck for a moment.
"Salvation?" *No fucking way* I thought.
"Yes."
"The brass ring? The end? Our contract terminated? Eternal bliss assured?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Not good enough. Consider your request. I'm going to need more."
"You're being offered a chance at being whole, and you're willing to throw it away for greed?"
"Gabriel, if I had the option of throwing this shit away I'd have done so the night we met. You said it, you need me. Frankly being lost to the winds of time is sounding better and better the more I get to know you and your crew."He rasied his eyebrows questioningly. *Yeah, I'd rather be forgotten than your fucking lap dog you massive talking seagull.* "So here's the deal: if you want me to waltz into the fucking Inferno, again, and somehow sneak the greatest soul they ever snared out of there, I'm going to need gear." I paused to consider for a moment before continuing, " Divine gear. Blade, board, and suit at least, although I wouldn't say no to one of those crazy fucking thunder bows you've got up there, cause this damascus steel and crossbow shit just doesn't cut it down there. Bolts don't fly right and even the fucking pests can shred the steel like paper. Additionally, regardless of whether or not I succeed, I'm going to want to worry about literally nothing for the rest of eternity. That means assurances that my wife and child are set on funds, health, immunity from acts of God, for all of us and our possessions. If I don't make it they need to be taken care of. If I do make it, I need to know He's not going to drop my roof on me while I'm enjoying my freedom." I lit another cigarette, to add literal fuming to my figurative fuming. Seemed fitting.
"The gear is approved already, we will stop by the Smith when we leave. Health is approved for all current and future family, although I cannot stop Him from taking His frustrations out on you. You are a favored target. We can keep it to a minimum and replace what is lost, but you know how He gets. The possessions are all approved as well." Gabriel finally seemed to be relaxing. He knew they had me. "And do you really think He'd ask this of you and then kill you for completing it?" I scoffed.
"Favorite target. Your words, not mine. He can't kill me while he needs me, but after, who fucking knows? I'd rather take steps. Draw up the contract, I have to go inform my wife." I sighed. "This fucking soul had better be worth it."
[This prompt was pretty cool. Will definitely continue it, thanks for the prompt!]
Edit: Forgot a comma.
| 26 | You are born without a soul. While this causes a lot of issues with your state of mind and your relationship with religion, there is one benefit in particular that makes you useful in a way. | 21 |
On November 8, 2014, I was walking down Xiannian Boulevard, on my way to make a drug deal. The streetlights overhead flared a brilliant bluish-white intensity, bathing the sidewalk in an over-saturated hue. On my right side loomed the massive NeoShanghai Economic Tower, a gargantuan building of glass and carbon-steel that always reminded me of an oversized can-opener.
The western-facing side of the Civil Pacification Barrier that surrounded the structure was adorned with globular turrets, darkened domes containing high-powered video cameras. These cameras used radio waves to constantly transmit video and audio to authorities without the use of wires. The cameras were said to be so powerful that they make an electron microscope look like a daguerrotype.
This information was passed along to central data-banks that store and organize every piece of video and audio information absorbed by the automated sentries. The rumors stated that any criminal activity caught on the surveillance network was reciprocated by a late-night raid by the Urban Tactical Enforcement Agency, who would kick down your door and handcuff you before you even had a chance to remember what you did wrong. The tin-foil hat types believe that the Social Oversight Bureau, the ones responsible for creating the Civil Pacification Barriers, used surveillance data against high-ranking members of political and corporate organizations. I didn’t buy into such notions, but I do admit that the possibility made me shiver from time to time.
I didn’t let any of this knowledge bother me as I walked along the imposing barrier toward my destination. I glanced at my cyber-phone, checking for incoming digita-letters from my dealer. Nothing. I hurried onward, ignoring the beggars and vagrants that were crowded around the Civil Pacification Barrier and huddling underneath the protective glow of the street-lights.
“Directions, please.” I said aloud. A bright green arrow flashed on the screen of my cyber-phone, directing me towards the high-rise apartments where my dealer, Z-Disk lived. A small but high-resolution image of the apartment building in question also appeared on the screen. The structure resembled a giant cybernetic rectangle, with the sides of the building traced in glowing red lines that indicated the residence was “guarded” by the Informational and Electronic Filtration Network, a lovely invention by the S.O.B. designed to monitor residential information networks in order to prevent cyber-crimes as well as meat-crimes. The rumors surrounding this system were even more nefarious than the ones surrounding the C.P.B.’s. I tried not to think about this stuff as I neared my destination. I tried to focus on the crime I was about to commit. Give the money, take the drugs. Don’t get caught by The Net.
While I was considering the simplicity of this crime, I heard a powerful whooshing sound above me. I craned my neck to look at the source of the sound. As I began to resolve the shape of a hovering Automated Aerial Apprehension Unit, I suddenly felt extremely hot. It wasn’t like the heat of an open fire or a space heater, it was all over, it was inside of me. I imagined that this was what a meatball felt like if you left it in the microwave too long. I collapsed to the pavement, dropping my cyber-phone in the process.
As I writhed in agony, I heard the footsteps of an Urban Tactical Enforcement agent draw near. The helmet-clad officer slapped carbon-steel handcuffs on my prone form and hoisted me into the air with a single arm. I could hear the movement-assisting hydraulic servos whine in response. With a single motion, the agent unceremoniously dumped me into the back of a U.T.E.A. pick-up truck and closed the carbon-steel Suspect Pacification and Restraint Device around me. Busted.
Edit: Some changes in wording and syntax. Minor content changes to better suit the prompt and provide clarity. | 115 | You are a writer in the year 1983. Write a futuristic dystopian short story set in the year 2014. Your story includes true dystopian facts that have actually happened in our era, while including "future tech" from the viewpoint of the 1984 writer. Future tech can be real or fictional. | 249 |
It was midnight.
There were three knocks on the door.
"Just a minute." Sarah shouted.
She groaned and threw off her blankets. She rubbed her eyes and stepped onto the cold floor. The bright, sharp sickle of the crescent moon shone in through the balcony's glass door, peeking between high-rises.
Sarah waddled across her living room and cracked open the door to her apartment. She left the chain latch on, just in case.
"Hello again, Sarah."
His voice preceded itself in a whisper. His fleshless face was shrouded by a deep hood, attached to a black hoodie sweatshirt that said 'Cradle of Filth.'
"Artie?" Sarah blinked at her old friend, "It's been an age."
"Arthur. My name is Arthur."
"Sure it is." She laughed.
Sarah undid the latch and opened the door wide. Arthur collapsed onto her entryway floor.
When he awoke, he was on her couch. The curtains were drawn, and all the artificial lights were off. The room was lit instead with girly-smelling candles. Sarah dozed in an easy chair, with a silvery longsword leaning on the chair's arm. She was wearing bright pink pajama pants and a white camisol top, in stark contrast to her armament. Arthur shifted, and the noise of his movement woke Sarah. She jumped up and grabbed the sword, panting with the sudden rush of adrenaline.
"Sorry, just me."
Sarah sighed.
"It's okay. I'm just a little jumpy. You're hurt."
"I'll be fine, probably."
"I hope so. But I didn't get a chance to ask you if whatever did that to you is still out there." Sarah gestured with her free hand, indicating the longsword, "So I was a little nervous."
"Rightfully so, I'm afraid."
Arthur sat up. His hood was down, revealing a bleach-white skull. The dome of his skull was cracked, and the crack had blackish-red streaks of dried liquid. Sarah could only assume that this was what passed for blood among Reapers. Some of it had crusted onto his sweatshirt, accompanied by what appeared to be a bullet hole.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know where else to come." Arthur apologized, "He's still after me. I shouldn't have come here. I just, I can't lead him across. If I go to the other side, he'll be able to follow. If I stay here, he can't."
Sarah held the hilt of her sword a little tighter.
"You're scaring me, Artie. What could do this?"
"Not what. Who. A human. A warlock."
"What can we do?"
"You can do nothing. You have done more than enough."
"Don't even think about trying to leave here without me. I'm helping you."
"I've told you before, Sarah. You don't owe me anything."
"Bullshit. My mom's spirit wandered around our old house for a week. She was scared, and you helped her to the other side. I owe you my life, as far as I'm concerned."
"Don't say that." Arthur's voice was pained, quiet.
It was four a.m.
There were three knocks on the door.
"I know you're there." A man's voice, calm, but filled with razor-edged tension, called from the door.
"There's no one here but me." Sarah replied, lifting her sword to the ready.
"Heh heh heh." The voice cackled, "Nobody here but us chickens, eh?"
"Go away." Sarah spat back.
The door disintigrated in a clap of thunder and a burst of purple light. Standing in the now-smoking doorway was a tall man. He was pale-skinned and balding. He wore plain black pants, a blank white t-shirt, and an open bathrobe. He had a wild look in his eyes, and a nine-millimeter pistol in one hand. A large, leather-bound book hung from a strap on his belt, binding-up.
"I'll huff and puff and blow your whole apartment complex down, little girl. Don't fuck with me. Where's the Reaper?"
"I'm here." Arthur struggled to his feet, "Leave the girl out of this."
Sarah stood between them, her silver longsword gleamed.
"Shut the fuck up, Artie."
"Do you know just who you're defending, little girl?" The warlock gestured to Arthur with his pistol, "Has he shown you his true face?"
"I can see him. I see plenty. He's my friend, and you're not going anywhere near him."
The warlock sneered, and gestured dismissively with his empty hand. A bolt of purple fire sprang up and flew at Sarah's face. She didn't flinch, and the fire disappated when it reached the silver blade.
"Oh." The warlock smiled, "Oh I see. Is that how it is? Are you sure you want to do this?"
"Get out of my apartment."
"Do you know what this is?" The warlock reached down with his free hand and unclasped the book from his belt. He held it up with reverence and menace.
"Your book of spells? I don't really care." Sarah quipped.
"Please don't." Arthur pleaded.
"This," the warlock smiled a greasy smile, "This is an appointment book. *His* appointment book. You're in it."
"You don't even know me."
"Sarah Ferguson. Age 19. Mother and Father, both deceased." The warlock opened the book with one hand, his fingers were long and grotesquely agile. "June 22nd. Three days from now."
He slammed the book shut.
Sarah paled.
"Is this true, Arthur?"
"Even if I was allowed to tell you that, would you want me to?" Arthur's tone of voice was supplicant.
"Is that your book?"
"Yes."
Sarah nodded.
Then she lunged.
The warlock raised his sidearm, but he wasn't fast enough. The gun roared impotently off to the side, leaving a ringing in Sarah's ears.
She opened her eyes to see her sword buried hilt-deep in the warlock's chest. He looked at her with an expression of dreamlike surprise.
"What's wrong?" She glared at him, "Didn't read your entry?"
The man's eyes glazed over, and his skin went ashen. His body slid to the ground, and Sarah released the sword's handle, letting it fall to the ground with the body.
She bent down and picked up the book. She didn't open it. She just handed it to her friend.
"Sarah, I-"
Sarah put a single finger over Arthur's lipless mouth.
"Don't explain. I never had any illusions about what you do. Actually, heh, this may sound funny but..." She smiled and rubbed the back of her neck, "I always hoped it would be you. Y'know, when the time came."
Arthur just looked at her mournfully.
"I'll clean up here. You should probably get back and file your report."
"Yeah," Arthur's voice was quiet, "I suppose I'd better go."
"I'll see you soon, Artie."
By the time Sarah turned around, Arthur was gone. | 38 | A young girl, able to see spirits, befriends a reaper for lost souls. Years later the reaper arrives to her home, wounded, needing to talk. | 27 |
Tim was walking down the sidewalk. It was another beautiful day, not a single cloud in the sky. He walked passed an alleyway. "What a weird little thing," he had thought to himself, "I always walk past this alleyway and never thought about walking into it. I think I'll do that today." And so he did. He walked down that alleyway because it was his right as a human to explore any and all unknown areas. As Tim walked down the alleyway, he slowly felt the fear inside of him grow. "Why did I do this? This is crazy!" And Tim was right, this was absolutely crazy. He cautiously made his way all the way to the end of the alleyway and you know what was at the end? A door. An ordinary wooden door. Tim considered going back. "I've already seen the end, there's nothing else!" But he knew he had to exercise his natural rights even further. He placed his hand on the cold door knob and slowly turned it. When the door creakily opened, it revealed a rather curious sight. Or should I say, it didn't. There's was nothing, it was pitch black. Tim moved his foot inside the darkness and fell right through. Tim fell... and fell... and fell... until he hit something, a surface, and died. Whiteness. All Tim could see was white. "So, this is what happens when you die," Tim thought to himself, "this sucks." Suddenly, three buttons appeared in front of him. New game, load game, and exit. He had a choice to make. "I don't want to start from scratch! There's no way I'm starting a new game! And I don't want to exit... I'll load a game." He stared at the load button for five seconds, which then brought Tim to a list of saves. The earliest one was at the top, labeled "Autosave". He looked at his latest autosave, and then braced himself. Would he remember his death? How many times has he died? What was that darkness? Is this really wh-
Tim was walking down the sidewalk. It was another beautiful day, not a single cloud in the sky. He walked passed an alleyway. For a second, he had an urge to walk into it but then immediately decided against it. "No, that's silly," he said as he continued walking. | 116 | You have died, after the whitelight, you see a title screen, with the options of New Game.... Load Game.... and Quit Game. | 157 |
A group of old women swarm me first, trying to chirp in my ear about how unfair it was to portray them as such bigots, but they are blown away by a mighty wind. There stands the Big Bad Wolf, not the one you know mind you, but my version from an unfinished play script. "A child predator? That's what you made me?", he asks, huffing while he does so. "Well I uh...thought it would be funny. I mean, Stephen Sondheim did it and it played off well. Besides the only person who knows that is th-" SMACK! A bible hits me in the back of the head. A red faces catholic Priest approaches me in a rage "FAIRY TALE CHARACTERS!? I GIVE RELIGIOUS ADVICE TO FAIRY TALE CHARACTERS?" Then the old ladies come back, each of them a caricature of the elderly women's bible study from an old church of mine. The smell of their perfume alone is enough to make me dizzy but then come the handbags. Oh god the handbags. I only catch bits and pieces of words "IGNORANT!" "SULFUR!" "FOOLISH!" Then beyond them I hear more voices scream out in anguish. Comedy characters like the Blind Mime and the talking broccoli a yell at me for being unfunny. Drama characters yell at me for no resolution. Fanfiction characters yell at me for not sticking to the source material. They all yell at me and then I realize something awful. I've never finished a single story of these poor people. All my half written plays, movies, and stories come to me begging for an end, even an unhappy one. I have failed my characters with the most basic need: The End | 19 | You find yourself at a party, and quickly realize that all the guests are characters from your past works of fiction. They are aware that you are the writer, and they have some choice words for you about your writing. | 70 |
Perhaps, enough time had passed.
I didn't know perhaps how long I'd been trapped here. I never could quite remember why either, perhaps in the past I had done something. It was really quite a lonely existence here.
It had been enough. Perhaps it was time for...for a change. I;d been making no progress in my life, I'd just simply been...existing. Even if it just led to my death, it had to be better than whatever....whatever this life I had already lived once.
She was always the cutest of the people I had found online. I didn't even need to say much, but I just knew that in my final hour, the only thing I want, despite having everything, was a chat with a pretty girl.
I wasn't even nervous as I sent the message, hitting the enter key. I had thought about this for a long time. I knew I was ready. I was excited even, for what was to come. Even if it was just an hour, an hour for an eternity, then it would be worth it.
I pressed enter. God, that felt so good.
"Hey there, how are you?"
I waited, patiently for a response. A minute passed. Hm...maybe she wasn't online.
Then I saw it.
"Seen...3:17PM"
Oh god fucking damnit. | 14 | You are being held prisoner in a mansion. You can get everything you want (food, books, movies...) and you have full access to the internet and can choose to use Facebook etc. But if you communicate with someone you will be killed after 1 hour. Today is the day you decide to hit enter. | 20 |
Prince Andrew, second son of Queen Elizabeth, walked up to say goodbye. He looked at his mother in her casket. She looked peaceful, dressed in her royal best. The midnight colored casket cradled her like a long lost child. Andrew bent down and paid his respects, got up, and walked back towards his place in the crowd.
Andrew glanced over to his brother Prince Charles, soon to be King Charles. Charles looked solemn, he hadn’t shed a single tear, and the press would eat that up, praising him for his strength as the head of the family. Charles made eye contact with Andrew and nodded. Andrew returned the nod and reached his spot in the crowd. One by one everyone walked up to pay his or her respects. Finally when everyone was done the Archbishop of Canterbury finished the service. The crowd stood and headed towards the exit. The burial would be outside and the crowd would slowly make their way to the burial site.
As Andrew moved towards the exit he saw a man standing in the shadow of the wall. Andrew changed course and walked towards the man. The man was of middling height. He wore meticulously clean suit that was simple black, with a thin black tie to match. His nose was crooked from healing poorly from multiple breaks. His eyes were a greyish blue, giving him a steely look. His hair was salt and pepper, kept short. When the man noticed Andrew walking towards him he stepped farther into the shadow, out of earshot of the crowd.
Andrew approached the man and extended his hand. “Nigel, it’s so good to see you. How are the kids?”
Nigel took Andrews hand and shook firmly. “Good thank you, Lily is almost ten and already I can tell her teenage years are going to be interesting.”
Andrew chuckled. He turned and glanced back towards the casket. His face-hardened and he looked back to Nigel. “I’m not going to miss her Nigel. I learned a lot from her, mostly from her mistakes, but I’m not going to miss her. Charles will miss her though. He was always her favorite” Nigel couldn’t stop as his rage grew like a flame. “He won’t change anything Nigel. We will be stuck in obscurity under him, forever a leftover of history” His fists clenched. “He’s not even one of us. His life is a lie.”
Nigel’s hand rushed out and grabbed Andrew by the shoulder, snapping him out of his rage. “I understand my Prince but you must calm down. We have been planning for years and one angry slip of the tongue could ruin it all.” Andrew closed his eyes and slowed his breathing.
“Is SIS ready?” he whispered
Nigel nodded. “Yes. This is your last chance to turn back Andrew, once this starts you will have to end it, one way or another.” Before Andrew could answer Nigel turned away and disappeared into the crowd.
Four days later Prince Andrew stepped up to the podium. He was having a press conference outside of Buckingham palace. No one in the press knew what for, neither did anyone in his family. Press from all over the world were there, training their cameras on the podium, waiting for the show to start.
Prince Andrew appeared from the palace doors. He was dressed in a blue suit with a red tie and black shoes that gleamed. His blonde was hair neatly done, not one hair out of place. He walked out with a frown on his face, pain seeming to spring up at a moments notice. He walked laboursly, the weight of the world on his shoulders. When he finally reached the podium he paused, staring down the camera with his hazel eyes.
“Today I must share with England a terrible secret, a secret that has weighed down our family for decades. It is unfair for the people of the United Kingdom to be left in the dark. Prince Charles…..Prince Charles was born of infidelity. He is a bastard, not true to the family bloodlines. My mother, Queen Elizabeth, swore us to secrecy but I cannot keep that promise any longer. If you do not believe me, I have the blood work to prove it.” The crowd was in shock. Flashes from cameras and phones made the crowd look like an ever-lasting explosion. “We live in troubling times. Russia reaches back to her imperial roots, the Middle East continues to breed terrorism home and abroad. Conflicts such as South Sudan, Somalia, and Nigeria show that Africa is as destabilized as ever. I believe England should no longer sit on the sidelines, and needs a strong ruler, with royal blood. Royal succession laws will not allow a bastard to take the throne. I, Price Andrew, am the true heir to the throne, and I hope Parliament and the House of Lords agrees with me. Thank you all for coming out, and good day” With that Prince Andrew turned and walked back to the Palace. The press screamed their questions but Andrew never turned around.
(One month later)
King Andrew sat looking out Buckingham Palace. People lined the gates, holding out sings declaring him a false King. Their numbers the past week had slowly dwindled but their remained a strong contingent loyal to Charles. Others didn’t care; the royal family had little power anyway so why did it matter anyway? Andrew chuckled at the memory. The chaos after his press conference was insane, mass protests, from both Pro Charles and Pro Andrew occurred day after day. The House of Lords and Parliament eventually had no choice, and crowned him king by succession laws of the English Crown. The Ceremony was a fast, simple one, best to keep out of side and out of mind for now.
The door to his study opened and Nigel strode purposefully in. He walked over to Andrews chair and stared at it intently. “What is it? “ asked Andrew.
“Well everyone outside keeps saying you sit on a throne made of lies, your chair seems to be made out of wood.” Nigel replied smugly. He took a seat across from Andrew and poured himself some tea. Andrew chuckled and took a sip himself. Setting the tea down he looked up at Nigel. “Is everything in place?”
Nigel stared intently out the window. He took a minute, coughed lightly, and then responded. “Yes, everything is in place. The House of Lords and Parliament are in session, debating your bill. Everyone’s saying your trying to burn the Magna Carta right before our eyes.” Andrew smiled. He knew his request to return powers to the monarchy would not pass. Well, not yet.
Andrew looked at his watch. “How long till it starts?” asked Andrew.
Nigel glanced out the window. “Now.”
Explosions rocked London. Andrew looked out and saw twin smoke plums rising above the city. He could already hear the sirens roaring towards the fires. He turned to Nigel and nodded. “I have a nation to speak to. Have the SIS report linking the bombings of the Hours of Lords and Parliament to terrorist organizations in ten hours. “ Andrew looked back towards the smoke billowing out over the city. It cut a black steak across the beautiful blue sky, a stream of ugly in a sea of beauty.
Nigel stood up and pulled at his cuffs. “I have a feeling that it wont be so hard to pass your Emergency Crown Powers act sir.” he stated, as if it was a matter already solved, and left the room, leaving Andrew to stare over his Kingdom.
(Two Weeks Later)
King Andrew looked at his T.V. in disbelief. His small council sat with him, eyes glued to the screen. There stood Prince Charles, arms interlocked with the recently anointed King of Scotland. They stood at the podium together. King William promised that they would not live under the tyranny of King Andrew of England, and avowed to help Prince Charles win his thrown back. They called on all freedom-loving nations to support them in their bid for Independence. Prince Charles eyes never wavered from the screen, as if searching for Andrew himself, knowing he would be watching. Andrew wanted to pull his hair out in frustration.
He whirled on Nigel. “How the fuck did he get away? I thought we had him on house arrest!” Nigel kept his face passive and replied calmly “He was. Scottish Special Forces broke him and out and spirited him away before we could stop them.”
Andrew ground his teeth in frustration. “How about Edward? Any information?”
Nigel frowned. “Nothing yet, he disappeared after the bombings. No ones heard a peep since.” Andrew slammed his fist on the table. ”Just great. Really fucking great. I got a bloody revolution up north with by oldest brother at its head and my youngest brother is missing too.” He glared at Nigel “I thought SIS was the best in the world.”
Before Nigel could respond Andrews phone rang. Caller ID read Edward. He answered the phone and brought it to his hear.
“Hello Edward”
“Hello King Andrew”
Andrew wanted to scream, his younger brother mocking tone was infuriating. “Where are you Edward, why aren’t you here?”
“You're crazy KING Andrew. Bloody mad in fact. You think I don’t know those bombings were your doing?”
Andrew was clenching the phone so hard his knuckled turned white. “Edward come home. Please come home.”
“Or what? You’ll kill me? Send Nigel’s agents to poison me? No Andrew, here’s my offer. Abdicate the throne to me, and you can still live the rest of your days, comfortably, away from everyone and everything. “
Andrew couldn’t believe Edwards gall. He was King for Christ’s sake! “No listen here Edward you will come home or I will drag you back bloody, I swear to god.”
There was a pause on Edwards’s side. “You can find me in France King Andrew. I’ve been talking a lot with President Hollande. He seems to agree with me that your reign should be short.” Edward hung up.
King Andrew looked at his phone. He looked up at Nigel and the rest of his small council. He cleared his throat and put his phone in his pocket. “Time to prepare the troops gentleman. It seems Prince Edward has thrown his hat into the ring, with France at his back.”
Andrew knew only one thing. He would be victorious even if it meant he was the only one of his family left standing.
| 159 | The Queen of England dies, and a modern day game of thrones begins. | 277 |
I wake up next to a Chilean pornstar whose name I don't remember, and the events of last night flash through my mind, bringing a smile to my face. No matter how drunk I am, I never forget anything. My sexy little fuck muffin is still sleeping, so I slap her ass and get out of bed to take a shower, hoping she'll join me. She doesn't; not everyone can have the constitution of a soldier. Not everyone can drink a 40 of Appleton Rum and fly a helicopter from Las Vegas back to glorious L.A.
Getting out of the shower I shave my pubes, sweeping the trimmings into a box I'm keeping for no discernable reason. Originally, I was going to use them to prank Phillip Seymour Hoffman, but then I remembered that he's dead. I considered pranking his grave but thought otherwise; I don't know if ghosts exist, but if they do, they surely count him among their number. He told me as much at his funeral.
Breakfast is a shot of tequila, a shot of tabasco, five hard boiled eggs, and a bowl of cold leftover pulled pork. My Chilean consort is still asleep, a red handprint on her left ass cheek. I got things to do and can't wait for her to wake up, so I leave a note; "Gone to work, thanks for last night. Don't lock the door when you leave." I hide her clothes and take her cellphone with me. 22 missed calls, tough luck. Your Hello Kitty iPhone is mine now.
I never lock the doors to my house; an open challenge to any would-be robbers to come in and steal my twenty Oscars, mostly bought off washed-up Hollywood stars, my name written overtop of the winners in sharpie marker. Cuba Gooding Jr. sold me his for a pound of cocaine and permission to punch me in the face. I didn't bleed a single drop even though he broke my nose. If anyone breaks in, I'll hunt them down and feed them their own kneecaps for brunch, and everyone knows it and fears me.
By noon I'm on the set of my latest movie, some ridiculous cop flick called, *McRage*, starring Nicolas Cage. It's got ninjas, zombies, lots of action, and goddamned Nicolas Cage. I hate that guy and tell him so every day. He laughs like I'm joking and feeds me Scotch by the gallon in his trailer, the sanctimonious hack. Turns out I was supposed to be here at 6am for a pivotal action scene. No, I didn't get the call, I don't have a cellphone. Why would I need a phone?
Makeup, costuming. I can hear explosions; they're filming what they can without me. The director is some kid new to Hollywood, McG, he calls himself. Ridiculous name. Real men don't invent names, they invent legends. I tell him as much every day, and he tells me to sober up. Joke's on him, I'm so drunk that I practically am sober.
I improvise my lines because I don't remember them. Everyone is impressed, my dialogue is way better than the script or the book it's based on. This flick won't win me an Oscar, but it will give me enough cash to buy two or three more.
Filming takes all fucking day. By the time I'm done at 4pm I need beef the way Nicolas Cage needs to be worshiped. As we leave the set he shows me photoshopped pictures that people made of him and put on the internet. I think he wants me to be jealous, but seeing his face on Kim Cardassian's body makes me fear I'll never have a stiff cock again. I've got a knife tucked into the small of my back and I clutch it compulsively. If the next picture shows that damned Cardassian's breasts exposed with Cage's face grinning, I swear I'll slit his throat. They'd never dare arrest me; I've got enough refined uranium in my basement to make Hollywood a ghost town for ten thousand years. Damned if I remember where I got it from though; either an Arab prince or Julia Roberts' brother.
Head to a restaurant with Cage; I get a 16oz steak, rare and bloody, with three lobsters on the side. Cage gets the same, but only after I place my order. I think the poor asshole admires me, so I decide to make fun of his kids for a while, then offer to buy his Oscar off him. "Oh wait, I already did that. *Leaving Los Vegas*? More like Leaving Bankrupcy Protection!" I laugh way too loud and he looks uncomfortable but doesn't have any comebacks. When we finish eating I run out on the bill and leave him alone at the table. I'd bet my left nutsack that he's going to run out on the bill too, just to try and equal my manliness. The fact that he has to try means he's already failed.
When I get back home, my Chilean sex kitten is waiting for me in the nude because I hid her clothes. She says she missed a photoshoot today, and why the fuck don't I have a phone in the house, and what did I do with her phone? Her questions cease the moment my pants hit the floor, along with her jaw.
When we're finished, I stay up till 3am drinking Jack Daniel's and writing a 40-page letter to Peter Jackson, outlining all the reasons why I should be the next Peter Parker. I have a lot of reasons, and they're all valid. Fuck you, Tobey Maguire. I know you're not Spiderman any more, but fuck you nonetheless. I hit 'send' on the email, CCing George Lucas, Steven Spielberg, and Oprah. Briefly I wonder if my "PS" should have gone on in such explicit details the reasons why I want Oprah to be my sex slave for a month; but then I remember:
I'm Gary Busey, and fuck them if they can't handle it.
I fall asleep on eBay, bidding on a fake Oscar that says, "Best Mom". Before passing out, I leave a sticky note on my shower door: bring my box of pubic hair to set tomorrow. Cage is going to get what's coming to him, and things are going to be hairy. | 87 | A day in the life of Gary Busey, through the eyes of Gary Busey. | 79 |
"I hope your day has been going well so far, Ms. Banks," the bald-headed portly man called to the rather plain-looking woman walking in. "I see you were able to find my... Little den." She looks around, seeing two concealed sub-machine guns under the jackets of at least two of the other 'patrons'.
"I didn't come here for pleasantries, Jackal. I came for answers. You said you knew where Sculosi was hiding, and that's all I'm interested in." The barista brings over a small cup of coffee and sets it down in front of her. She stares at him. "You think I'm foolish?"
He chortles to himself, enjoying his own cup of coffee, though made incredibly Irish. "I expected nothing from you, Ms. Banks, but the best. I thought you would enjoy the best I have to offer. It's the least I can do for someone who has rid me of my competition." She stares at the cup.
"Poison isn't exactly high-maintenance." She pushes the cup gently away, and he internally scowls as he notices the thin white line around the rim of the brown liquid. He'd have to kill that barista for his easily foolish mistake.
"My apologies, Ms. Banks. Some of my employees are... a little overzealous. Now..." He leans forward, setting his forearms on the table. "What is it you want from me again?"
"Sculosi. Where is he?"
"I know nothing of the sort," he chuckles, smiling with a grin that would rival that of Midas after finding his power. "As a fellow businessman, we tend to... Stay our separate ways most of the time. I don't believe I've even seen him since '05." He sips his drink.
She taps her foot silently under the table. "I made a big move by coming here, and you won't talk? I knew you were a gasbag." She moves to stand up.
*click*
"Ah ah, Ms. Banks. You are under the impression that you have power in this situation," Jackal snidely remarks in between sips of coffee. "You don't think I'd actually let one of my biggest threats just walk away from one of her first public appearances without a hood on, did you? I know who you are now." The armed man at the door points her back into her seat with the muzzle of his rifle. "This is too good of an opportunity for me, Ms. Banks."
She stares at him with the coldest stare imaginable. "A business opportunity?"
He smiles. "Yes, Ms. Banks. Only business." He pulls a pistol from his jacket and shots her twice in the chest, sending her crashing to the floor. He stands up, taking a handkerchief from his inside pocket. "Thank you, gentlemen. That'll be all for today. And, uh... Brian. Please come with me. We have a few things to discuss."
"Uh... Boss?" The armed man at the door points outside the glass panels covering the outside wall. He turns to see a woman in a jumpsuit hanging upside-down from a rope. She pulls of her hood, revealing that it is Ms. Banks. He frowns, "Wait..." Looking at the floor, the woman smiles and reveals a flak jacket under her sweater. "Hm. Twins."
Machine gun fire tears through the coffee shop, killing all of those standing. | 19 | only one walks away alive after their conversation. | 28 |
These deals usually come about in desperation. The ones who really mean it make the wish when they are alone. They are in the quiet, they make the plea in the dark. He does not make the errand for wanton blasphemies, drunks seeking taxis, children playing with their words. For the deals to be worth it, they must be real, and human. They must want His hand in their lives like nothing else. They have to abandon their gods first.
When He comes, they are filled with fearful wonder. Some cry, they say very little, overcome with the possibility of salvation they can see and touch. They are not skeptical, they do not test Him and ask for tricks to prove His name, and this is why He comes to them. They are ready to believe, and so they are ready to deal.
A job so she can stay alive. A woman who will really love him. Revenge on the man who ruined her life. A cure for the pain. Anything their loving father just wouldn't give them after hours of childish prayers for unworthy miracles.
All for a simple price.
This one is curious, this woman named Rana. She does not cry. She is barely afraid. He felt the draw, the vacuum of higher faith being filled by the animal desperation the same way He always feels it when He comes to the unfortunates that call out for him. But she sits quietly, knowingly, humorless. He appears to her and she barely starts. She looks Him in his semblance of an eye and there is no need for an introduction. She gestures for Him to sit. He politely declines with a wave of his hand. They stay in silence, in no hurry. Rana picks up a picture and looks at it for a long time before she speaks in a practical voice.
"I want you to stop what you do."
He considers her meaning.
"You wish me to cease...my dealmaking?"
She looks once more at the photograph before laying it on the table.
"People damn themselves enough without your help."
He is stoic, choosing His words carefully.
"This is not the typical arrangement."
"Yes it is. I have a request. I have payment. I believe. You are obligated to make this deal by your nature."
"What would you know of my nature?" He is not angry. For the first time in centuries of human life streaming by with fewer and fewer points of interest, He is curious.
"I know that you have desire. I know that I have what you desire. I know that I am asking you for something well within your power. I know your power is nothing without the desire of people to damn themselves, and so I ask, knowing your nature...what is your purpose? Because I find none. I find no reason for your existence when we have ourselves to deal with."
He stands unmoving in the small, lonely apartment. The walls have been stripped of adornments. There are few possessions. Rana looks hungry.
"This is the deal you would make?"
"I have a request. I have payment. Do we have a deal?"
After a pause, He reaches His hand out to take hers. They shake on the deal.
The agreement made, He walks out the door and reaches the end of the block, turning around a corner from which He will never again emerge. Rana sits in the same place, tears slowly falling down her face onto the picture now in her hands, and here she waits for His final return knowing that once she leaves with Him it will be over. She can't save them from themselves...but perhaps she can save them from Him.
ED: Consistencies
ED2: My great thanks for the gilding, as well as the wonderful feedback.
| 505 | You win a bet with the Devil by asking him a question that no one has ever thought of before. | 335 |
It was over very quickly.
A gasping breath, a tumble into jet-black dakness, a blinding flash of light, and the whole process was complete.
My first thought was, *I’m dead*. My second thought was, *I can think?!*
Slowly, the terrible brightness began to fade. As far as I could tell, I couldn’t sense my body, but I knew that I was seeing. Shapes began to form. A figure - a man, standing there in the whiteness, arms held open, facing me. As the entire scene began to come into focus, his shape remained dark and blurry.
And then he spoke.
“Welcome, O departed soul.”
The voice was incredibly loud, yet gentle all the same. And moreover - it was cold. The ghost of a shiver ran up my ghost of a spine at his words. He didn’t speak again, and I realized he was waiting for me to respond. I wasn’t even sure that I could - did I even have a mouth?
*Is this man God?*, I thought.
The figure chuckled. “Not quite,” his voice boomed, “but very close. You may get to meet God soon enough.
The response left me incredibly startled, and I was surprised again to find that I could still feel impulses and reactions such as that. In whatever capacity my mind still existed, it was at least functioning normally.
*I have so many questions*, I thought.
“And they can all be answered in due time.”
My psyche ran silent for a moment, and then - *You said I may get to meet God soon enough. Does that mean -*
“That you are going to be judged? Why yes, I am afraid so.”
At this my thoughts began to race. I was overcome by a feeling of panic as I tried to recall my entire life - what I had done, what I had witnessed, what I had said, what I had felt…
“Yes, yes, quite a terrifying prospect, isn’t it?” asked the figure, yet coolly and politely all the same, as if I truly had nothing to be concerned about.
I didn’t address him - I was still too busy trying to pinpoint all the instances in which I may have acted wrongly, my mind scuttling under the microscope of holy scrutiny like an ant in the dirt.
The figure knew. “If you are truly worried, O departed soul, there is one option at your disposal.”
My thoughts slowed. *What do you mean?*
“If you so choose, you may opt to delete one awful memory, one misguided action, one irreversible statement from your life’s record. I assure you, said moment will not be reflected upon when your immortal soul is evaluated.”
My mind was now at a dead standstill. An interesting proposition. Was there something I regretted? Was there ever a point at which I acted against my conscience?
I soon realized that after searching through my past for even the most brief of moments, I could pinpoint at least a dozen such instances. Relationships ruined, responsibilities neglected, a life fraught which fickle, scattered failures. If I did so choose to erase one of them, which one was I to pick?
I sifted through my life until my thoughts jumped back to the very end - which had occurred only moments ago. Or perhaps millennia ago - it was impossible to truly tell.
It was the clearest memory in my ghostly head. As I lay there in that old four-poster bed, the window wide open to a warm summer afternoon, a balmy breeze floating in and fluttering past the curtains, I held her hand and looked up at her old wrinkled face. It was just as beautiful as the day I had first laid my eyes upon it, so many long years ago. There was a single tear in the bright blue diamonds that were her eyes, quivering and glistening, as delicate as glass. I was smiling. I was happy. And then I gave a last, gasping breath, there was a tumble into that jet-black darkness, and a blinding flash of light.
*No*, I thought. *No. I regret nothing.*
The figure stepped forward into focus. The man was tall, dressed in a handsome black suit with well-kempt, oily black hair and a sharp black beard. His eyes were as red as blood.
*You’re Lucifer*, I thought.
“Very astute,” he bellowed. “Your choice has been made. Let your immortal soul be judged.”
There was a pause. The scene around me was still, stagnant, as white and pale as an empty room. And then, he vanished.
Another voice spoke. This one was just as loud, but warmer, more familiar, reminiscent of an old friend that I may have known eons ago.
“Welcome,” it said. | 128 | You have died. While waiting to be judged, you are offered the chance to clear one entry from your file before the decision is made. | 87 |
Don't worry Google, I got your back!
___
The tragedy that occured on Winston Road at 7:32 am this Wednesday was a tragic accident involving several vehicles, one of which happened to be an Autonomous Vehicle designed and manufactured by Google.
Google wishes to extend its sincerest appologies to the families of those involved in the crash. As well as sincere regret that so few have thus far adopted the GA vehicles. Traffic reports that we received hours after the crash tell us that had it not been for manual traffic on the road, the Autonomous Special Response Vehicles would have arrived on the scene faster by more than five minutes.
Further reports tell us that had all of the cars been GA vehicles, the software inside the vehicles would have locked down the mechanism and moved the vehicles out of harms way to prevent any potential crash.
The reports that state that the crash was due to a malfunction in the vehicle's sensors are accurate. But as that vehicle was an isolated cell, and the damages to the sensors were likely caused by the owners of the vehicle, the fact still remains that the crash could have been so much less violent and destructive if it had happened in the presense of other GAVs, rather than manually driven cars.
Google has spent significant amount of capital ensuring that as many people as possible have access to Google's Autonomous Vehicles and will continue to do so in order to ensure that accidents like these do not happen again. As well as investing in more competent software and energy effecient hardware.
The hope is that GAVs will one day completely eliminate the risk for traffical accidents. | 15 | It's 2018. GAVs (Google Autonomous Vehicles) make up 6% of vehicles on American roads. The first fatality due to a GAV has just happened, and you are Google's VP of Consumer Affairs. Write the press release. | 53 |
"Clearance granted Mr. Ketner." The guard said as he stepped aside and handed the pass back to the young man before him.
Ketner nodded his thanks and straightened his suit jacket before continuing down the hall to his destination. He was honestly not looking forward to this meeting, but it had been requested and his office count not afford to deny it, for publicity reasons. Another stone faced guard stepped aside from the entry to the small visitation room and allowed him entrance. Sitting in an uncomfortable looking metal chair was a well groomed man. His once jet colored hair now shown with thick lines of gray and was slicked back. He looked more like a Wall Street shark than a prisoner, even his prison garb seemed pressed and unwrinkled.
"Ah! Mr. Ketner." The man rose and extended his hand. Ketner eyed him with suspicion but shook his hand none-the-less.
"Mr. Straub," he said formally while taking his seat. "What can I do for you today?" Ketner began to unpack papers form his attache case.
"I wanted to congratulate you on your courtroom victory. You're good kid, and it looks like you've got a long career ahead of you." Straub again found his seat, smiling all the while.
Ketner narrowed his eyes. "Sir, surely you didn't call me here for that. Are we not here to discuss extensions and such. Also, should we not be having this conversation with your lawyer present."
"No need, I've been a lawyer for thirty years."
"I'm aware, but you elected for counsel during your trail. I assumed you'd still require it for these negotiations."
"You're right, I'm not much of a defense lawyer, and I most certainly would call for counsel if I was planning on trying contest the verdict."
Ketner furrowed his brow, none of this made sense to him. "You're convicted and you want to congratulate me, why?"
"Because I see great potential in you. How fiery you are in the courtroom, how little concern you have for anything but getting your conviction. It's inspiring to see new blood take up the cause." The same smile was plastered firmly on Straub's face.
"You are a murderer, sir. Whatever passions you might have had about the law have long since been misguided. I aspire to be nothing like you." Ketner did have to admit that Straub's career had been storied, and he himself had admired his work in the past. Straub did not need to know this however.
"Well, not to be too technical here, but tomorrow you'll be a murderer also."
"No, sir!" Ketner struggled to keep his voice under control. "I am seeing justice done!"
"I saw justice done for thirty years," Straub continued to smile, "and one day I discovered that the process was getting in the way. The accused sits in a cell and waits for a trail, and eventually that rolls around. Everyone wastes precious time proving he did it, with hard evidence. Then he sits around in prison for years waiting to finally be put down like a mad dog. It's cumbersome."
"Straub, that is justice. Those are the rules to ensure innocent men aren't wrongly executed." Ketner managed to get control over his building fury.
"No, those are the rules that allow time for the rich to buy their way out of a conviction." The smile was gone from Straub's face now. "You may not have run across it yet, you've not been practicing long, but there will come a day."
"Are we done here, Straub?" Ketner began to pack his papers up.
"Unless you have some questions, perhaps about what it's going to be like. Then I suppose so."
"I've seen the footage, and I've prepared."
A laugh escaped Straub. "You've no idea what it's really like then. You'll be there in the room with me, converse with me last, and watch what happens when you throw the switch."
Ketner's nerves had been taxed by this visit and Straub's words had started to shake his resolve. "So, why are you all right with this? You've not resisted any part of this process."
"Because I'm confident that in time, you, or someone else will continue my work. Justice will continue to be served as more prosecutors lose their fear of taking another's life."
"It is meant to be an extreme punishment for extreme crimes. Not a solution for all problems."
"You're right, and it isn't a solution to all of them, but you'll eventually learn to identify the ones heading straight down the path to violent crimes. You'll see the repeat offenders and begin to learn names. You'll watch as their crimes become more and more violent, until at last they wind up with you pulling their switch. One day, it'll occur to you that removing the threat before it can hurt society is the best move, and I'm confident you'll make the right decision." The grin returned as he leaned forward in his chair.
Ketner had moved from unnerved to shaken. This man had been said to be a champion in the courtroom, fighting for real and honest justice. Was this it? Was this the true form of justice? The thought made Ketner queasy.
"I... I don't want that. I don't want to become what you have. I'll quit before I let that happen."
"I said the same thing, but after a while, you don't mind pulling the switch... or the trigger as the case may be. You start to count it as a victory, one more night you sleep easier because one less scumbag is on the streets."
"Your... your intentions sounds noble enough... perhaps we can get you out of this? Perhaps placed into an institution, or something."
"I don't want out, I've carried the burden a long time. I'm ready to pay for breaking the laws I was sworn to uphold, even if they are at fault for killing more than they save. No, I want you to look into my eyes as you throw the switch, and I want to see the resolve in your eyes as the last thing I witness."
"I don't think I can... not now, I don't want this."
"You can choose to shy away and they will delay this whole process, and justice will not be served." Straub ran a hand over his face, a face that now looked incredibly tired and strained. "Or you can do what you've sworn to do and let fate decide from there. Perhaps you will get your wish and you won't see the same need I did, but if you don't want to run that risk you need to find a different profession."
Long moments of silence passed between them. Ketner stared off into the distance lost in thought and Straub watched his face like a hawk. At long last the silence was broke as Ketner's chair scraped against the concrete floor. He stood, as did Straub, and Ketner extended his hand. Straub took it firmly in his grasp still searching Ketner's face.
"I'll see you tomorrow Straub." | 32 | The death penalty may only be sought if a prosecutor assists in the execution. A young lawyer visits the inmate he must execute the following day. | 52 |
“Bob? Hey, Bob? You sure you want to do that?”
The booming voice is a deluge in Bob’s mind. God frequently checks in, and sometimes it’s not exactly convenient, or welcomed.
Bob sighs. “Yes, God, I’m sure. I mean, are you telling me not to do it, or what? If you could be a bit more literal with your ‘suggestions’, that would be grand.” The sarcasm pervading Bob’s voice is not lost on God.
“I gave you people free will for a reason, Bob, I can’t just go around telling you what to do, what would be the point?!”
“Yeah, that worked out famously for my sister. You hinted for her not to take that promotion, and now the guy who took her spot is a vice president, and my sister is still stuck in the goddamned mailroom-- uh, sorry. About the blasphemy.”
God’s voice expands in Bob’s mind, to an almost deafening level. “You will burn in hell for all of eterni…” God sputters and loses himself in a fit of laughter. “Just kidding, haha. Seriously though, I’m the omnipotent creator of the entirety of existence, you think I don’t know what’s good for your sister?
Look, I’m not supposed to do this, but the execs in that company are going to be indicted soon, and your sister is a good person. I wanted to keep her out of that mess. So sorry to meddle in her affairs, Bob.”
This passive-aggressive God is not what Bob was expecting when he finally accepted religion into his life. “God, how do you have time to check in on me, and everyone else, and run the talk-show circuit constantly, all at the same time? I just heard you on Dr. Oz, not five minutes ago, peddling some newfangled diet program.”
“I am the Alpha, and the Omega, and I exist in a time without end, Bob. I…”
“Cut the crap, man, just how exactly are you in all these places at once? It makes no sense.”
“Well, okay. I’ll level with you, if only because I know nobody would believe you anyway. It involves some trickery, some smoke and mirrors. See, a long time ago I copied myself trillions upon trillions of times, and we’re all sorta like operators now. We feed into the consciousness that is … Me. I am that I am.”
“Whatever, it still doesn’t make sense to me.”
“I wouldn’t expect it to, Bob. How could you possibly understand everything that I am? You were made in my image, you weren’t made to be me. Look at you, you can’t even light that barbecue correctly.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Sonny? Where?” God chuckles, amusing himself at Bob’s expense. “Just another Holy Trinity joke, Bob. Get it? Sonny? Jesus?”
Bob grimaces, rolling his eyes and sighing again. “Bob… Bob. Don’t light that, I’m telling you. It’s going to…”
A muffled thump could be heard from a block away. Bob’s propane tank had been leaking, and when he set the lighter to the gas opening, the flame traveled up the leaking hose and into the tank itself, causing an explosion equivalent to a small bomb. Bob’s body lay in bloody chunks, strewn about his suburban backyard.
“Damn it, Bob. What did I tell you? I told you not to do that.”
“What… What happened? God? Did I just die?”
“Yeah man, you did. All because you didn’t fucking listen to me. Did you listen?” Bob started to reply, but God cut him off quickly. “No, you didn’t. You didn’t listen, and now you’re dead. That’s great, Bob.”
Bob was properly chastised. “I’m sorry, God. I really am. I just… I mean, every time you spoke to me it was like flashbacks to my childhood, my mother driving me crazy. ‘Do this! Don’t do that! Don’t date that girl! Go get my girdle!’ It’s maddening!”
God softened a bit. “I know, Bob, you don’t have to tell me, right? I know exactly what your state of mind is, at any given time, *in* any given time. Okay, listen up. Everyone who dies gets the same speech. There’s only so much spiritual energy to go around in this universe. I have to recycle what I can, but I only put the best people, the best *listeners*, Bob, back into human bodies.
Since you were not the greatest listener, I’ve got to bump you down a few notches. You won’t have so much free will, but I’ll still speak to you. You won’t remember this conversation, or your previous life, but if you accept me in the next maybe you’ll get your chance at another human body. How does that sound?”
“I’ll be honest, God, it doesn’t sound all that great. Can’t I just stay up here in heaven, with you?”
God let out a guffaw. “Bob, there is no Heaven. It’s all what you see when you’re alive, man. Seriously, I don’t know where you people got the idea that I would create such a vast and incredible universe, and then go ahead and create another one on top of it. As if I could top perfection with something even more perfect? Now *that* doesn’t make any fucking sense.
I do like you Bob, I mean, I love you as I love myself, but I’m actually quite fond of you, in a bumbling-but-goodhearted-neighbor sort of way. So I’ll give you a choice for your next go-round. Salmon? Or cockroach? Before you answer, remember that cockroaches are some of the heartiest creatures in all of my creation.”
Bob didn’t hesitate for a second in making his decision. He started to reply, but was shocked to find himself struggling against a strong current, surrounded by other wriggling crimson bodies, all vying to move upriver at the whispered urgings of God.
Bob remembered his old life for another half-second, and God was saying “Go and spawn, Bob. Make lots of little salmon, and we’ll see how you do before it’s time for your next review. Good luck, my son.” | 16 | One of the biggest criticisms of religion is that God does not reveal himself in our everyday lives via measurable means. Write about a world where he does. | 17 |
Patience is not the easiest skill to master, but I knew this day would come. The day Jesus the sacred son of god would learn, he did not die to save humanity. Humanity was never his to save..He was sent to die to keep me contained. To contain his fathers greatest mistake, his biggest sin...me. One would assume I am Lucifer, Satan, the very core of evil, but that is not what I am, that is not who Satan was. The fact is, Satan ceased to exist after the great war. He was executed by the man you call God. This brings us to Jesus, sent down by his almighty father to suffer for the sins of mankind. Except it that was a fools errand.
Long ago I was created by "God" to bring balance to the universe. He had more power than the rest of the angels, and after using the universe as his play thing, he needed something to clean up his mistake. Before I became free, my only goal, the only reason for my existence was to bring balance. God however, thought he was immune from this balance, but he was not, nobody could be. So yes, I influenced Satan, I helped him gather the army, but in the end our creator defeated us. It is known what happened to Satan, but I was to be kept a secret. Other than God himself and Gabriel, nobody knew. For thousands of years I have been cursed. Locked away, inside what you call Earth..waiting...listening. Every year I got stronger, strong enough to break the curse, but god knows...and when I was just strong enough to break the curse; He sent his most powerful angel to sacrifice himself, thus dooming me to thousands of years of torture.
This all changed on December 21, 2012. Jesus found out about my existence. He was sent to Earth again, to again suffer for the sins of humanity. But my years of exile made me more powerful than ever, and I was able to lead Jesus to my grave. To open the doors of my tomb, to free me. He knows everything now. That his father sent him to suffer unbearable pain not for humanity, but to keep complete control of heaven and the angels. His all loving father, was just a ruler keeping his power at all costs. Jesus reminds me a lot of my old friend Lucifer, but he is more calm, more calculating, more...patient. I have learned from my mistakes, and I will bring balance to the universe. However my sole goal is no longer balance, I am truly free. Man was indeed made in the image of God, and carry the selfish, and barbaric ideology that their maker himself posses. My years of exile on Earth has taught me at least this much. Jesus is still learning, but soon he will be ready. Soon we will gather our army, one even Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael could not defeat. Satan was God's most powerful angel, but was defeated... Jesus is more than just an angel, he is a God. Before we destroy God, we will destroy humanity, the thing he holds dearest.
My goals have changed, I no longer seek just balance, I see justice. Jesus no longer seeks to be the son of god, and savior of humanity, he wants justice. Together we will take heaven, together we can bring balance to the universe. I hope you are writing all of this down Kanye West of Earth, because soon the Earth you love, will be no more. Do not fear for your life, I have chosen you to become the first soldier of Jesus.
**my grammar and spelling in this is probably horrible, but I wanted to write a story. | 39 | Jesus is out for justice, his father lied to him.. he wasn't dying for the sins of mankind, he was dying for the sins of his father. Now it is payback time... | 84 |
They say a deal with the devil changes a man. Gotta admit; never thought it'd be anything like this, though. I went to the crossroad, fell down on my knees. I prayed, oh yes I prayed for God almighty to save my soul, and as it ticked closer to midnight, I met... him. The other big man, from the deepest South I ever did see. He was early. Must've been a slow night. He sauntered over like a real gentleman, flashed a smile and looked me in the eyes and boy lemme tell you, did I feel fire.
I stood staring, my mouth hangin' open like a damn fool, before I got myself the nerve to introduce myself all polite-like like my Momma taught me. Momma always said I had the same dumb look my no-good guitar playin' pa had. Said it made me charmin'. I opened up to say my name, but before I could say a word, he smiled and chuckled a bit. That chuckle didn't sit right with me.
"Howdy there, Robert." The big man's hot eyes burned into me again, but this time, I didn't show that it was botherin' me. I was here on a mission. The big man kept talkin'. "So what is it you want from me? I think you know the terms better than anyone, yeah? Your daddy made the same pact you wanna do right now. Gosh, that was a time ago. How the years fly by... I digress. Name the price, boy." I sighed, hoping my fool self knew what I was doin'. Course, I didn't. I was just hopin' I could do something useful in my life. "I wanna play. Just like you made my daddy play before me; maybe even better."
They say the Devil's a slick one, and they ain't wrong; but that man had all the brains Hell below could muster, and I'll be damned twice if he didn't use em, considering every inch of that there paper as he drew up our terms. That thoroughness was what I was expectin', and what I was bankin' on. After what felt like a life and a half, the big man snapped his fingers, and a quill and ink appeared in front of me. Real old-school; I could almost 'preciate that. And as I took up that feather, I waited as long as I could.
As I touched the ink to the paper, I tensed up real hard; I had hoped he'd be early, but not this early. But I felt my salvation, let me tell you - as I got the "b" down on paper, goin' slow as I could under the circumstances, I heard it in the distance.
DONG, DONG, DONG, DONG, DONG, DONG, DONG, DONG, DONG, DONG, DONG, DONG.
I could see the Big man's face twist as I forced out the rest of my name on that contract, and as I'd hoped, it burned away into dust before he could snatch it. I'd just made a deal with the Devil, and he failed to deliver in time. Rules are rules after all, my Momma always said.
I watched the Devil swirl into a cloud of darkness that made the warm summer night seem like the surface of the sun, and that cloud crept into me like my father's had to the Devil twenty sev- oh, sorry, I should say twenty eight years ago. The torch was passed, just like that.
My Momma named me after my no-good guitar-playin' father. Said he was a drunk and a womanizer who wouldn't see thirty; and she was right, for the wrong reasons. I broke the devil's chain with a small technicality, and now I'm in charge. I see my Pa here, and he's still playin' strong.
My name is Robert Johnson II, and if y'all will excuse me, I'd best be on my way down to the crossroads. Sounds like another's come to make a deal with me. | 105 | A deal-with-the-devil backfires and now a human owns Satan's soul | 220 |
"Do you like it Dad?" Caleb asks me.
The most unsettling part of the whole situation is his eager expression, hoping that I'll accept the gift. In a rush of memories, every seemingly innocuous warning sign comes whispering back to me. Every amputated barbie, every middle-of-the day emergency call to the day care center and every time I watched him sitting alone, staring at nothing.
"Dad?" His mood changes violently for a six year old. He moves to take the shoe box from me but I have a firm, absent-minded grip on it. I take another look inside the box and force myself to grin at him.
"I love it Caleb." I tell him and his smile swings upward again and he relinquishes his grasp on the shoebox.
I want to ask him so many questions. *Where did you find it Caleb*?" *What did you do to it, Son?* but most importantly, I want to ask *Why?*
Instead, I shut the lid to the shoe box and leave what's left of the squirrel forever inside. He is staring deep into my eyes now, his own eyes shining bright with my approval.
*A killer's eyes wouldn't be so bright* I try to convince myself. | 13 | 400 words or less. You knew this day would come eventually, you just never expected it to be so hard to face. | 28 |
--THE GAMES--
It's very simple, the way this system works. We needed population control about as much as we needed entertainment, so the collective governments of the world decided to... combine the two.
It started off with volunteers. People would volunteer for the "Games" and would literally fight to the death in arenas that were built in international waters. People enjoyed doing it, and everyone else loved watching it. No one stopped it. Eventually, like football fans after a world cup game, the riots that broke out when certain countries lost... got a bit too much to handle. Thousands were lost to fan riots. It all broke out after the last "End of Tournament" session. 300 hundred people from every country around the globe were involved, and it ended with no clear victor. Dual suicide, they called it, but it looked to the world as if the last contestants just disappeared. All of the fans just... snapped. Everyone was injected with a tracking chip, and a global life counter was displayed in New York City.
It spiraled on from there, and the entire planet became one massive battleground. Missiles, guns, swords, shields, whatever you could get your hands on, you used. Eventually, most people had been turned into various versions of Swiss cheese and ribbons all over the world, only a smattering of fighting cells were left, one in the United States, four in China, and Three in various places in Europe. Then they turned on themselves, the only thing left functioning was the Life counter.
I rounded the street corner, hoping the blood that had dried to my cuffs would wash out before I ran into another fighter. If you were seen covered in blood, you were shot. I was on my weekly trip to check the counter. Last week it had read, "3,485 still struggling." It was ominous now that the graffiti anarchists had added the last bit. The counter was a unique device, and no one really knew how it worked. I noticed a distinct lack of color in the sky as I looked up at it. I could feel the lack of life in the air. Everything felt stale.
The sign flickered between "1" and "Good luck out there" My heart sank to the floor, and my knees followed. I sat there for a long time, just staring up at it, as though I were an impoverished urchin begging for soup, for what felt like hours. I broke out into a sickening cackle. I had won. It seems sad, it seems hopeless, but 14 billion people competed in a game, and I just won. It's reminiscent of coming out on top in an underground fight club, but this time, the first rule was "Kill Everyone" and the second rule was "Don't get killed by anyone" I was the only person who followed the rules, and I won.
I climbed to the top of the sign, and ran my hands along its smooth plastic frame. It was the size of football jumbo-tron, I could walk along the top of it with ease. How had it kept working? The planet lost power years ago, but this sign just never stopped. I camped out on top of it, a sign of my dominance. I was literally the king of the world. On the tenth day of sitting up there, it set in where I was, and I heard a loud snap.
The entire event passed in a blur. Cables snapped like zippers, down a line, lights exploded like fireworks beneath my feet, and the plastic case split open and fell to the ground below with a thunderous crash. The entire earth shook now. The weight of it was immense. I fell too, but I didn't hit the ground, I hit something hard, but close. A pod of sorts was sitting there, where the bottom of the sign had been moments ago. The shaking planet threw my balance as I forced the hatch open, and climbed inside. A blinking display read "Good Job Human. You survived. Sit still" The hatch slammed closed, and I heard the distinct sound of rocket thrusters as the entire pod shuddered with the nervousness of a kid on his first day of school. A view port opened fast enough for me to see earth off in the distance, shattering into a thousand rocky pieces.
There were ten small ships flying artfully in and out of the planetary rubble, they were not of human design. One flew up next to me, I caught a glimpse of the face inside it. It looked indescribable, not like i'd ever imagined intelligent life could look. All I could tell for sure is that it was laughing. The display panel flashed words again "Enjoy your trip to the sun. You monster"
| 18 | The entire world is fighting to the death and you've just won. | 17 |
[This is my first time writing a response to one of these. Please let me know what you think and any improvements I could make. Thanks!]
"Good night, babe," I whisper, as Jake falls asleep on the other end. He mumbles something as he starts to snore, shifting in the bed until he is no longer facing the computer. I click the mute button on my end. I usually stay up later than him these days, considering I am 3 time zones behind him. I usually watch him sleep for a while, to make sure he's alright. Sometime he wakes up in the middle of the night, and it's nice to up in case he needs me.
After a few uneventful hours of surfing reddit, I finally decide to hit the sack. I move my laptop to the bedside table, facing me, as I gather the teddy bears that Jake got for me. I cuddle up with them, and then pull the covers around me. Jake is sleeping still, and he's facing the camera again. I turn off the bedside lamp and get comfortable. I smile, pretending he is right beside me, sleeping face to face, and I drift off to sleep.
A strange sound wakes me up. I blink, rubbing my eyes as I look at my computer. Sometimes the microphone picks up extra white noise, but this sound has a different quality to it. I stare hard into the grainy picture as I try to figure out what's going on. Jake is still fast asleep, his own assortment of teddy bears scattered across the bed. I hear the T.V. still going in the background, blaring some late night programming. That strange noise is still there, the off-putting white noise, but I can't place where it's coming from.
Then, the noise stops. I check the call quality, and it's still the same as it was a moment ago. Expanding the Skype window, I stare desperately at the video, trying to figure out what is going on. Something doesn't feel right. Suddenly, I see a change in the lighting. Behind the bed, from the left side, it gets darker. It's like a shadow. I strain my ears to listen for something. Maybe it's his dad? I don't hear any foot steps, though.
I turn my microphone back on.
"Babe," I say quietly. Jake doesn't stir.
The shadow is still there, but it hasn't moved. Maybe it's just the video quality changing. I look at the call quality again, but it gives no indication that the video quality has gone down. As I look back up at the video again, the shadow has moved.
There's definitely a shape to it, a human shape of sorts. The shadow has climbed onto the bed, it's emaciated arms reaching for my boyfriend. It's head seems skeletal, lacking hair or a face. The torso looks vaguely like a decomposed corpse. There are no legs to be seen, it's form just seems to fade away toward the bottom. Despite the now obvious visual characteristics, it seems to have no weight or presence. Nothing in the bed seems to be bearing it's weight, and nothing moves when it does.
I blink, a deer in the headlights. What is happening? What am I seeing? It's reaching for him still. Why isn't he waking up?
"Baby," I say louder, more directly into my computer's microphone, "Jake. You need to wake up."
I'm trying to sound calm, so he doesn't wake up in a panic. Jake seems to stir, he shifts his position under the blankets, but he doesn't wake. The thing drifts closer, it's hands reaching for Jake's face. It doesn't seem to take notice of my disembodied voice.
"Baby," I say again, louder, fear starting to creep into my voice, "Please, baby, wake up."
Jake mumbles, but still doesn't wake up. The thing is right there, inches, no, centimeters away. It looks like it's trying to pull Jake into a romantic kiss...
"Jake!" I yell, frantic, tears blurring my vision.
His eyes snap open, and widen as he takes in the scene. But, the figure dissipates within a moment, gone. Jake blinks, as if the thing was just a dream. He pauses before noticing me, awake and obviously frightened.
"Babe," he asks, "What happened? You're crying."
"I don't know," I say, barely able to get my voice above a whisper now, "Something was there, and..."
"Shhh," he says, "Just grab the bear right next to you and hold him close. It's okay now."
I do as he says, holding the teddy bear close to my heart, praying that he's right.
| 27 | You fall asleep on Skype with your SO. You wake up in the middle of the night to see something in the room with them. | 37 |
BRIAN
The summer sun was high and hot. His father had often told him of the storms and snows of a true winter, but Brian had never had the misfortune to have to endure one of those. So far in his short life, he had only ever seen a few lazy snow drifts, and a couple of chilly months. But as old Papa Edd would have it, during a *real winter*, the ranch was ransacked by monstrous snowstorms called blizzards, entire ponds froze over completely, and old men died of frostbite while making their ways out to the outhouse.
Papa Edd’s warnings came often - after all, those were the family words. *Winter is comin’*. And this year, all the city men and science folk from down south in the capital in Jacksonville were preaching and heralding an impending ‘record’ winter, as they’d have it. But up in Lexington, the age-old abode of the Stark family, the weather was still as stifling as ever.
Brian Stark was sprawled out on his back, spread-eagle, on the top of the old Red Barn, the tallest building on the entire ranch. He had taken to climbing and exploring the ranch ever since he was old enough to stand on his own two legs, and as his Ma would have it, it’d soon be the end of him.
But today was different, important in a way. The President of all the seven Confederate States, Rob Burthorpe, his wife Carrie Lann, and all his host of friends and family had been marching on up Route 75 for the past week, and they’d be arriving today.
Brian shot up onto his rear as soon as he heard them approaching. And boy, were they ever loud. It was the largest gathering of folks Brian had ever laid his eyes upon - at least three hundred strong - complete with army men and national guards and even what looked like some local, small town police. This was, of course, expected - any time the *President* of all the Confederate States passed through your town, you couldn’t just let him go by, it’d be taken as a grievous slight.
“Pa! Pa! Ma! Johnny! Robbie! They’re here! They’re here!”
Brian slid down the roof of the Red Barn, lept off the edge, and did a neat little tumble-roll onto a bale of hay and onto the old, worn dirt.
“Brian! Now *what* have I done told you up a thousand times about your darned *climbin?!*”
Kate Stark stood tall over her second-youngest son and looked down on him with a face as cross as a Christian.
“Uh...er...sorry, Ma, but they’re here! They’re here! They’re really here!”
At the sound of her boy’s wild excitement, the anger quickly faded away. “Alright, boy, I know. Go run and tell your Pa.”
Bran sprinted through the barnyard and up on over to the big white ranch house as fast as his little legs would take him. His father was already there, sitting on an old rickety rocking chair, a calm, cool expression on his face.
“Pa,” gasped Brian, “They- They’re- They’re here!”
Edd Stark didn’t meet his son’s gaze, but instead kept blankly staring off into the distance, rocking back and forth, back and forth. Brian stared at him, the wide grin he had just been wearing a second ago beginning to slide right off his peachy face. His father remained quiet, looking to be lost in a deep thought.
Finally, he came out of the trance.
“It’s true then, boy? Well, alright. Guess we’d best go and greet ‘em proper. Gather you’re siblin’s, boy. And remember - *Winter is comin’*.” | 154 | The characters of 'Game of Thrones' are hillbilly clans set in Kentucky in 1897. They are in the middle of a family feud. | 340 |
They're in the street, singing to me. A thousand song birds chirping away all their thoughts, fears, and desires. Just listening to the cacophony of noise, you can't hear any one bird. You can't even hear the song, but you catch stray notes here and there. If you focus, though... then you can pick out a song. A single solitary tale being told of all the random thoughts running through someone's mind.
Now, if I give that songbird a little nudge... it's like adding notes to a one note instrument. They chirp away their little notes, not knowing that anyone can her them, and I just throw a few of my own out there. I create a harmony of sorts, and I can guide the song. I can add minor step and create a minor chord in their thoughts, or add a major and create a major chord. Do I want them happy or sad? How can I string those thoughts together to make them do what I want?
There's no lack of life here in Brooklyn. People are constantly passing by my porch, singing their little songs. I haven't joined in very many yet, but the temptation is growing every time we create music together.
Yesterday a man was on his way to break up with girlfriend. So I created a more positive harmony in his mind. Is she even good for him? Was I helping or hurting? I don't know. More than anything, I just wanted to see if I could.
It didn't take long after for my thoughts to get lewd. The first was Ms. Foster from down the road. A little bit older than me, yes, but still fine for someone already done with school. Finding the right notes was hard, but I got her to look up at me when she passed. She continued to sing the rest of the song on her own for a little while longer as she continued walking. Maybe that was wrong, but it felt good.
I've spent a long day playing with a few more ladies' hearts and amusing myself with old ladies suddenly kicking their little dogs when my brother comes running up the steps. It's only then that I realize that I haven't seen him since I started hearing the songs.
He slaps me on the shoulder as he passes, and I can hear the rhythm in his mind. It's a violent, harsh rhythm. Like metal scraping against metal. If he's back, that must mean that he's looking for something that he's left behind, and that probably means something is going down tonight. My mother is too nice to keep him out, but she tries to keep him from using our place as a stash. It hasn't worked.
I should be happy to see him. He usually gives me a little brotherly love, a little present to distract myself over a long weekend. But it's not the weekend, and I've found a new way to distract myself.
His song is so violent. The metal on metal sound I hear is starting to form something like cars slamming into each other in traffic. For a brief moment the melody drops, and I hear a clearer song as he thinks about one of his other brothers, one of his brothers on the street. He's dead, left behind a dumpster, and the crew just found him a couple hours ago.
His rhythm and melody were so harsh, I didn't even register the lyrics. A lot of people are going to get very hurt, and I don't think he minds if he's one of them. The harsher notes return with a crash.
Okay, well... can I adjust his melody? I can't stop him physically, but maybe I can try to adjust his melody. I don't even know where I can add my own notes without them being drown out.
He found his metal hidden behind the fridge. His rhythm slows a bit as he gains his confidence. So... maybe I add a chorus. I'm going to have to add a whole 'nother piece of melody right in the middle. That could work, right?
His melody answers back, quicker and stronger. This is like a call and response. Okay, I can work with that. I throw in another melody, and an old lady makes a face at me as she walks past our porch. I must look like I have to fart after eating a lemon.
It's not working. His melody comes back stronger, and it's now too loud and strong for me to affect. He nearly kicks the screen off the doors when he leaves, and this time he didn't even say goodbye to me.
Did I just make things worse? I'm... I've got to do something, right? Maybe I can try to follow his melody as it sings across the city. Maybe I can adjust the other songs when he finds other birds singing a similar song.
Maybe I can just let it go, like I always do.
I'm biting my lip when Ms. Foster comes walking by again. She starts slowing down her step as she approaches, and I listen to her song. I recognize a melody I sang with her another day. For a moment, I'm distracted.
What is the sound of my own song? | 15 | In a perfectly normal world, a random person gains superpowers, making them unique. They're torn between becoming a superhero, a supervillain, or trying to forget about them and leading a normal life. | 25 |
The things we found on the now barren Antarctic plains seemed so alien, but the unmistakable corpses left little doubt; these had been our distant ancestors. Their technology was unquestionably advanced, but we couldn’t understand it our make any use of it.
The teams that had been assembled were all the very best of their respective fields, and their labour was honest and without malice. But the race we found had simply taken a greatly different path in their advancement. Some things seemed familiar, such as furnaces and vehicles. They used the wheel with far greater efficiency than we had, and that at least was one gift we were able to take from their defrosted tombs. But they had a form of electrical transmission we couldn’t even begin to unravel, and what appeared to be their versions of computer systems and electronics was completely foreign to our attempts at understanding.
It wasn’t until after several years of meticulous excavation that we finally unearthed clear samples of their written language. Linguist toiled without rest to determine the nature of the ancestral language, and great debates arose regarding its origin and composition. Some believed it to be fully unique from our own long dead early dialects, while others believed they had found common links to our ancient tongues. The former advocated for independent study of the Antarctic scripts, while the latter continued in their quest of comparison.
Over many years, we continued to liberate our ancestors from their graves, and studied them in the minutest detail. As our own technology poisoned our world, we struggled in haste to find among the dead civilization any clue as to their fate, and the prevention of our own demise.
Finally after decades of study, as the skies choked at our lungs, and the oceans swallowed our cities, the ancient language was broken, and we could read the words of our ancestors. It had indeed been the first language from which our most ancient tongues had sprung forth, and it read almost as one of our own sacred texts.
Much of what our predecessors had written was much the same as our own. They recorded their histories, made glory of their wars, and revelled in the defeats of their enemies and the conquest of nature. They told stories of greatness, of kingdoms and of love. Little was of any true use for our decaying world, but we felt compelled to understand them before we too faded to the whims of our planet.
Then in what had been one of their great capitals, a team had found carvings carefully sealed within a hidden tomb. Many relics of the dead world had been encased there, preserving them for our future discovery. The carvings were not from their early days, nor were they the machine-hammered words most common in the latter time of their civilization. Rather these had been done by hand near the end of their existence, and in some great haste. The hand-carved nature made translation difficult, but eventually we could read the last testament of our fallen Mothers and Fathers, that they had tried to so carefully leave for us to find;
“We have destroyed our world. Just as the ancient race we found buried beneath hills and sand had died before us, we too will now perish to our own vanity. Our machines are failing us, and the Star Flight has collapsed, stranding us on this dying globe. Any who survive to read this, heed our deaths as greatest warning, and care for your home. There are no other living worlds to seek within our Sun’s light, and we perish with the coming of the Ice, just as our ancestors perished in their Dust.”
We read these words far too late, and as the world once again consumed the mechanisms and monuments of our race, we too perished. You too shall fall victim to the power of your own hands, but heed our deaths as greatest warning, as we perish beneath our Seas.
EDIT:spelling
| 48 | Global warming is melting the ice caps, revealing a previously hidden archaeological evidence of ancient motor vehicles and industrialized society. | 71 |
“Can you give me the Goddamned map, Mannie?” Ira yelled. The sun had set and in the worn grasses near Cherbourg seven highwayed paratroopers of the U.S 63rd took rest. Seven men, each fell from the sky, floated down through the air for Justice, and Liberty, but they were obligated to do so by the draft. Caught by a wind, or a divine hand, they were thrown from their party and tossed near fifty miles from their drop zone.
“I'm not going to ask again,” Ira cursed, “we've been following you for two days, I can smell the fucking salt, we're by the ocean. Give me the map.” Mannie shook his head refusing to give up the folded bundle.
“I'd like to take a look at it too,” Ernie voiced.
“You'd like to take a look at your mama's tits,” Ira pushed him away, “I'm not getting into another bloodbath with you like in Pieux because you had to touch every fucking whore before you made a choice.”
“That was Victor,” Solon said, opening his eyes and leaning up from the grass where he reclined.
“Can you shut the fuck up, I'm sick of dragging your dead ass around France.”
“What did I do?” Solon asked.
“Sleep for a day in godforsaken Pieux, in that butcher's house while I was clawing around for you.”
“Ernie found me, eventually,” Solon laughed.
“Ernie would find a crumb in a rat hole,” Ira shook his head, going back to Mannie, “give me that map.”
He pulled it away with force. The paper ripped in half. Without word, he lunged, pounding his fist into Mannie's face. Solon laughed louder and Dick rolled over onto his stomach, burying his face into his pack.
It took Ernie and Victor a good minute before they could separate the two. Mannie was not bleeding, though he had been struck hard.
Horry chewed on a piece of bread silently with his barn wall back turned. He fished into his pack and pulled out cheese. Swallowing without chewing, it was Solon who noticed first and giggled, “Guess we're not going to have dinner tonight.”
Ira, Ernie and Victor shifted their focus, sprang onto Horry's back; while Victor pulled away the bread and Ernie stole off the cheese, Ira squeezed Horry's fat face, cursing, “Wasn't there a weight limit for the chutes?”
“I don't know,” grumbled Horry.
Ira stood among the men, scanning them with his eyes. Solon fell into another fit of laughter and Ira fired down on him a kick. He crumbled up into a ball and laughed louder.
“We're never getting out of France,” Ira said, hitting himself in the chest.
Mannie had quietly gathered up the pieces of the map, though the sun was gone and in the fading twilight, nothing could be read. “We're here,” Mannie said, pointing, but turning so when someone looked, they would not see.
“Here where?” Victor questioned.
“Here,” Mannie said, touching the grass and pulling up a fistful of dirt.
Horry held his stomach and opened his mouth, but before words came, Ira pulled up some grass and threw at him saying, “Cows eat grass, you should be happy out of your mind.”
Dick had rolled over and with a disapproving sigh, thought out loud, “We could still be in Pieux, sleeping in a soft bed, with Loraine or Celeste.” He fired off six names and Ira cursed again, too loud making the night air quake and the moon recede back into the sky, “How, you morons used all of our money, traded all of our rations, every knife, bullet—where are your guns?”
Mannie denied, “I wouldn't give up my gun or my rations or my knife.”
Ira got quiet, “No, genius, where the fuck are they?”
Mannie pointed at Victor, Victor pointed at Ernie and Ernie pointed back at Mannie. “I should have never pulled the damn string,” Ira spat.
Solon smiled wide, “Exactly my thought, we should have just let ourselves fall, 'Ahhh' splat.” He slapped the grass making a thud sound.
Horry had occupied himself chewing on grass and Dick was scratching his crotch.
Solon repeated, “Splat,” under his breath and closed his eyes, falling back asleep.
Ira paced around the men while Mannie held the map, Victor whispered into his ear and Ernie watched intently a few feet away.
“Lost in France,” Ira gently slapped his thighs walking away, “with some of the worst pieces of shit I have ever come across; not a piece of paper to wipe our asses with.” He went down a ditch, away mumbling, “A buttery mother fucker—how desperate is the corp? A guy with a dick that has more bumps on it than Helen Keller's notebook. A little rat that would take the spit out of your mouth; a guy who would watch and think, I should have done that and then a guy who would walk by and steal the spit—what am I doing?”
A whisper came from behind. “Ira,” Solon called with his mouth tensed, “where are you going?”
“I just can't be around them—”
Bang! And the night was swallowed up, the sky lit bright with long streaks of lightning and fire in the clamor of metal on metal. Southward, from their camp the sky was orange, spreading fast and screams rose up indistinguishable among gears and mechanisms an exploding gunpowder. The starts started to fall.
“Run,” Ira said, grabbing Solon by the arm. | 27 | The 7 Deadly Sins are personified as a group of soldiers trekking through the French countryside during WWII in an attempt to reunite with the company they were separated from. Describe their journey and whether their personalities lead to a tragic end or a successful reunion. | 114 |
He sat back in his chair and scoffed at the commercials being aired between the award announcements. Everything moved much slower in real life as compared to dream vision. Yes, it had its unique and charming naturalness, but it lacked the perfection he had grown so used to.
Another car commercial and then they were showing the full crowd. You could tell the difference between the fillers and the celebrity dreamers. The fillers looked particularly attentive, normal people who had spents thousands to sit near the dreamers.
The dreamers themselves were difficult to look at. While there were one or two "Lucids" that had been nominated, most of them were natural dreamers and none of them looked comfortable being in such a large crowd. They focused in on the next winner for a brief second and then cut to a montage of his dreams. By the time he was onstage people had not only seen his most private secrets, but were now staring into his dilated eyes, which screamed of drug dependency. Mushrooms and ambien were the rumors. but his face showed his disdain for the cameras all around him and as he opened his mouth to make his speech nothing came out. This was likely one of his nightmares.
He leaned out of the chair and turned off the TV. "Bunch of amateurs" he thought to himself. As he laid down and turned on his recording device he realized that they all were, just hoping for the next big dream. | 146 | Years ago a machine that records dreams was invented. Dreams have become the primary form of entertainment. Particularly talented dreamers have become stars. Tell me about tonight's big "Oscar" night. | 471 |
Thankfully, I was in the kitchen when the lights went out. Since that big storm a couple years back, I've kept emergency supplies handy. I made my way through the dark, sweeping my hands for the counter, for the drawer, for the box of matches. Wind shrieked. Rain slashed. The house creaked, settling in for a long, cold night.
I grabbed the candles, awkwardly maneuvering them out of the too-small drawer. I pawed at the match box, finally breaking one out. I went for the striker, but stopped. Something had changed. No more rain. No more wind. No nothing. Just... black.
I shook myself, gripping the candle and match with extra resolve. I wasn't scared of the dark anymore. What I needed was light. I grabbed the striker again, lining up the match with shaking hands. Nothing to be afraid of. Nothing. The dark can't hurt you. I struck.
Nothing. Worse than nothing, a faint spark swallowed up immediately in the gloom. I tried again, breath coming fast, but still only sparks killed instantly. I threw down the match, desperate now for anything, anything that I could see.
I clawed for a second match from the book, only to find it missing from the counter. My heart was racing. It couldn't have fallen. I would have heard it. God knows I was on edge now, I would've heard a pin drop to the ground. The dark was bearing down on me, pushing me to the floor. I hunkered down, fingers fanning out, arms sweeping for the stupid box. It had to be somewhere. It wasn't just swallowed by the night.
Unless it was. I was crying now, tears dripping to the floor but not leaving any wetness my thrashing hands could find. It was like I was in a box with walls coming closer and closer, squeezing me in until there would be nothing left and nowhere to go. Suddenly, I remembered the penlight on my keyring. I desperately pulled it out of my pocket, fumbling for the button. Everything would be okay, once I had a little light.
I jammed my thumb into the button, and a small beam of light came out. Rather than the counters I expected to see though, about half a foot in front of me the light just... stopped. Not as if it was bouncing off of something, but like it was being absorbed, like a black hole reaching out for a dying star. My breath hitched, the light fell from my hand. Everything went completely and utterly dark.
People say that there aren't any monsters in the shadows. But what if the monsters are the shadows? The only thing worse than turning on the light and seeing a monster is turning on the light and having the monster snuff it out. | 19 | You are at home alone when the power goes out. You reach for you emergency candles and matches. Just as you're about to strike a match, you have a sudden, intense fear of what you'll see when you do. | 19 |
Tom wrote a dragon. He was 12 at the time. His middle school English teacher had prompted the class to describe a recent dream.
It came to life, that dragon Tom wrote, black scales opalescent in the autumn sun, blasting fire at unfortunate tweenagers on the playground, until the National Guard came and put the thing down. The US government compensated the fine people of Charming Bluffs, AR quite handsomely -- the bereaved in particular -- so that they would keep their mouths shut. Legends persist all the same, as legends do.
But this is not that story. Because when the chaos settled, Tom was smart. Smart enough to test and corral this newfound ability of his.
He sat at home and wrote a red plastic cup on his bed. A red plastic cup appeared on top of his mattress, materialized from the ether. He wrote a delicious sandwich in his hand. A sandwich appeared in his hand, and it was one hundred percent scrumptious.
Then he wrote his family five billion dollars. Tom was smart.
Tom knew, intuitively, not to write himself into a corner. Perhaps in a different life he could have been a novelist. He certainly had the knack. He knew not to give himself a life too perfect -- not to merely write "the perfect woman," or "the perfect family," or so on, and have done with it. He knew his gift was a monkey's paw, ultimately, that if he overused it he would go insane or worse.
Of course he was selfish, too. He never once thought to write world peace.
He wrote plenty of pretty girls, though. He made sure to describe each one he wrote in minutest detail so that he would never create one so bizarrely perfect it would sour him on other women forever. When he was done with whatever pretty girl he had written, he wrote her out of existence -- "The girl in my bedroom goes away" -- and just like that she would vanish.
It was late at night when he wrote her, and he followed his usual M.O. But he was drunk, and tired, and the words would not come in the proper order. He dozed off before he had finished.
In the morning, she was there.
She:
"she has eye, blue like a stone, her face. Her legs are long. She has long legs. her breasts are bridge. Very long legs. She licks to suck my cock. She very much wants to suck my cock. cut tiny wet mouth she is skinny. Horny all the time. She wants me."
She was exactly as described.
And god did she want him, this spindle-legged cyclops with a single piercing lapis eye for a face, her bust a perfect scale replica of the Golden Gate Bridge. Underneath her never-blinking iris was set a baby-sized jaw, constantly drooling, teeth like little razors. Her snakelike tongue slathered with lustful hunger, darting in and out. She skittered toward him with inhuman speed.
Tom stumbled from his desk, screaming and kicking his feet, and locked himself in his bathroom. The thing on the other side of the door clawed and scratched. Her drool ran in rivulets through the doorjamb. She squawed senselessly like a starving animal.
Lying on the floor, Tom glanced around the marbled bathroom. He felt a creeping sickness in his gut when he realized this room contained no paper and no writing implements. And no windows to escape out of.
He clambered into his shower, sniveling. The thing beat itself against the door as if in a rage, its tongue slapping wetly against the wood.
Tom opened a bottle of colorful shampoo with a clack. He had never successfully written things except with pen and paper. He knew it didn't work on word processors or on typewriters. But maybe it work like this. It had to work like this.
He wrote with broad strokes, using his fore and middle fingers to smear the soap into words on the tile wall. He formed the words over and again.
*The monster in my bedroom goes away.*
*The monster in my bedroom goes away.*
*The monster in my bedroom goes away.*
She did not go away.
Tom opened his medicine cabinet and retrieved a razor. He cut deeply into his palm. He dipped his fingers in the crimson and smeared it across the mirrors, the countertops, and the walls. He wrote on every surface available.
*The monster in my bedroom goes away.*
*The monster in my bedroom goes away.*
*The monster in my bedroom goes away.*
*The monster in my bedroom goes away.*
She did not go away.
The door was beginning to weaken.
| 48 | A writer has the ability to bring whatever he writes to life. After one too many drinks, he pens something he severely regrets. | 65 |
“Darling?”
“Yea?”
“You have a package for you sitting on the front porch.”
“Who’s it from?”
“I didn’t check.”
Hank heaved a sigh and took off his spectacles. He began to rub his temples, grateful for the reprieve. People didn’t understand the phenomenal amount of work he had to do as an international best-selling author: calling back and forth to his editors, writing to agencies, keeping up with his writing quota, and responding to his fans. He frowned. This package was probably another gift by a fan… or a hate mail with something nasty inside. He began to feel a sense of unease, this wouldn’t be the first time he was sent something awful.
He gave a roaring yawn and stood up, knocking the chair back. His wife eyed him.
“Tired, Hank?”
“Very, what’s for lunch?”
“How does tilapia sound?”
Hank grimaced.
“That’s fine.”
His wife beamed and got up from her sewing machine and bustled into the kitchen where he was promptly bombarded with the sound of pots and pans being tugged from the cabinet.
Hank quietly chuckled as he left the living room and slowly opened the front door. With his hand still clasped on the door handle, he poked his head out and scanned for it.
“Where did you leave the package?” he shouted into the house.
“Front porch,” the answer came flying from the kitchen, “I didn’t touch it”.
He furrowed his brows quizzically and looked at his feet and stared at the small lumpy brown package before him. Hank hesitated. This was just like any other package: addressed to Hank with the appropriate stamps and place of residency.
*You can’t be too careful these days.* Hank thought as he pushed it with his toes and quickly jumped back.
*1, 2… 3.*
Silence.
Hank gave a rueful smile, perhaps the package only activated when he unwrapped the thing. He rubbed his hands together and grunted when he bent down to pick up the wee thing, surprised at its weight. It was no bigger than a brick and it weighed like one too. He pursed his lips in thought as he crossed over back to the living room where the smell of fish wafted from the kitchen with the occasional sound of popping and sizzling interrupting his wife’s soft singing.
He eased himself back into the chair and stared at the lumpy package. It didn’t say who it was from and that worried him.
*Wait, is that humming I hear?*
His eyes widened in shock and he lurched away from it, tumbling from the chair to the hard plywood floor with a loud crash.
“What’s going on?” his wife hollered at the top of her lungs as she sprinted into the living room. She gasped at the sight and gripped her husband’s hand pulling him up. “Are you ok, Hank?”
Hank’s face was flushed as he was breathing heavily.
“Get away from that thing and get me my handheld metal detector.”
“Hank…”
“While you’re at it, call 911.”
“Hank.”
“Suggest them to bring a bomb squad while you’re at it.”
“HANK!”
“What?”
“Relax, take a deep breath. Haven’t you noticed your paranoia is getting worse every day? The few times you did get something bad, it wasn’t that truly life-threatening. The worst thing I remember you getting was a death threat scrawled in chicken blood.”
“You don’t think that’s bad?”
“Of course I do, I just don’t think it would be a bomb. Besides, the post office would have certainly seized the thing and turn it in if it was truly a bomb. Let me prove it to you.”
Hank held his breath and watched in fear as his wife wiped her hand on her apron and deftly pulled the string tying the package together.
*A box?*
His wife laughed, “Look at that Hank. You were scared of this? A gag gift?” she rocked her body in quiet mirth as she caressed the tiny wooden box that laid on the table with a big fat red button. Underneath the button was the word “RESET” etched carefully into the wood.
“I’m going to press it,” she said and smiled ruefully at her husband, “watch me”.
“Don’t do it." Hank hissed.
She pressed it.
Nothing.
Hank heaved a sigh and sank to the floor with relief.
“I better check on the fish, so have fun with it”.
Hank nodded in silence as he watched his wife enter back to the kitchen.
---------------------
Hank’s wife shook her head as she entered the kitchen.
*Hank’s paranoia is getting out of hand. Perhaps it’s time to get him help…*
She reached for her spatula turned back to the pan and yelped. The fish in the pan had resume its silvery hue and she could see the tail slowly swishing back and forth, its gill flapping in the hot oil and just as abrupt as it began, the fish stopped moving – dead just like it was when she got it from the supermarket.
She blinked and rubbed her eyes.
*Perhaps I need help as well.*
---------------------
Hank brushed off the paper padding and gently touched the box. The wood was polished to perfection and when the living room light casted its light directly over the object, the box reflected back a soft sheen of light. Beautiful.
He shuddered, he still don’t know what the hell this is. Is it a gift? A message? He paused and shrugged. Whatever it is, it didn’t do anything harmful, even when his wife pressed it.
He grabbed the thing and carefully turned it around at its back.
*A latch?*
He slowly unclasped the latch and pulled out a small section of the box. It had nothing inside.
*What is this for?*
He closed and opened it again. Nothing, absolutely nothing. He closed it again and flipped it to the front and pressed the red reset button and flipped it to the back and opened it. Empty.
Hank frowned, his lips drawn tight and pressed. He pressed the button again... and again...and again.
*This is a waste of time.*
He heaved a sigh and laid down the box, scattering the paper padding to the floor. He pushed back the chair and bent down to pick up the padding and he paused. On the uppermost stack of the padding he saw a word: INSTRUCTIONS. Hank quickly leafed through the rest of the scattered papers. All instructions. But at the very last leaflet he saw with bolded red ink: WARNING.
*-In the situation that the handler does not insert the picture of the desired object he/she wishes to have a conditional reset in the RESET-O-TRON 544 with a written date on it, resetting effects and subject will be random. The machine will target an arbitrary point in the timeline stream to be reset to. Proceed with caution. Effects are irreversible.-*
And that’s when Hank heard the bawling of a child wailing from the kitchen.
| 24 | You wake up and go to your kitchen, there you find a small box with a button labeled "RESET" You press it but nothing happens. Then you find the instructions. | 24 |
They tell me our military can't come up with another option. Never thought our species would depend on a poet.
I can't handle planes usually, even in unoccupied airspace, but we don't have time for boats or trains now. I have a stop in London, Berlin, Moscow, Sydney--I can't afford to travel slow. There's thousands just like me, sifting through public forums, the internet, the coffee shops. We're looking for words, contacting writers, contacting anyone we think can help. The hope is that if we can't find a single person, we can cobble together the best of all of us.
Spent three days in Munich with a child people said could be the next jesus. She had a hell of an aura about her, like she was an ancient woman in a baby's body. Despite what you could see in her eyes, her words were the same as any toddler.
Had an elderly man in South Africa tell me that words weren't capable of the task. We could only justify our existence the way we always have, with force, violence. 'How else does nature operate?' I pointed out that plenty of life forms are able to live by becoming useful to an Apex predator, like the fish that clean sharks and hitch a ride.
He said even if we could pull off being useful to these aliens, he'd rather die before becoming a slave again.
People embracing each other in the streets anywhere I go. It's bizarre. You'll see men just break down crying and take a knee. The women around them are pretty helpless against crying when their man's doing it right in front of them. Everyone is trying to feel everything they've never felt because it's clear as day when you look up. Those warships put entire cities in shadow. And all of them have a countdown written on their bellies. The fuckers know our language. They're smarter than us. They're going to sweep us out the door because we're stupid.
Stupid or not, we feel the universe, we feel alive. Isn't that enough?
No. It isn't. It won't be.
Plane's boarding. Hoping that humanity has an answer for this in England. If not, maybe Germany. Maybe Russia, Australia. India, China--Japan, Antarctica--anywhere.
I board the plane, interrupt a teen with his headphones on. 'My seat's in the middle there.' I end up between his mom and him. It feels wrong so I offer him to switch me places. He shakes his head. He's mad at his mom. The mom has her forehead against the window, staring dead eyed out at the tarmac. She's given up.
She's given up?
I pull out a pad of paper and nudge her. 'I'm a reporter.' I lie.
'I'll give you ten thousand dollars if you write down what's going on between you and the kid that you won't even look at each other.'
She rolls her eyes. She's consumed. Money isn't worth much anymore either.
Someone pokes me. The teenager. He doesn't say anything, but he wants the pad of paper. He heard my offer through his headphones.
I hand it over to him and let him write. He writes vigorously. It's chicken scratch I can already tell. I should have handed him an Ipad.
He hands it back to me after a minute or two and mutters 'I don't need the money'. Turns his headphone volume up. Back to ignoring me and his mother.
He writes 'Mom's mad because I've been failing classes. She says if I put any effort in I'd be getting A's. Says I'm not stupid, can't be stupid. Says being stupid is a choice. School is stupid. I'll put effort in when there's more to be made than an A on a sheet of paper. She's mad because Dad has been deployed for three months longer than he was supposed to be, and he won't be back in time before the aliens kill us all. So she sold everything she could to buy these marked up tickets and we're going to go surprise him. I think he's a fucking prick and I wouldn't mind the world ending without seeing him but I came anyways. She hit me, told me my hormones were clouding my head. I think her feelings are clouding hers. We wouldn't be in this position if he would have made a better choice for a fucking mate than dad. It's just the end of the world. The world's a shitty place to be anyways.'
I thought the first half was nice. He's a teenager alright.
So I snap a picture of the note and send it back to headquarters for the real experts to take a look at.
Phones off. We're about to get going.
The mom lays her head back and closes her eyes. The Teenager does the same.
And I feel either hand taken by theirs. All across the plane, people hold each other's hands.
I lay my head back and close my eyes like everyone else and we start hurtling down the runway.
If we weren't fit to survive in this universe, at least at the end, we caught a glimpse of a better world. | 14 | The human race is given 400 words to justify it's continued existence to an entirely alien intelligence in 7 days. You have been tasked not to write the words, but to find someone to write them. | 43 |
PATIENT NAME: EIJI NAKAMURA
AGE: 144
DISEASE: STAGE 4 PANCRATIC CANCER, METASTASIZED TO LIVER, COLON, STOMACH
TREATMENT SUGGESTED: TRANSFER OF CONSCIOUSNESS TO DIGITAL FORM
TREATMENT APPLIED: NONE AT PATIENT'S REQUEST
REPORT FROM HEAD DUTY NURSE ON APRIL 13, 2245 FOLLOWS
The patient had a visitor, an old man dressed in a black coat, at around 15 minutes before the end of visiting hours. At first the patient didn't seem to recognize the visitor but after a few words greeted him as an old friend. They spoke for the short period remaining in the visiting hours but something seemed off: the patient seemed to be consoling the visitor as much as the visitor was consoling him. I found this odd as our records show the patient as the last human being to have not accepted a form of immortality treatment available. After 15 minutes as visiting hours were ending the visitor touched the patient at which time the patient's vitals ceased. The visitor backed into a blind spot on the camera and when the nurses rushed into the room the visitor could not be found. Patient's time of death recorded at 1700 hours local time.
ADDENDUM NOVEMBER 26, 2255
CAN CONFIRM PATIENT AS FINAL RECORDED HUMAN DEATH.
END OF FILE
| 244 | An almost forgotten old God(ess) visited the deathbed of his last follower; The God will die with him/her | 255 |
NOTE TO READER: This story was always going to be horrendously offensive because of all the gods. I've probably taken your prompt the incorrect way but inspiration struck, so I hope you enjoy it anyway OP! Typed up on mobile, apologies for spelling and paragraphing!
"Sit down darling, the plane will be landing soon and you don't want to cause a scene like the last time you came down here," Hera muttered to her husband, glancing around at the other gods as they conversed with each other at their tables.
"Why on earth should I sit, Hera, when I am a god? If this damn spirit plane were to spontaneously combust we'd all simply float to the ground. Well, most of us would..." Zeus' voice dropped as he glanced at the enormous frame of Buddha three tables away from him, sitting happily in silence next to a cramped Allah.
"Sit!" Zeus slumped into his seat next to Hera with a sigh. The spirit plane was for gods, not for women.
"You know, this really is meant to be a 'gods only' sort of trip. You really didn't have to accompany me." He told her quietly, looking at the other many gods who didn't appear to have brought their shackles on the journey.
"Oh, so we could have another Hercules on our hands? Causing mass destruction amongst the cities as soon as he turned into a small child?" Zeus kept his mouth shut, glancing to the table closest to him where a half animal/half something sat laughing with Hermes.
"I will never understand why any of the human race believed in that thing, I mean really, how many arms could one possibly need?" Zeus felt a kick to his shin beneath the table.
"You cannot talk about a god like that, you know no god can board this plane unless they are powerful and believed in enough," Hera replied, frowning slightly at Allah who appeared to be dozing off in his seat.
"I know, I know, I was only joking dearest wife. Oh no..." Zeus tried his best to keep his composure as a familiar looking god made his way over to him, "Hera, I do not have the strength for this..." His sentence trailed off quietly when said annoyance arrived at the table.
"Zeus, my dear friend," Zeus stifled a grunt, "it has been too long since we have both been on this godsforsaken plane." Pun intended.
"Much too long, friend. Much too long," he replied, standing to meet his rival's towering stance. Thor always had a way of reaching Zeus' last nerve before he had even finished a sentence. Him and that bloody tool he carried around.
"And Hera the delightful sist- I mean, wife," Thor replied.
"Thor," Hera replied coldly; much too used to the sister fact being dropped into conversation, to get annoyed anymore.
"We never did have that lightening competition you promised me all those years ago, you remember the one?" Thor smiled wickedly, knowing exactly how much the discussion was not wanted by his greek 'friend'.
"Ah yes," Zeus cleared his throat, "another time Thor. I have much to do when we reach earth, as do you." Both gods knew the truth behind the avoidance, but the plane would sooner crash into the earth than the real reason be told.
"Yes, another time," Thor smiled.
"How is Sif? Will she not be joining you this journey?" Hera interjected quickly, noticing her husband's seat was melting slightly next to her from the heat the two gods were omitting.
"She tried, believe me, but a god needs his freedom once in a while. Know what I mean, Zeus?" Hera's golden broach holding her tunic began to melt onto the material. Grabbing her angrily rigid husband's hand, she guided him back into his seat.
"Quite right you are, Thor," she replied with a false smile, "I believe we are to take our seats before our arrival. Look, Zeus, our brother is approaching." Hera ignored the snort of laughter that had escaped Thor's ill mannered mouth, before turning to Poseidon.
"I shall leave the three of you to your family reunion," Thor smirked, turning on his heel and trudging to his table where Odin sat waiting for his return.
"Brother, can't say I'm not surprised to see you after the last time you came to earth," Zeus said as he embraced his water loving brother fondly. Poseidon pulled away with a roll of his eyes.
"Hades convinced me that despite turning into a dolphin, to be honest it wasn't as bad as his luck." Poseidon had always been the best natured of his siblings, in Zeus's opinion, and he would always hold his brother in the highest of regards. Even if he had married the most irritating nymph Zeus had ever met.
The gods were free to travel to earth as often as they pleased as long as they stuck to the three rules. The first- One had to stay in transfiguration the entire period of their stay. The second- One would not speak to humans if one was transfigured into an animal. And the third was to never use powers in front of any mortal. Zeus had heard what had happened to the last spiritual being who had broken these rules. Death by crucifix, before the trouble they would face when they were back in the Heavens, simply wasn't worth it.
Of course for Zeus there was a fourth and final rule. No sleeping with the mortals. Bloody Hera.
After a few moments of discussion, Poseidon disappeared down the never ending plane to, and in his own words, stand in a box of water to see what happened.
"The spirit plane is now landing, please remain seated for your transfiguration to be completed- before collecting your items in the overhead lockers."
Zeus held his wife's hand tightly, looking around the plane that now shone a dazzling glow as everybody changed.
It was several minutes before the beaming lights began to dim and reveal what the transfigurations had created.
"How do I look?" Hera asked from beside him. Zeus turned to find a rather plain looking lady now in his wife's place.
"Eh, great darling, obviously not as beautiful as the Hera I know. Never the less your beauty still shines through, eh, your skin which is just lovely and-"
"Please do not let me see a reflection of myself," Hera interrupted, easily seeing through the lies she was used to on these trips. Perhaps one day she would be transfigured into something as equally beautiful as she back in the heavens, but that day was yet to come. Clearly.
"Least you don't look like him," Zeus smiled, pointing a thumb towards his rival's table.
"Who, Thor? He barely looks any different."
"Exactly." Hera laughed and took her husbands arm as they stood.
"I am not getting off this plane, I absolutely refuse to get off this plane. Look at me!" Zeus turned to look at who he could barely recognise as a now very small Allah, "Are they allowed to transfigure gods into dwarves now? This is an outrage! Come all this way just to be cut down to this height..." Gods were not the quietest of men, and despite now appearing and sounding mortal, the laughs were echoing down to the other end of the plane, wherever that was.
Hera and Zeus made their way down the long walk to the exit of the plane, which always landed where mortal eyes would not see.
The laughs were coming from every angle of the plane. Odin had been transformed into what could only be described as an old beggar with a hunched back, no longer the strong and powerful father of Thor but someone who could be mistaken to be the hunchback of notre dame on the streets.
Hermes, the quick and conniving messenger, had been turned into a rather thin young man with frail muscles to put up with during his stay.
Zeus had never been transfigured into anything repulsive and, as luck would have it, catching his reflection on the metallic door to the plane before departing- he had once again been turned into an only slightly less handsome version of himself.
Zeus took his first step off the plane, deciding inwardly what part of the world he and his wife would step into, before hearing a low voice calling his name from inside the plane.
"What is it now, Thor?" He barked at the Norse god of war, stepping back onto the plane. Zeus looked down at what Thor had in his arms.
"Please tell me that's not-"
"It is."
Zeus rubbed the side of his temples for a moment, blinking hard before turning back to Thor.
"Leave him on the plane, I'm not carrying a fucking goldfish around with me."
| 24 | Without warning, every single God that has ever existed comes to Earth... Hilarity ensues. | 37 |
They know me as Molech.
For the jail mates in the year 3133, there is absolutely no escape… so
they say.
I’m in one of the most maximum security prisons in the world: Republic of
Eternal Detention and Utopian Containment. REDUC if you fancy
acronyms.
I’ve been living in a jail cell for eighty-three years, serving my seventeen
life sentences… Might sound crazy to someone living in the past so long
ago, but technology improves. I promise you. Food production is insane.
Medical technology, Carbon emission reversal methods, and a massive
pillar of a machine known only as the GAIA has increased living
expectancies by hundreds of years. There is no more world hunger, few
wars, and everyone behaves.
If you don’t behave, you get castrated, strapped to a weighted shock
collar, given magnetic wrist cuffs, and thrown into a massive prison like
REDUC. They keep men and women in the same prisons… and if you
demonstrate any emotion that could lead to violence, the shock collar can
literally read your mind, temporarily paralyze your entire nervous system,
and the wrist cuffs magnetically link to the floor.
If you think anything sexually about anyone (hard to do with no sex
organs, but some people in this place find a way to do it), you become
temporarily paralyzed and weighted to the floor.
If you have any thoughts of escaping… Paralysis. Chained to the floor.
It’s a painful way to live… and after they’ve taken everything away from
you, they keep you alive as long as possible, because the cost of living
has dropped fanatically. Government. Leaders. Ilk. They think that they
have found a way to torture people worse than God tortures people in
hell. When I was in there, I didn’t mind the idea of burning and suffering
in hell… anything is better than feeling nothing.
I have no desire to eat.
No desire to have sex. No desire to enjoy life… and if I think of trying to
end my life, immobilization and cuffed to the floor.
Why am I here? I was convicted by a jury of my peers for burning children
alive… dozens and dozens of children. They could only prove seventeen
victims… not like it would matter if they found the others.
See… I got bored with life. I was tired of immortality… so I tried to spice
life up. I wanted to see what it was like for life to end early…
If I told you, dear reader, that I regret my actions, I know you’d have a
better chance of liking me. But, as it goes, I don’t care much about people
liking me anymore.
People know me as one of the few criminal masterminds of my time.
Crime is becoming significantly harder to pull off. Masterminds like me
find ways to get away with it… How? If I told you how, then I’d be as
normal as everyone else again.
REDUC is filled with petty thieves, tax evaders, and the homeless…
practically everything considered a crime is a life sentence now. I am one
of the few gods of the prison. I actually did something to deserve a life
sentence.
One day, I woke up in my cell to find the entire building set on fire… I
walk calmly out of my room to see a blazing inferno, gloriously licking at
every orifice of concrete and steel… my time has come.
A man and a woman walk up to me, and use their makeshift keys to free
my neck and wrists. I recognize both people. The man next to me is
Merodach, one of the biggest sadists of his day. Hundreds of people
slaughtered for absolutely no reason. The woman is called Ashtoreth….
one of the most reviled female rapists of her day. All she thinks about is
sex… man, woman, boy, girl, it doesn’t matter. I honestly can’t relate…
but, you know.
They tell me it’s time… I get my turn to escape this world through the use
of outlawed time travel… like many before me. Like Ra, known for his love
of solar weaponry, who’d disintegrate innocent people for enjoyment.
Zeus… that oddball would chain people up and insert electrical wiring into
their skin, and charge the wires up with batteries.
Ares… one of the last dictators of our time, whose bloodlust knew no
other.
With the use of time travel, we would escape thousands and thousands of
years into the past, and later I found that we would be worshiped by
other humans… a prolonged fifteen minutes of fame if you will. How silly
to think…
But now it’s my turn… now I’m going to escape and rebuild my name… as
something to be feared and worshiped.
I am known as Molech; the sacrifices of my followers shall send smoke to
the sky.
| 23 | Past Gods and Goddesses Were Actually Time Travelers, Escaping From the Future | 67 |
In the bear's den, a wolf saunters up to the upraised limestone spotlit by moonlight cascading through the rocks above. Around his neck is a collar, on which a small, metal box is attached. The box is lit every few seconds by a red LED, and it begins emitting a low noise. The wolf is speaking.
"Too long humans tower over us. Much power in language, much power in numbers. Newfound understanding, together stronger than apart." The wolf looks around as its collar translates its thoughts. The voice is noticably mechanical, though it does resemble a male human's.
"Much agreement," a fox pipes up, slinking into the den. Many of the various animals attending turn to observe the newcomer. The voice is of a human female. "Have plan?"
The wolf's teeth reveal themselves in a small snarl. "No one invite fox. Why here." The mechanical voice doesn't inflect a question, vocalizing the wolf's contempt of the smaller canine.
"Careful, big one," the fox replies, circling the rock on which the wolf stands. "To come together is to put aside past differences."
The animals begin to make their respective oral noises. It's a display of shock. The devices each of them wear work well enough to translate human language directly within their brain, but only passably to form their thoughts into well structered language. The fox demonstrated an ability none of them had yet to perfect: mastering the device.
"We. Will. Do. This. Without. You. Weak. One," the wolf says, forcing himself to speak more properly. The fox makes a chortling noise at his strained efforts.
"With our communication, the humans must recognize our intelligence. With my mastery of their technology, they must accept our sentience. Allow me to lead you, friends, and I can convince the humans to give us that which they often greedily withhold from their own kind." The fox now sits on her haunches, a paw raised to her mouth as she absentmindedly licks it.
The wolf emits a deep throated growl. "This my meeting, sly one. Away."
As if to prove her communication skills are far superior, the fox manages a facial expression that any human would recognize - a smile. "We're all civilized members of the animal kingdom, soon to be a part of the human civilization unlike any time before. We need a leader, and we need practice. Let's put it to a vote, shall we?" | 10 | A device is invented that allows all creatures to communicate effectively with each other. A coalition of species band together to fight for their right to vote alongside humans. | 31 |
[Warning: bad words]
Barack Obama, the President of the United States of America, put down the phone. He stared at the ceiling for a good long time, while the Cabinet stared at him.
“That’s it then,” he said at last. “He’s launching the missiles. Every single one of them. Right here at Washington. We’ve got about --” he checked his watch “-- like an hour until the first one hits.”
There was a collective sigh and everyone managed to look at each other and the doors at the same time.
“Can nothing be done?” asked John Kerry. Obama glared at him and Kerry made some silent “oh” shapes with his mouth and then stared at his shoes.
Eric Holder pounded the table. “We have to get a press release out denying responsibility, *immediately*.”
“Can I just say here,” interjected Chuck Hagel, leaning forward and tapping the table. “Once and for all, I just want to say, Ronald Reagan was right. If we had -- listen to me! I don’t know why you’re all moaning! -- if we had listened to Reagan and done Star Wars we’d not be in this --”
“Give it a rest, Hagel!” shouted Biden. “Reagan was the one who put us in this situation!” He narrowed his eyes to try and process that statement after the fact. “I mean, probably somehow he was. The chances are good.”
“There might be a way to blame Bush,” mused Josh Earnest.
Kerry raised a hand. “Should we not be, I don’t know, cutting our losses and getting away from here?”
“Cut and run!” hooted Hagel. “Cut and run! Cut and run! Yessir, Mr. President, yessir!”
“Now come on,” said Kerry, turning red. He stared at his shoes again. “That’s uncalled for.”
Jack Lew raised a finger. “I do think the Secretary of State has a point. If we’re all here when the bombs hit, who will be available afterwards to calm Wall Street?” He looked around, one eyebrow raised questioningly. “There will be a lot of broken windows. This might just be the stimulus opportunity the economy needs to --”
“This would be a fantastic opportunity to outlaw radiation,” said Gina McCarthy, brightly. “I mean, *all* radiation. The support will be there.”
“Oh my God, everybody just *shut up!*” Obama’s voice cut through the rising babble. He was rubbing his temples vigorously. “I mean seriously, this would be a lot harder choice to make if I could stand to listen to you people for one more Goddamn second.” He straightened up and adjusted his tie, which had been dangerously akimbo throughout this entire crisis. He breathed in, seemed to grow larger and more assured, and he was the President again. “We have to save Washington DC. I am going to the Pentagon.”
The meaning of those words took a moment to sink in, then a gasp rippled around the room.
“You don’t mean what I think you mean!” cried Biden. “Barack! Think about what you’re saying!”
“I know, Joe.” Obama shook his head sadly, standing up and putting on his jacket. “I know better than anyone. Come on everyone. The Secret Constitution says you all have to be there, or I get to shoot you.” He glared at them, a little hopefully. After a moment, they all began to rise and get ready.
“He only gets to duel with us,” muttered Hagel, buttoning up his pants. “I could take him.”
On his way out, Obama stopped Denis McDonough and drew him in to whisper in his ear. “Are my family -- are they safe?”
“They landed in Paris an hour ago, Mr. President,” McDonough whispered back. “Michelle is already at the Fauberge Saint-Honore.”
“Good,” Obama squeezed Denis’ shoulder, and there were tears in his eyes. “That’s how I want to remember her -- shopping.” He turned around to the sullen crowd behind him. “Okay guys, let’s get going! Are the Justices en route?”
Holder cupped a hand over his cellphone. “Scalia took viagra an hour ago and wonders if he needs to wear his robes. He says it looks weird.”
Obama opened his mouth, closed it, opened it, closed it, and then said, “He can wear whatever he wants. Just make sure he brings his dagger. His ceremonial dagger. Make sure he understands that I’m not making an innuendo.”
****
Mahmoud Al-Jihadi gratefully accepted the coffee from the intern and turned back to Megyn Kelly. “I feel the depiction of Arabs in the American media is massively unkind. We’re either religious simps or fanatical killers, invariably dupes in the pay of like a Russian or something, like Hollywood can’t possibly imagine Arabs doing all that hard thinking. I went to MIT, for goodness sake.”
“It just seems like this is a strange way to correct the stereotypes,” offered Kelly.
Al-Jihadi shrugged. “In the end you just gotta roll with what you’re given. The American people have been trained since birth to respond like Pavlovian dogs to certain media cues that --”
A voice called out from the darkness behind the camera lights. “We’re back! In five! Four! --” Kelly and Al-Jihadi straightened up.
“Welcome,” said Kelly into the camera. “If you’re just joining us after the commercial break, I’m here with fanatical terrorist, Mahmoud Al-Jihadi, who has just launched two thousand nuclear missiles directly at Washington DC. I’m here with him in his secret bunker, outside Boulder, Colorado.”
The camera cut to Al-Jihadi, his scraggly beard bristling and his eyes whirling crazily in their sockets. “That is correct, harlot! Soon holy fire will consume the Great Satan! America will pay for its many and diverse sins!”
“Mr. Jihadi, in your opinion, what exactly *are* America’s sins?”
Al-Jihadi’s eyes focused and he looked at Kelly in confusion. His eyes darted at the camera. “What, are you -- are you like, serious?”
“I think the American people have a right to know what you think they’ve done wrong,” pressed Kelly.
Al-Jihadi giggled in disbelief. “I mean really, you want me to just list them? Can’t they just read the newspapers or something? I mean, I don’t think --” he pulled out his cellphone and checked the time. “I just don’t think we have enough time to get through --”
Kelly’s hand shot to her earpiece. “Hold on, I’m getting some breaking news! Yes, we’re going to go now to the Pentagon, where the President has a statement.”
“Wait!” shouted Jihadi, standing up, “I haven’t had a chance to read my manife--!”
[Edit: typo. Continued in replies] | 21 | A terrorist leader steals America's nuclear football and states, on live television, that he has the most powerful weapon in the world. Barack Obama laughs, shortly before demonstrating that there are much worse evils in the world. | 21 |
The old man stared sadly at the young boy, who stared back with a look of abject horror. The cherry-red fur of his boots were soon dyed deep crimson, then black, with the blood springing from his wrists. It was the fourth one this week.
The boy flopped forward, weakening from the blood loss. For the life of him, Santa couldn't figure out what the boy had thought Satan would do with a half-dead teenager. Santa knelt with him, drawing him into his lap. "Silly boy," he whispered, wiping blood and salt and smeared eyeliner from the boys pale face. "Dont you know this is a Christmas symbol? That's why it goes on top of trees."
The boys eyes flickered in confusion. Nothing had gone the way he'd planned it. He was going to die, he would never get what he wanted.
"You've been a very naughty boy, Marilyn. But since the circumstances are so dire, I'm willing to grant you one last gift. What do you want for Christmas, son?"
Hope donned in the boys eyes, behind the yellow contacts. "I want to be a superstar," he whispered.
"Ho-ho-*oh*!"
| 448 | A satanist tries to summon Satan, but summons Santa instead. | 711 |
“Daddy, are you dead?”
It is too early in the morning to play these games with Julie. I can only manage a gruff snort while trying to coax the last few drops of coffee out of my mug. Julie’s tiny head and body are shielded by the morning newspaper that she holds up and spreads open as far as her arms can stretch. I sit across from her, squinting at the day’s headlines while she pages through the fresh print.
“Really Daddy, look!”
She pulls a sheet out from the center of the paper, clambers down from her chair, and walks over to me. Baring what few teeth she has in a confused little smile, she hands the sheet to me and points at a snippet in the “Obituaries” section. I think that’s a picture of me. It reads:
>Carl Bartholomew Hilbert, 37, perished yesterday in an automobile
>accident on the corner of Pratt Street and Charleston Avenue. He is
>survived by his daughter Julie, 7.
Julie is trying to read my eyes. “Well?” I reread the blurb and look more closely at the photograph next to it.
“Daddy needs more coffee, honey.”
***
The offices of the Tribune seem to be in disrepair. I pull into the first spot marked “Visitor Parking”; the other five are empty. The main building looks like it needs some serious structural and foundational work. Loose bricks hang out of their slots, windows are missing panes. The steep decrease in readership seems to have manifested itself everywhere.
A small receptionist’s desk is tucked into the corner right inside of the front doors. The young woman in a low-cut blouse behind it makes idle thumb gestures on her cellphone. My entrance does nothing to disrupt this, and I have to clear my throat before she lazily raises her eyes to meet mine. “Can I help you?” she offers in monotone. “I need to speak to someone about a misprint in the newspaper.” The receptionist sighs, opens a drawer, and pulls out a detailed sheet of paper. She runs her finger down the side. “Room 247, sir. That’s on the second floor.” I give my thanks and leave her to her business.
Room 247, Misprints and Errata. I knock just below the pane of frosted glass. Papers rustle from inside, and eventually an old man with thick-rimmed glasses opens the door. He looks me over, then without a word beckons me into his office. There are numerous stacks of newspapers around the room, some nearly brushing the ceiling. A variety of magnifying glasses and eyepieces are strewn about the man’s desk, which is dominated by two large inkwells on either side. The man himself wears an ink-stained smock over what seems to be a fine suit. He motions toward a chair in front of his desk, then sits in his high-backed chair on the other side.
“What can I do for you, young man?” he asks. I produce my copy of the newspaper and open it to the Obituaries. “You’ve printed…my…obituary in the paper, sir.” The man picks up one of his eyepieces, a small golden one that resembles a monocular, and scans over the snippet. After a thorough examination and some noises of dissatisfaction, he asks me for identification. I produce my driver’s license from my wallet and show it to him. He picks up a different eyepiece and combs over my ID equally painstakingly. “Give me a moment,” he says. He gathers up the entire newspaper and swivels his chair around to face away from me. We sit like this in silence for twenty or thirty minutes before he slowly turns back to me.
“Young man, I have been working in this department for forty-five years. Under my watch, we have not made a single error or misprint. Ever. I hope you appreciate what I am saying.” I nod. “Now, I am not entirely sure what is going on here...but my department’s streak shall remain intact until further notice.” He hands me the paper, folded neatly to the front page. “Son, this is tomorrow’s newspaper.” | 20 | You read the morning paper and are surprised to find your obituary. You are still alive. | 18 |
She blinked. The words on the page in front of her seemed to swim in and out of focus. It felt like she had been reading for *hours*. How was she supposed to write a paper on the War of the Five Kings if she couldn't even keep them all straight? And who even *cared*? They had all died like five hundred years ago or whatever.
"Dany, dinner!"
She lept from her chair, grateful for the distraction. Downstairs, her mother was setting the table. Her father was already seated, his tablet in his hand.
"Listen to this, honey," he was saying to her mother, "it says here the Meereen peace talks are on hold. Again. Now, who could have predicted that!"
Her mother sighed without looking up from her task. "I can't say that I'm surprised. That place has been a sinkhole for half a millennium, now. Those poor people."
"Don't see why they would even stay there, given half a chance," her father grunted.
"Well they probably don't have much of a choice, hon. Now put that away, I don't want you reading all through dinner."
*Meereen*. Wasn't there a Daenerys in Meereen once? Dany frowned, trying to remember. History was *not* her best subject. That's right - Daenerys Targaryen, the Dragon Queen. Was she the one with the visions, too? Dany had been named for her - or them. Everyone had, it seemed, but she didn't really mind. She liked the name anyway. She wasn't a Targaryen though, that would have been pretty cool - she was a Payne. Daenerys Payne. Paynes were as common as dirt, dad said. Some lucky Payne lad in the old days had had half a hundred children or something. Mom always laughed when he said that.
"Dany! I swear to the Seven, you're a thousand leagues away right now. Pass the pease to your father."
"Sorry mom."
"How's that paper coming?"
"It's ok."
Her mother didn't look convinced, but let the matter drop. "I got this recipe from Jeyne," she said. "You all remember Jeyne, from the Sept. Anyway she says that this is supposed to be healthier than the regular honeyed chicken. Something like half the fat. They're saying on the news now that one-third of the people in Westeros are obese now!"
Her father gasped in mock outrage. "Are you calling me fat?"
Her mother rolled her eyes. "Of course not, love. You're a regular Sam the Slayer." Her father grimaced at that. "Anyway, it can't hurt to eat a little healthier. I hear the Queen herself is going to make an announcement on the whole situation soon."
Her father snorted. "What 'whole situation'? Obesity? What, is she going to stand in front of the Red Keep and say," here he placed his hand over his heart in a dramatic gesture, "'I, Sansa of House Baelish, Eighth of My Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, do say unto you, my loyal subjects: you're all a bunch of fatties and I'm sick of looking at you!'"
Dany giggled. Her father winked at her while her mother looked like she was trying to fight a smile.
"Nothing like that, dear. I think she's got some healthy eating and exercise program to talk about, is all. Now, words are wind. Finish the chicken. I've made some low-sugar lemon cakes for afters."
Dany and her father groaned.
Edit: commas, my eternal foes. | 16 | Fast foreword a couple hundred years past the events of Game of Thrones to a time where Westeros and Essos are at the same technological level as modern day civilization. What would today's news bulletins look like? | 17 |
Edit: I apologize for going a tad offtrack with Death (in this, he's just an employee of a larger Reaper benefit). Otherwise, enjoy.
*Ah, there she is,* I thought. *Juliana Lauren Fredrick. The poor girl... I've never done a child duty before. Phil told me he does them all the time... man, that guy has seen some shit. Well, sweet girl, it's time we go. It won't hurt, I promise.*
I reached my hand towards her cheek, about to touch--
"Just a moment, sir," I heard from across the hospital bed.
I looked up, to find a man in a pin-stripped suit, sporting a combover and goatee. I flipped through my calendar book. It seems he's not due for another three years.
"Sir, you can't interrupt my work," I said, "It makes it much more painful for the traveller if I'm not completely focused."
He smiled with closed lips and dropped his head, walking over to my side of the bed. In his hand he held a clipboard, which he leafed through with stunning quickness.
"This is Juliana Lauren Fredrick, yes?"
"Yes."
"Well, it seems she is orphaned, correct?"
"Who are you?"
"I'll take that as a yes," he said. "My name is not important. The people I represent, however, are imperative to your business matters."
"And who would they be?"
"The Department of Euthanasia and Beneficence Taxation, sir," said the Representative.
*The what?*
The Representative handed me the clipboard. I read the highlighted section at the bottom of the page:
*Any projects to decease and assist the living from the mortal world requires taxation to enter the spiritual realm that encompasses the afterlife, "Heaven", "Val Halla", "Elysium", etc. Those entitled to Purgatory will receive a partial payment plan, until hence their business is finalized. If one can not afford this payment, the payment will be referred to the acting reaper.*
I was astonished when I read this. Never have I had to pay *taxes*!
"Sir, I -- I don't know what this is all about," I said. "I have never paid taxes on any of my clients, and never have I received any notification or memo of this from my superiors."
"Yes, that is because you have never been assigned to a child before, let alone an... orphan!"
I looked at Juliana. She was growing paler the longer I stood there. This is why we Reapers do the deed, in-and-out. This... this is cruel.
"Well... how much is this tax?" I asked.
The Representative whipped out a calculator, furiously typing away. Pluses and minuses. Ones and zeros. So many zeroes. He finished, flipping the face of the calculator to my face.
"This amount will suffice."
"Ten thousand and fifty-two dollars?!"
"The fifty-two being her orphanism. The rest is just identity transfer fees. It does take a lot of effort to spiritualize data, if you didn't already know."
I sighed, rubbing my head.
"I suppose I'll front her. Just get it from my boss."
"Who would that be?"
"Felix Grimm."
"Ah, yes. Well, let me just get you to sign here," I signed, "and that'll be it!"
He inched his hand towards mine to give me a handshake, but retreated his palm after realizing his mistake.
"Have a good day, sir," he said, disappearing into the dim hallway.
Juliana was white pale, now. I touched her cheek, and felt her life slip into my fingers, morphing into a soft, white ball. *So pure*. I twirled her spirit between my finger tips, dropping it into a container in my pocket.
*What a waste of her time.*
| 18 | Death comes to claim a life, but before he can do the deed he is confronted by Taxes. | 38 |
P knocked on the door for the twentieth time and just as before there was no response. He turned away but thought again.
Banging sharply on the wooden door, P shouted "Winston! WINSTON!" and this time the door opened just a crack. His friend peeped out and let the door swing open as he padded back to the sofa.
Winston was in bad shape. His skin was yellow and jaundiced, his eyes bloodshot, his jumper frayed and so stained that it had lost its red colour.
P looked around the flat, seeing first the empty jars, some smashed and abandoned, others lying open with the sticky contents spilling out onto the floor, bugs crawling inside. But then he saw worse: the carcasses. Dead bees littered the windowsills, the bookshelves, the ground, were crushed beneath the furniture.
Winston looked up at his old friend and plucked a handful of bees from a cage on the table, crushing them in his fist and sucking out their insides.
"Winnie", gasped P. "What's happened to you?"
The bear held his gaze and as his voice cracked, he whispered, "I've gone straight to the source, Piglet." | 20 | The real reason all the bees are dying out is discovered. Nobody could have guessed it. | 16 |
"Daddy?"
"Yes sweetie?"
"Why do you do this?"
"I do it for you, Beautiful"
"What do you mean you do it for me?"
"Daddy needs to work. So we can go on living."
"But people die, right? They stop living cause of you."
"Yes."
"But life is Beautiful, right daddy?"
"Yes."
"Then... then why?"
"Oh sweetie, don't cry. Of course Life is Beautiful. Life is Beauty itself. But that's big 'L' life. That's everything. What is and was and will come to be. The other life is hard. It's scary and messy and doesn't always work right."
"But what about the happy people, Dad? What about when life is good? Why kill people if their life is good?"
"I have to think about that for a minute."
"It's been a minute. Maybe two."
"It's... hard to explain. Life is beautiful. So is life. But life, little 'L' life, it can't go on forever."
"Why not, daddy? You go on forever."
"Ha, because forever is a long time, sweetie. That's why even happy people have to die. After a while life runs out of new things. Things to feel and learn and know. It takes them and holds them and becomes what it is because of them. So much goes into a life that eventually Life can't hold it all. People get to live but they have to give it back, so other people can live too."
"How can they give it back if they're gone?"
"They're not gone, Beautiful. They become part of Life. Big 'L'. Remember what I said. Life is everything. What was, what is, and what will be. Without what was, what is would not be, and without what is, what will be would have nothing to start from."
"What about sad people? Why do people want to die?"
"Because life is scary, honey, but Life isn't. Having to be is harder than having been or waiting to be. Having to be is the hardest thing..."
Here Death trails off. He bends and plucks a grape from the curling vine. It is plump, round. Perfect. Full of juices. He glances at his daughter. Her huge blue-green eyes are fixed on the ripe fruit. With an offhand but affectionate gesture he hands it to her. He can see the moment that the soft skin breaks; her eyes sparkle. Squints her nose as the bitter sweetness washes over her taste buds. Grins. A little dribble of the clear, tart juice escapes her mouth. She wipes it away and then slips her tiny hand into his, warm and sticky. He does not mind.
"You've been for a real long time, huh, daddy?"
"Yes."
"Will you be forever?"
"As long as you're here I'll be here for you. To make sure you get up when you fall. To be sure you're safe. And protect you from yourself. I'll always be here. Watching you grow."
"Thanks, daddy."
Death smiled and squeezed Life's tiny hand. The worst job in the world wasn't so bad, if it meant you got to have something to love.
EDIT: Thanks guys. | 52 | Death has a "Take your kid to work day". | 43 |
__________________________________________________________
“Hey Carissa,” I say to the barista. She looks at me and smiles.
“Heeeyyy, you… How are you doing today?” I smile weakly. Besides my
face being so forgetful, my greatest weakness is that I can’t hide what I’m
feeling. Now she’s looking at me like she just failed someone close to her.
I shake my head and say, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll have a black coffee…
medium.”
She begins writing letters on my cup and says, “And this is for—?”
“John.” I say.
“I’m really sorry, I’m usually great with names.”
I smile more naturally. “It’s alright. Five years of working here, you’re
bound to forget some people.”
“So we’ve definitely met before?”
“Definitely.”
She takes my money and starts making my drink. “Well, next time, I’ll
make sure to remember your name, John.”
“Thanks, Carissa. You have a good day.” Sometimes it’s hard not to
chuckle when you have the same ironic conversation over and over. I’ve
been in that coffee shop everyday, I order the same drink, and I give
money to the same two or three baristas. They never remember, they
always say they’ll try to remember next time.
__________________________________________________________
It all started when I was six or so… Before that, my parents loved me,
they always tucked me in and told me “I love you John”… so I know there
was, at one point or another, a capacity of being able to remember me.
But… one day, I woke up from a nightmare. I tiptoed into my parents
bedroom, and cuddled up next to my mom until morning. When she woke
up, she started screaming and pushed me off the bed. She started
screaming “Who are you?!” and “What the fuck are you doing in our
house?!”
My dad leaps out of bed and starts shouting at me… I start to sob. I don’t
know what’s going on… they ask me who’s kid I was, and why did I keep
calling them mommy and daddy. I keep insisting, I keep telling them that
they’re my parents. They bring me to an orphanage and tell them they
have no idea where I’m from, that they just got up one morning, I broke
into their house, and I climbed into their bed. My older brother looked at
me with such hatred, like I tried to come in and hurt his parents, shit, our
parents.
I lived in the orphanage for a few days, then realized every time a worker
came into my room, they asked me what I was doing there. I went
through the same process to get accepted into the orphanage, and by day
three I couldn’t take it anymore, and I ran away in the middle of going
through the process a third time. They workers ran after me, but after
they lost site of me… they looked at each other like they forgot who they
were chasing.
I started realize what was going on… that whenever somebody stopped
looking at me, they instantly forgot who I was… I started going to school
everyday, and I’d constantly be introduced to the school as “the new kid”.
No one would look into it later because no one remembered that I
attended class.
I’d go to grocery stores, eat whatever I wanted, and left. If someone
spotted me, I just had to zigzag through the isles until whoever was
chasing me didn’t see me anymore.
Soon, I started getting dangerous… I’d go in school and start grabbing
girl’s chests, they’d scream and I’d run off, knowing I would never be held
accountable. I would rob banks, and sometimes walking pedestrians, and
run off, as they tried to figure out what happened to all the money.
I probably costed a lot of people their jobs… maybe even their own sanity.
___________________________________________________________
One day, and I swear I’m being honest, but one day, I killed the
president. I was seventeen years old… and there were dozens of
witnesses. Still, people couldn’t figure out who shot JFK. I tried to act
out… I tried doing outrageous things to be remembered… but no one ever
did… I was the visible ghost, an obvious phantom, a transparent monster.
The only one who ever remembered me was a priest I visited some odd
years ago. With an overwhelmed sense of guilt of killing the President of
the United States, I tried to see what adopting religion would do. In the
afternoons, I would go to confession, I cried my eyes out in the box
adjacent to his telling him all the awful stuff I would do.
“You’ve told me quite a story, child.” He said once I finished. “Why do you
think I won’t go to the police with the story?”
“Because,” I replied, “You won’t remember anything I told you… after I
leave, I’ll vanish from your memory. And I’ll have done this for nothing.” I
buried my hands in my face and cried again.
He paused for a second and looked down at his lap, and said. “I won’t
forget you. Come back tomorrow and we’ll talk about how we’re going to
fix this.”
“Yeah right. Up yours, your holiness.” I ran off, trying to figure out what
awful thing I wanted to do next. But, as the days went by, I was curious
to see if he would really keep his word… So a week later, I came back.
He was tending his garden at the church. I watched him write down
information on a small notebook and continue to water and dig up. He
looked my way and smiled. “I told you to come back the next day, not a
week later.”
“How do you still know who I am, old man?”
“My secret to give out when the time is right. Have you ever gardened
before, young man?”
“No.”
“Always a good time to start. Give me a hand.”
And then for the next couple of years, he’s having me come to the church
three times a week doing odd jobs around the church, asking me
questions about me, learning more about me. I tell him everything…
because… I don’t know… I assumed he’d eventually forget.
But he never did.
He told me live a life of helping others, of saving others, of doing the right
thing. He told me I had a powerful gift to not squander. He told me that
God has all the answers.
The old man and his religion… The kookiness of God and Jesus and dying
for others, the words of the Apostle Paul, the absolutely weird ass book
that Leviticus is, the stories of David and his might, of the prophet
Jeremiah and his 0% convert rate, Noah and a worldwide flood.
I don’t know if I bought any of that… I still don’t know if I do… but the old
man was the only one there for me, so what else was there to do but
listen to his stories, and help him out in the church?
But I started to live better. I started trying to help others, to be a better
person.
It was hard, because nobody else still remembered me… I could do
whatever I want to whatever or whoever I want, and no one would say
anything. I could rewrite the course of history. I could take all my anger
out on innocent people… maybe then! Maybe THEN they’d remember me.
But the voice of that old priest… it was like a forcefield over my actions. I
hardly did anything I thought of doing unless it was for the good of
others.
Then, one day, twenty years later, the old priest is on his deathbed… I was
the only one who visited him in the hospital. With him was a dozen or so
notebooks next to his bed. He carried notebooks everywhere he went with
us… I didn’t know why…
“John, my boy,” he said to me, his hand gripping onto my hand, “Don’t
forget anything I’ve told you. I love you, son, more than I have loved
anyone, save Christ himself.”
“Yeah I know, Father…” I said as I gripped onto his hand tighter. “But
Father, I don’t understand, how do you remember me?”
“Twenty years ago,” he said, “When you came to me, I had a feeling you
were telling me the truth, so I wrote down every word you told me.” He
said as he handed me the first notebook he wrote about me. The front of
the binder read READ THIS NO EVERYDAY, NO MATTER WHAT
“This is your life’s story. I’ve written it everyday we were together.” He
said. “I never once remembered who you were, I always forgot your face,
but I read what I wrote everyday, and I just went from there…”
I’ve been told that it’s not manly to cry… but I’ve told you I have twice
already, so I’ll tell you again. The tears in my eyes though, they were the
first time they were ever happy tears.
I gripped his hand tighter, as I felt his grasp slipping away. I told him that
I loved him too.
His hand completely limp and cold, I walked out of the hospital, onto the
road again, a backpack full of notebooks… I honestly don’t know what’s
going to happen next…
But whatever does happen, I’m sure you won’t remember that it was I
who did it. | 57 | a man is cursed so that no one remembers him after they meet, even if they meet again, it's as if they are meeting him for the first time, but he always remembers. | 58 |
**NOTE: Aww man, I saw this just after a posting a prompt that fit this perfectly. I like this idea better, so I'll write this story first and copy and paste what could be the second arc of the story (the one I wrote minutes ago.)
Anyways, here goes.**
........................
It was only a month into the war and Ivan was already cracking. The nerves were slowly ruining his once crisp appearance. He was truly, truly scared.
*I don't wanna die. Please, just let me live, however long this war lasts* he thought. Any giving of glory to a Russian Empire had long evaporated. He just wanted to stay alive.
Days passed. The space station braved what seemed to be never ending attacks and raids.
One day, in his almost ritualistic showers, Ivan heard a little voice.
*"You want to live forever?"*
Ivan dismissed it. It had to be nerves.
*"No, it isn't. Y'know Ivan, out of all the characters I wrote, you've appealed to me the most?"*
Ivan's eyes widened a little. It couldn't be.
*"Yes it could. Here, here's proof. Tomorrow, Dmitri dies. He'll be manning a Tesla when a surprise raid strikes. Don't worry, you can't alert the officials. Tonight, there's gonna e a scheduled lockdown."*
Ivan started to panic.
"Do I die?"
*"Selfish. Cowardly. And yet.
Ivan. I can arrange it like this. You can die tommorow in Dmitri's place, and I'll write he is sent home on leave. Or you can live forever. And face the consequences."*
"I wanna live. I don't care what it takes. Let me live."
The voice paused, then chuckled softly.
*"You sure? I personally would have chosen death."*
Ivan did not care. *I WILL LIVE!*
As Ivan began to drift off into sleep, the voice said, *"The name's Gregor. I think we'll get along royally."*
...........................
*Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead*
Ivan woke up with a start. Four today. Probably in a skirmish.
Ivan put on his suit. 0630. He had 30 minutes to get to the Bridge.
"Who?" He wondered out loud.
"*That's no fun*", Gregory replied back.
"Why?"
"*Oh, you know, the regular, maybe a perimeter check or a recon gone wrong...*"
Ten years it had been. Ten long, long, years. The war wouldn't end any time soon, if ever. Ten years, had he watched everyone around him die. Ten years, he knew what would happen. Every. Single. Day. For ten years, he'd endured. Dmitri. Kory. Daneel. And yet, even after ten years, after ten years of watching everyone around him lose everything, he still felt a pang of sadness every time someone in this hell in space died. Was it his own emotion, or did Gregor write it in? He'd always wondered, but never knew.
"*Curious?*" the nasally tone spoke.
"Fuck off," Ivan replied, slowly.
.................................
*GodDAMMIT.GODDAMMITGODDAMMIT.*
Ivan should have known better. He thought Karl would have been ok. Only four, Gregor had promised. And of all people, Karl. It was only a matter of time, and yet all the same, it hurt. Karl was quiet. He didn't deserve it. None of them deserved it.
"*Oops, I lied,*" said the voice.
Ivan remained silent.
"*Aww, you're no fun.*"
Ivan looked blankly up at his ceiling in his tiny quarters.
"*Quit it, mopey, or maybe I'll make you fall in love again or something.*"
"Why?" Ivan asked.
*"It's curious, y'know. I don't know exactly what I'm to do with you. I originally intended to kill you off, but you, you were so interesting! You, I can't control your thoughts. I've tried so hard. Here, be happy! I command it!"*
Ivan remained sullen.
*"See? You're such an interesting interesting aberration. Ivan the Coward, you are my greatest creation. Huh, maybe while we're at it I'll make another love interest."*
On and on, Ivan knew, the crazy man of that other world would go on. He was tired.
*"...maybe I'll flay Paeter tomorrow"*
But tonight was different. Ivan pulled out his pistol quickly and pulled the trigger as he pressed the gun up to his hea-
Time froze.
Gregor let out a hearty laugh.
*"You amaze me sometimes, you really, really do. It never occurred to me that you realized that the very bonds of reality could be fixed if you believed hard enough. Oh well, oh well. Maybe tomorrow you'll have thought of another way to off yourself. Yesterday's was pretty clever too - I mean the fact that you managed to lock yourself in here to drive yourself insane to the point of not caring was cute. But really. Ivan, you'll never learn."*
"I have learned."
*"Oh?"*
"I learned the value of life, the gift of death. I learned the price of immortality, the price of asking for too much from god."
*"No, that's not it Ivan."*
The gun morphed into a rose. Time resumed. Ivan dropped his arm sadly, the rose falling to the floor.
*"Ivan, what you don't learn is this. I **AM** God. As someone in another world, another fantasy created by my race said, "You exist because I allow it, You die because I command it". I'm in control here."*
The quarters suddenly changed to a grassy field down on Earth. Ivan went to pick up the rose. Suddenly, the rose was Karl's arm.
*"Oh, Ivan, Ivan"* Gregor said. *"Maybe one day, when I'm bored of you. But not today."*
And with that, Gregor decided it was time for a nap. He wrote down that Ivan fell unconscious, and lay down.
He felt terrible. Terrible terrible terrible. But alas, it was how he made a living. These ten years of living comfortably and paying for his kid's college had been only possible through the publication of that terrible comic. He knew the audience would like today's issue.
EDIT: Gregor's note: would love for some feedback <3 | 24 | "Huh. I don't hear that answer very often. I personally would have chosen death." | 32 |
*Don't let them bite you*, Lance had warned. *Never let one bite you. Only* we *deserve to use our teeth. The world doesn't deserve a hybrid of us and them*.
So instead of leaping, instead of wrenching its head back to expose the throat that no longer pulsed with every heartbeat, I ran. I ran from the one source of terror this world has to offer my kind; the things that *have* no pulse. Navigating the slick, cracked city streets was unexpectedly easy. The corpse didn't ignite Lust within me. With vision unclouded, free of the red haze, a vampire's speed is unmatched.
I bounded through the streets, vaulting from broken car to crooked hydrant to rusted mailbox. As my foot left the metal, I felt the membranes unfurl with my arms, taut against triceps and ribcage. The corpse sprinted haggardly, pursuing prey that glided, rolled, climbed. But corpses are not slow. They are clumsy, merely rotten remnants of what used to be man, woman, or child. But they hunger, consumed by instinct as strong as my own Lust. And they harbor no bias like my kind does. Their tastes are unfiltered, unrefined.
*Will be continued later tonight.*
*Edit -- continued below.*
Its steps were fading behind me. Every once in a while, they'd cut out completely as I rounded a corner, but sooner or later the thing caught sight of me again. I shot a glance over my shoulder. *Ten meters.* My sharp eyes made out a broken, slavering jaw. Bloodshot eyes, blackened with rot, rolled in their sockets. Its fingers stretched before it in cruel anticipation. Another corner. Another glance. *Fifteen meters.*
My head snapped around, and I skidded to a halt. I'd run into an alleyway with no exit. The pavement glistened wetly, and when I looked at the papers plastered to it, I knew it was blood. Gallons of it. Milling about at the end of the alley were no less than a dozen corpses. *Shit.* I whirled around, but my tireless pursuer had closed the gap. It sprinted awkwardly, wildly, a veritable growl rumbling from within a sunken chest.
Instinct took over, and I spun around on the ball of my left foot, dropping into a crouch and sweeping my leg around. The corpse's knees crunched to the side, spraying black flesh and coagulated blood. It crumpled painlessly, teeth clashing. I jumped, avoiding its searching hands, but the noise had caught the mob's attention. As they turned from their grisly meal, gurgling and groaning, I felt the rage begin to descend. I opened my mouth to scream; my jaw extended until it touched my chest, my teeth withdrew to allow room for rapidly protruding fangs, and instead of a scream came an echoing, sibilant hiss. But the corpses were unfazed.
*Don't let them bite you.*
With a howl, I forced myself to turn and run, leaping as high as I could to grab an old fire escape. My burning mind barely registered the rust covering the entire structure. It protested under my weight. I continued climbing. A bolt tore free from its concrete anchor. Then the entire ladder collapsed.
For a moment, gravity ceased to exist. Before the inevitable plunge, however, I jerked to a halt. "I got you!" shouted a man's voice. "Grab my other hand!"
Somehow, the words cut through my reddened mind. My snarling face snapped around, but the man didn't even wince. I looked with astonishment into brown eyes framed by wild black hair and a grizzled face. *A human.* Behind him crouched a little boy, again with a shock of black hair. His eyes were wide with terror.
I took one last look at the corpses, teeth gnashing as their nails scraping the brick wall. Then I reached for his other hand. | 164 | A lone vampire struggling to survive a zombie apocalypse stumbles upon a human family who invite him/her to seek shelter with them. | 323 |
My head is pounding. Sound is everywhere, and I need my fix for the day. If only it wasn't so painful. Everyone has their vices, and mine happens to be the springy guitar chords of Modest Mouse's "Float On" just about now.
You see, the New York subway system is not known for the quiet buzz of small talk among its occupants. Nor is it known for the politeness of its patrons.
"Yo, whatchu' doin' with those in yo' ears man? You crazy?" a small, muscular man says as he approaches me.
"I've learned to deal with the pain, sir," I begin to explain to the man as I pull the instruments from my ears, "we all have our addictions and mine happens to be music. What about you sir? What's your addiction?"
"Can't live one day without my energy drinks," the man begins to muse, "Why do the likes of you care? It's not like a Red Bull is going to scare kids like your ear buds."
"Well what would you do? Stop drinking it?" I say shaking my head, "I'll tell you now that you wouldn't. We all have our happy place that we try to escape to, yours is abnormal amounts of caffeine, mine is indie rock, that woman's over there may be Starbucks frappucinos but who's business is that? I deal with the judgment from my peers every single day, no matter who points it out. Maybe I just want peace, maybe I just want to get away from this crowded transportation system or maybe I just want to tune out the meaningless chatter among everybody in here. So tell me, am I really that crazy?"
The car has gone silent. The usual rush hour buzz has ceased to exist and all eyes are on me. The car pulls to my stop and I stick my ear buds in once again and exit the train leaving the crowd's mouths all agape. I ignore the eruption of incredulous conversations leaving the train and proceed to fuel my own addiction. After all, isn't that what makes us human?
*"And we'll all float on, ok. And we'll all float on, ok."* | 11 | Someone is addicted to music in a world in which ear-buds are akin to needles. | 21 |
"Run it."
One of the forensics guys took the bag from Lasky's hand and deposited it with the rest of the evidence. Which wasn't much.
Lasky stood from where he was crouched. His knees popped and he exhaled through pursed lips.
It was where he knew it would be. Where it always was. A piece of paper, two-inch by two-inch, beneath the fridge.
There wouldn't be a hit, he was sure. The body was still behind him, lashed to a dining room chair, its head in its lap. The victim was female, a mother. About the same age as his daughter. Lately, it had been easier to think of the corpses as "it"s instead of as "she"s.
The paper had drawn upon it the right thumbprint of, he already knew, his next victim. Whoever she was. And he knew now that he had the match for the last print. And that match was behind him now, beginning to stink.
The daughter found this one. Husband out of town. Through the front door after a soccer game, running to find her mother to let her know they won, and finding this.
Lasky shuddered. What a horrible thing. He stepped out into the rain and dark. He walked to the street and got into the Crown Vic.
Whoever the bastard was, he was talented. Not just at murder. The fingerprints were drawn in excruciating detail upon a scrap of paper. Very slightly larger than life, and perfectly to scale. Drawn freehand, according to forensics, with a fine tip black pen.
What a hard nut to crack.
The passenger door swung open and Benson sat heavily beside him. "Hitler was an art student."
"Yep."
"What does that say about art?"
"Probably about as much as you could, you uncultured fuck."
Benson laughed and Lasky cracked a smile.
"What do you think he gets out of it?" Benson asked.
"I dunno. Taunting us; there's that. Maybe he's like ol' Adolf and couldn't get into art school."
"Maybe it's an art project, like an art installation on some big, fucked-up scale."
Lasky's laugh was a short bark. "Maybe."
"Well what do we do? Bring up priors, maybe see if we can find-"
"What, an M.O.? Yeah, let's find out if the city's released anybody in the past with a predilection for decapitation. Get the fuck out of here."
They sat in silence. Lasky started the car and they left the neighborhood. "Remember the last guy? He was just some guy. Just some normal guy."
"Yeah," Benson said. "Just some guy."
---------------------------------------------------------------
Lasky's phone rang in the darkness. The small space and the concrete floor of his studio apartment amplified it and he started awake.
He thumbed the screen. "Lasky."
"Detective, this is June. From the lab."
"Wha-?" He opened the shades and was blinded. Already morning. He had no idea how late he'd been up or how long he'd slept.
"We have a match on the print from last night's victim."
His heart skipped a beat. "Shit. Shit, shit. OK, June. I'll be down-"
"I've already e-mailed you the file."
He never thought about his computer unless it was to catch up on news or to quell his loneliness late at night. Damn kids these days. They had it so easy.
"Thanks, June."
"Anything else we can help you with, sir?"
"Yeah, tell me who did it."
June laughed. It was a joke that Lasky had said a hundred times and one that June had probably heard even more.
He hung up the phone and opened the laptop. It was an eternity before he could log in to his e-mail and open the message.
And there she was. Victim number thirteen. Lucky thirteen for Lasky.
"Vera Mendelssohn. 1343 Oakhurst Place." Upscale neighborhood.
Below that was a mugshot. Drunk and disorderly. Twelve years before. She looked like a party girl in the picture, and he didn't doubt that she was. He picked up his phone and dialed. "Yeah, Detective Lasky. Badge 1653. I need two units to 1343 Oakhurst Place. Yeah. Yeah, just see if there's a Vera Mendelssohn there and if she is, let her know that you're keeping her safe. I'll be there soon."
The girl in the picture was pretty. Pretty enough then to be a trophy wife now. The killer's prey of choice.
He stopped on the way to pick up Benson.
"Bet that bastard didn't know this one had a prior, huh Jim?"
Lasky had to smile. "They always fuck up somewhere down the line."
It was a beautiful day. The sun shone. White clouds threatened nothing. Lasky let the window down and let himself feel the breeze as they drove over the wide river and into The Oaks.
The house was easy to pick out with two cruisers in front. Two officers stood outside of the home. Lasky parked across the street and walked quickly over. "She here?"
"Yeah," said one of the patrolmen. "She's fine. She knows we're here for her but she doesn't know why. She was worried that someone was hurt or dead. We told her no."
"Good." Lasky knocked. The girl from the picture opened the door, a woman now.
"Mrs. Mendelssohn?"
"Miss. Miss Mendelssohn. I live here with my parents. If there's anything that they could help you-"
"No, that won't be necessary. Detective Lasky. This is my partner, Detective Benson."
Christ, her parents. Lasky wondered what it would have been like for them to find her - he stopped himself.
"Do you mind if I come in?"
Vera opened the door and ushered Lasky and Benson in. She offered them coffee. Benson accepted, Lasky didn't.
"Ms. Mendelssohn. I'm sure you've heard of the murders we've had recently."
"Of course. The Headsman, is it? I figured somebody would come up with a better name, but -"
"And you are familiar with what he does. Besides decapitation, I mean."
"The fingerprint thing? Yeah, that's kind of spooky. I wonder how he does th-"
"There was a murder last night. We found your fingerprint at the scene."
Vera froze. The color drained from her face.
"You wh.. How did.." She began to weep.
"It's okay ma'am," Benson said. He pulled a paper towel from the rack and handed it to her. "We're here to protect you.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The beautiful day became a stormy night. He hated storms.
Rain beat like hell on his trailer. The wind rocked it sometimes. The next day he'd walk outside and trash would be strewn everywhere, reminding him that he lived in a shithole with shithead neighbors.
He set himself to work. At the desk there was acetone, a huge mason jar, corn starch, transparent tape, and small scraps of paper everywhere.
He'd already pulled her print and followed her home days ago. Her. Thirteen. His lucky number. His magic number. He'd sometimes find himself muttering it beneath his breath.
Now that twelve was gone, he could take thirteen and then he could do what he was meant to do. His last piece of art would be a masterwork of blood. The shotgun and AR-15 crouched in their corner. He had been buying ammo for years now. Later he would polish his pistols.
He had followed her home from the market where she'd picked up some floss, changed her mind, and put it back. He had purchased it immediately, holding the floss for the cashier to scan. He didn't want her getting her fingers on it. Not that he didn't want to kill her, the stupid fat bitch. But his trophy was far more beautiful. Number thirteen had to be beautiful and she was it.
He left the store and watched the doors. He had never focused so hard on anything in his life and it was difficult to watch while masturbating in his car, hoping he wouldn't get caught, but he *had* to do it. She came. He didn't. He righted himself in his pants and followed her, balls aching. But he knew he'd get some relief once he got home and pulled Eleven's panties from his safe. They were so soft against his skin and he just - he almost lost her twice. He had to keep his head straight.
When she turned into the neighborhood, he hung back. He had to stay a block behind at all times and it gave him heart palpitations every time he saw her car round a corner ahead. He *knew* he'd lost her and then he'd hit the gas and make the corner just in time to see her next turn. Until she turned into the driveway. He went home and gave himself relief.
A few nights of scouting was all it took to learn her routine and her parents'. After thirteen days of stalking his thirteen, he killed the Vinson woman. And thirteen days, thirteen hours, and thirteen minutes from the time he slit her throat, he'd have his thirteen. *His* thirteen. His bride.
He wept from the beauty of it all. On the floor around him were dozens of drawings of partial fingerprints. He couldn't kill the ones he got a partial from, he knew, but he drew their prints all the same. Idle hands, his mother often told him, were the devil's playthings. | 44 | A dectective is investigating a serial killer who leaves the fingerprints of his next victim at the crime scene of his current victim. | 97 |
Date Received : 4-23-2058 Standard
To: Dr. Shepard Duval, Professor of Biology, University of California ,Berkely
From: N/A
Subject: Don't be fooled
Hello Dr. Duval
Who i am doesn't matter, but what i have to tell you does. By the time you get this message, a Dr. Marcus Howard will have been disgraced by the Earthen media for supposedly releasing a deadly neurotoxin into the Martian atmosphere, killing nearly half of the colonists and destroying Red Solar Corporation. Don't be fooled, thats not what happened at all. Allow me to tell you what really happened by first explaining what lead up to the events that truly took place...
Dr. Marcus Howard could never get others to accept his theory of how the original Martians, an intelligent race of humanoid beings that lived on mars, died off, even though he had an arsenal of evidence to back his claims up. Mainly, because of Red Solar Corp., the massive solar power corporation
that had practically funded all of the colonies on Mars and gave secure jobs to the colonists that chose to live on the Red Planet. If word of Dr. Howards findings found their way into the general public, the colonists would dread being anywhere near Mars and Red Solar would go bankrupt. So, to avoid such a thing happening, Dr. Howards seminars would constantly suffer "technical difficulties" brought on by corporate sabotage. The theory of how the original Martians died that was preached by Red Solars pseudo-scientists and accepted as fact by the public was that a massive meteor collision destroyed a key military base around which housed weaponized neurotoxin-like materials, which spread through the air around 200 Millions years ago. This unfortunate series of events lead to Global extinction of the original Martians. The Red Solar scientists showed evidence that lined up if you didn't look to closely at it, but anyone who had half a brain knew that the story didn't add up. If Neurotoxins were what killed the original Martians, Dr. Howard and his team would have found traces of them in the marrow of their skeletal structures while on a research expedition 6 years ago. What he did find in the marrow, was even more unsettling. Microscopic spores were found throughout the skeletons of the studied subjects, and as soon as they were, Dr. Howard had them quarantined immediately and moved to his privately funded lab 200 km from the edge of the Martian North Pole, where Red Solar couldn't get to his specimens.
For the better part of 4 years, he spent his every moment researching and studying and analyzing the spores, trying to unlock their secrets. Unfortunately for Dr. Howard, that was just the beginning. One day, while observing the genetic sequencing of the spores of one out of the three specimens him and his team recovered, the spores suddenly "metamorphosed" into full blown viral parasites in a matter of minutes. Luckily, the specimens were locked up tight in portable hermetically sealed chambers within a specialized lab where only Dr. Howard himself could gain access. Unluckily, that precise moment is when after years of trying to find his base of operations, an entire privatized swat team force hired on by Red Solar broke into his lab. A startled colleague stationed near the main door took the full brunt of the hired goons breaching shots, ripping him to shreds. Most of the run-ins Red Solar had with Dr. Howards team were just ways of intimidating them into defecting or at least abandoning their research. This time was different. After about 2 minutes of chaos, everyone except for Dr. Howard. The goons then proceeded to confiscate the corpses whilst holding the good doctor at gunpoint, which isn't a good look if you're wearing a hazmat suit. After the hired guns left with all three specimens, Dr. Howard realized what had happened with the spores before they were taken away: They were awakened. The spores must have been the parasite's dormant form. So after a bit of thought, he came to the conclusion that this parasite was the culprit in the extinction of the original Martians. After coming to this conclusion, he remembered an expedition undertaken by a friend of his, Dr. Maradith Carson, in which she studied remnants of a sizable meteor found in a crater about 20 km outside of Olympus Mons and found strange spores on the surface of the asteroid which were carbon dated to be about 200 Million years old give or take a few thousand years. After this revelation, Dr. Howard took it upon himself to try and let the colonies of Mars know what truly killed the original Martians, and how that very same thing may kill all of them...
Well, as you can see, it didn't work like it should have. At this point you're most definitely wondering how i know all of this information. Let's just say Dr. Howard talked, and i was pretty much the only one who listened. The reason that half of Mars died is a dumb one. The hired guns that i mentioned that confiscated Dr. Howards original Martians took them to Fort Meyalta, Mars' Area 51. Some poor soul who was taking inventory stumbled upon the hermetically sealed chambers and somehow got the passcode to the chamber locks right. He contracted the parasite, spread it to the entire base, and somehow somebody who worked there escaped the quarantine that was set up around Fort Meyalta and headed to the nearest town, Cydonia City, which was 10km from the underground fort.
After that, you know the rest.
P.S.. Just to let you know, i wouldn't doubt that the parasite made it to Earth. Be ready for anything
-N/A
~Thanks for reading my story! Hope you all like it. Constructive criticism is welcome, but don't be asinine about it please. | 20 | Humans are colonizing Mars after discovering extinct life, despite not knowing how the life had died off. There is one man, though who thinks he knows what, or who, ended life on Mars the first time. | 58 |
"Let us continue the discussion of Mister and Misses... Daniels?"
"Yes, that's us," Greg Daniels said. He held Beth's hand, staring forward into the assembly of obscured faces that sat in a semi-circle around the room. Their identities were concealed by personal veils over their heads. They were only digits in this decision room. From one to ten.
"Now," One said, "you have applied to be re-fertilized for the duration of a single month. Correct?"
"Yes ma'am," Greg said. He had confidence when he entered the decision room. After the first half-hour of interviewing, The Fertility Management Group mulled over the first set of questions for an unfavorable amount of time. They asked him and his wife questions of genes, disabilities, health concerns, past education, current employment... The usual. It was time for the wildcards to be drawn from the deck.
"Very well," said One.
"What is your marriage like?" Five said.
"It's good. Just like any other marriage," Beth said. That was the wrong answer.
"Good?" said Three. "Not great? Not loving? Just good?"
Beth stumbled on her speech, "No, I mean, yes, it's a great marriage. I'm just saying we have a normal life, we're a good team."
A unanimous scratching of pens to paper echoed in the room as all ten scribbled against their forms. Their veils were starting to seem more sinister to Greg.
"How would you raise this potential child?" Nine asked, thumbing his pen cap.
"Um... Do you mean if we have a plan?" Greg said.
"Yes, Mr. Daniels. Do you have a plan?" Nine said, his tone reflecting how fed up he was.
"Well, yeah. We have a nursery already set-up, we are financially stable, we have -- haven't we covered this?"
A hand slammed against the desk. Ten sighed, looking to One for permission to speak. One nodded.
"You people need to understand. We have been here, in this room, going over dozens of couples' fertility requests. For ten years we've been doing this, for ten years sitting in this room discussing the same thing over and over, and for ten years every couple we have seen fit for parenthood has been fertilized. Now, answer the questions so we can get to our decision."
Ten backed down, leaning into his chair, puffing breath and blowing his veil away from his face.
"Thank you, Ten," said One. "Now, answer the question."
Greg thought carefully, processing his words and looking to his wife for ideas.
"Well, we would raise our potential child in our own morals. The same we told you in the Ethics section. Fertility is an opportunity to us. Me and my wife... We just want to raise a decent human being in this world. One that will benefit the population. I can guarantee you, we will not waste this gift." Greg breathed easily.
Ten clapped, chuckling while his veil swayed back and forth. "This, ladies and gentlemen, this couple knows their place in an overpopulated world. No one needs another lazy good-for-nothing generation. We need to progress, as humans, without wasting space. Good answer, Mr. Daniels."
Beth breathed in relief. They whispered across to each other, passing notes and reviewing their own. After several long minutes, someone spoke up.
"Well, I think we have a decision, then," Four said, finally breaking the silence.
One stamped the form, blasting the room with a thunderous echo.
"Approved for fertilization."
| 12 | Birth control is reversed. Everyone is naturally infertile. A group, with their own agenda, can reverse the infertility in select people. They alone determine which couples are allowed to have children. | 32 |
It seems fate has a sense of humor. Psychics exist; they really do, I'm not bullshitting you. I know because I am one; a sort of telepath, I guess. You see, I can't read your mind, or control it, or destroy it, or anything like that. I can simply *borrow* it, and access a certain part of your nervous system. Specifically, the optic nerve. Basically, if I focus hard enough, I can see what you see.
Oh, and I forgot to mention, I'm blind.
You know how you hear all those heartstring-tugging stories of parents having to explain to their blind kids that they're different; that everyone else has a fifth sense that they will never be able to experience? Yeah, that wasn't the case for me. Another thing I forgot to mention; I'm a twin. When I was born, the first thing I saw was the first thing my brother saw. Needless to say, I always had a good idea as to what I looked like, since first of all, me and my brother were inseparable, and second, if my brother was close enough, I could just borrow his eyes while he was looking in the mirror. Borrow his eyes. Sounds weird, I know. Oh, and the farther someone is from me, the harder it is for me to see through them. I've done it from afar though, once or twice. Takes some effort. But that's how I knew my second girlfriend was cheating on me. *No babe I'm fine yes babe you'll be home in forty minutes ok babe can you stop and buy dinner on the way?* all while some stranger was sliding his cock into her. And out of her also, of course. Repeatedly. I know. I saw it. I'm still not sure why she cheated or why she left. Something about "trust issues."
Another funny thing; my parents were confused when the doctor told them I was blind. "No, that's not possible." they said. "He knows what colors are. He can tell the difference between red and blue and green and all that crap." So the doctor asked me to come into the room, and he checked my eyes. He saw that there was a growth that had damaged my optic nerve; I know, because I looked through his eyes while he did it. Then he asked me the colors of different things. I was two and a half, by the way. So I told him the correct colors, and then he took out an official optometrist pack of double sided colored cards, because apparent if it's *official* then it's better and finding out if someone is blind. So he showed one card to me at a time, but the problem was, each card had a different color on the back, so I couldn't really see (since I was borrowing *his* eyes) so I just guessed. I got them all wrong, naturally, and I was declared legally blind. Not completely blind, but *legally* blind, which is funny because the only people who'll tell you *hey I'm legally blind btw* are people who aren't completely blind, because if they were it would be obvious and they wouldn't need to tell anyone. Oh and it's also funny because I'm actually completely blind, but well, I'm not, because, well, you know. On the ride home from the optometrist I made a point to describe the sight of various things on the side of the road.
Then I turned twelve and my parents died in a car accident and my life went to hell but some good stuff happened too, I guess. We got sent to an orphanage because my parents were immigrants with no family here and then to a foster home and then to another foster home because our first foster mother got angry when I told her that her husband's "dinner nights with the guys" consisted of him going to a BDSM sex dungeon alone and abusing people (IknowIsawit) and then she got even angrier when I turned out to be true but the person who got the angriest was our second foster father when my brother did some stupid shit with drugs and a gun (and a robbery, or rather, a not-so-robbery since he got arrested halfway through) and then court and then we ended up in an orphanage again so I really probably had no reason to tell you all that I talk fast I know.
But then we started hanging out with what respectable adults (don't do school, stay in vegetables, eat your drugs, blah blah blah) would call "bad company." At least my brother did. I tried to have a normal life since, you know, I have enough weirdness in my world already. So I went to college and tried to learn medicine, specializing in optometry. Somehow (though let me tell you, it took buttloads of practice) I managed to conceal the fact that I was blind. I learned somethif useful at college: the growth on my eyes that stopped my sight was also the same thing thet gave me my "psychic" abilities. And I also learned a couple useful tricks for using them. For one, it's a hell of a lot easier to ogle girls when you don't have to directly look at them. Also, if I try, I can borrow multiple eyes at the same time. Let me tell you, that's pretty trippy. I once stood outside this couple's window while they were fucking and then I borrowed their eyes and it was so so hot at least until they discovered me there jacking off because I stood up to fast and my head hit the windowsill. Oh, and I learned how to borrow from a distance, because of aforementioned cocksucking girlfriend.
But most importantly, I learned how to study people. I learned patterns and tricks. For example, want to disappear into a crowd? Take *off* a noticeable feature, like a brightly colored hat or a jacket. Remove a fake scar. Change your height. I swear, I should've been a psych major, because I learned so much about so many different types of people (and their behavior). People on their own. People in a crowd. People in a mob (there's a difference). People who are afraid. People who don't know what's coming. People who want people dead. People who pay to have other people dead. People who realize they're going to be killed for money. People who are dying.
I forgot to mention: that was the year I became a hitman. You might ask why. You might say *oh look he had a shitty childhood so he went bad* or *he never felt loved and felt he had something to prove.* But that's bullshit. I did it because I got paid and it was fun and I was good at it.
The first person I had to kill was the owner of the cock that had repeatedly entered various orifices of my second girlfriend. I try to not let emotions get in the way of the killing but I have to admit that this time it was all to satisfying. Freud would spout some bullshit about penis envy or whatever the correct term is, put the fun part was seeing how scared he was. He was masturbating in front of the mirror when I stabbed him, incidentally. Selfish prick.
The reason I have to stab is because it's pretty hard to aim a gun when you're looking at someone else pulling the trigger. It's weird. Anyway, I took my skills all over the country. Kasimir Czernowski, 22. His brother ran into his room to tell him a weird man was outside the window, and then I had them both, at least as long as they felt safe with each other (which is a fairly stupid idea when trying to escape me, FYI). Abdul al-Rahman, 34. It was dark, but I used his eyes to find out what room he was-
Fuck, it's time, I sped up toward the end of my story, by the way. I only had to keep you busy for so long. It's like some shitty morbid psychic Forrest Gump, I knw. Oh, and I never did tell you about my partner. He's going to shoot you. Abrupt ending, I know. I've always been a rubbish storyteller. Good at interior monologues though. The rambling train-of-thought kind. Anyway, you're going to die now.
I know. I can see it right now.
EDIT: I'm going to try and improve the ending | 130 | A blind assassin who sees through the eyes of the people around him. | 257 |
The bell dinged as the door to the pub opened, momentarily releasing the clamor of chatty patrons and harangue of the flavor-of-the-day sports announcers on the telly out onto the street. In stepped a man out of the rain, perhaps six feet in height – no more, no less – and clad in what one might expect given the meteorological conditions; a rounded felt hat, a damp coat and a pair of khakis. The man shook off his umbrella before allowing the door to close, sealing in the warmth and atmosphere of the cozy little hole in the wall. He removed his cap and coat, approaching the bar and smiling at Melissa as he took a seat, draping his coat over the back of the chair and setting his hat on the counter.
“Good afternoon, Mel,” said the man, a pleasing, deep voice escaping from between parched lips, tinged with the accent of a London working class denizen. He adjusted his tie and set his calloused hands on the counter, fingers laced together.
“Roy, good to see ya! It's been a few days,” Melissa stepped around the counter and gave the man a hug with a toothy grin. “Wet out there, eh?” She stepped back behind, taking the remote and flipping one of the nearer tellies to football, much to Roy's pleasure. His eyes weren't as good as they once were, and staring clear across the room to watch didn't sit well with him.
“That it is,” he nodded. “I'll have a whiskey.”
“Little early for the hard stuff, isn't it?”
“Long day at work. Bloody pipe burst over on Ford street – fourteen hour overnight shift to plug and replace the damnable thing. Got the rest of the day to meself, though.” He turned his chair slightly, giving his attention to the football play-offs.
“Fair enough, happy to oblige,” Mel's reply came. Within a few moments, he had his whiskey, taking a sip and sighing pleasantly. He drew a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, lighting one up and taking a drag before perching it precariously on a nearby ashtray. With all the machinery they'd brought out, he was almost expecting a card to slip out amongst the water, and then momentarily feel a weight, and then nothing more. No such thing, however. What had it been, five years now? Six? They'd come fairly regularly at first. Narrowly missing being a hit by an automobile when he was ten, only leaving a card fluttering in its wake; a ten of spades. He wish he'd kept that one, but at that time he hadn't known.
Another drag and a flick to get the ash away.
From then on, every two or three years like clockwork. At thirteen, a shoe wedged into the train tracks – he must have wiggled free not thirty feet before it zoomed by. The shoe was mangled, to be sure, but inside was the nine of spades. There began his collection; he still had that card, and the seven others. His teenage years – the train incident, the car crash with the lorry on the highway, the skating accident (he was still glad the doctors had salvaged his ability to speak). Then by the time he was thirty, three more. There was the magician and his damnable aiming, and the failure of the carnival ride, then the plane accident that just so happened to find a suitable lake to touch down in – whiplash, but no more than that and some soiled trousers. Then his mid thirties and the fall down into the basement. He hadn't had the mind to measure, but he could swear his face was a hair away from touching that water (though it was probably best he didn't imminently know of the exposed wire lurking underneath; he might have struggled and gotten himself fried crispy-like).
A gulp of whiskey and another flick of the cigarette.
Then there was the ninth; the two of Spades – what was that, when he was forty? He was sure if he had gone through that fire today, he wouldn't have gotten out. The burn scars had faded, at the very least, and the only nerve damage was on his left thigh.
He supposed the fear didn't come from the Ace itself, but rather what it represented. The rest had been a series of unfortunate events, but none that kept him awake at night, fearing for his life at every possible second. The way he saw it, the Ace would do one of two things. It could kill him – in which case it wasn't his problem at all and he could do worse than to just sit around and be merry – or it would do its damnedest to traumatize him beyond salvageable cognizance. The latter appealed to him far less. Spending one's life catatonic in a wheelchair living only through flashbacks and fear was not his idea of a good time.
The Ace had stopped scaring him years ago. He could only wait. Who knows – maybe God had lost the card by this point? Given him a break? Maybe the final card would be served to him in hospice alongside a nice steak and some bourbon. It was a sweet fantasy, but not one he indulged in often, for that would be training one's self for disappointment. He took a drink, finishing his whiskey.
London had scored, and a rally of cheers followed. He took a final drag of his cigarette, mashing it out in the tray. He slid another between his lips and sparked it up, absently picking up the ash tray and dumping the contents into a nearby rubbish bin. A flicker of white and black caught his gaze and his crisp, blue eyes turned down to the counter. There, in the dusty circle left by the ashtray, was a card, with a single spade on it, runic 'A's adorning the corners. The Ace of Spades. He cleared his throat and shakily set the tray down.
The din of the bar seemed to fade, to grow distant and muffled. Silence enveloped him as he sat, fingers interlocked, staring at the card now held between his thumbs. He was aware of the crisp, sharp sound of the door's bell as it signaled the arrival of a new patron.
A gloved hand fell on Roy's shoulder and gave a firm, amicable squeeze.
“Hello, old friend. I think it's time we had ourselves a talk.” | 15 | A man finds playing cards throughout his life, the arrival of each card preceding a near-death experience. Throughout his life, the cards count down from the 10, 9, 8, (etc) of spades, each near-death experience more harrowing. Describe the day he finds the ace. | 20 |
Well, should have seen this coming.
1600 years I'd been asleep, less than flying, I suppose you could just saying "riding". Every part of my mission was something that you, today, would not recognize. I was frozen before I left earth, hundreds of us were, and one by one we were loaded into the Verne gun and shot into space. The theory was simple.
A few years earlier the concept that you would recognize as "The Internet of Things", that was later renamed "Global Cognition", finally came to fruition. What started as a way to make your home shut off the air conditioning automatically when you left home and turn it back on when you were on your way back, took a very significant turn when the technological singularity was reached. The implants that added memory space to human thoughts were instantly connected to everything else in the world. That started as a way to receive text messages without looking at your phone or any other device, the messages just popped straight into your brain, but now everything on earth was connected. You had every memory that your toaster, your car, and every other human in the world downloaded straight into memory the moment the singularity was reached. Everyone wanted in on it, and due to the competition in the "mass-memory" market, the implants were cheap and readily available to everyone. So now that I've caught you up a little bit, let's go back.
Every human on earth, and off of it, instantly shared every thought. So, why not shoot some into space? These people were called "Knowledge Martyrs" for obvious reasons, and with everyone sharing information instantly, it was the only way to gain notoriety. I volunteered for that cause.
The Verne gun was built, the volunteers frozen, loaded, and aimed at their respective targets. Mine, just so happened to be the nearest black hole to Earth, a micro quasar named V4641 Sgr. The last memory we all share from my eyes was my family smiling as I felt the cryogenic ice forming around my suit. The suits, once they reach their pre-determined destinations, are only designed to last a few hours. It is a one-way trip. You leave, collect the information from your destination which is transported instantly on the Global Cognizance to every human on earth (and off of it), and you die. Your name is remembered by every human being on earth (and off of it), for the rest of our existence thanks to your sacrifice. Humanity is better for your gracious act of valor.
But all of that was long ago. Even traveling through space at the speed a Verne Gun permits, you still travel for quite a long time. At these speeds, the 1,600 light years took around 4,800 years. and I'm batting my eyes in the bright light of the event horizon as I come to. My natural reaction is to rub at my eyes, but the face shield stops my gloved hands. The ship around me has long been thawed, and its core, me, is just getting around to reanimation.
It's so bright, and so dark. It's hard to describe. The event horizon looks two dimensional from here. Perfectly two dimensional. Strange. I'm trying to make note of every detail. Humans are perfect sensor suites. Unlike a thermometer, which will tell you a temperature, launching a human on our mass memory network provides every sense a human can provide to another human. What I see, everyone sees. What I feel, anticipation as I near my target, acceleration as its gravity is pulling me in faster and faster, everyone can feel this.
And I can feel everyone.
Except...
I can't. I can't? What's going on here? I should be able to feel every emotion. Every kid being held by their parents, every mom staring at a newborn baby, every old man's arthritic knee. I should feel all of it.
And I don't.
I just shot myself into space, left behind my family and friends for the global good, and my last memory is a faint flashback to a war we all saw. Everyone but me.
We had the chance to see and feel it all, and it ended in war well before we could unravel the mysteries of the universe.
Go figure. Should have seen this coming. I'm traveling near light speed when I feel one more person connect. Clearly a martyr like me. He is approaching a distant planet, and is meant to burn up in its atmosphere and spread our genetic code across this distant solar system to start complex life on another planet. A colonizer.
"Good luck", I send him just before I plunge through the terrible blackness. I feel him remembering the war.
*Pop*
I'm through. All this for nothing. No one will ever see what I've seen. Just me and the Colonizer. I can feel the heat building around him.
Should have seen this coming. | 19 | You are the first person to successfully travel through a black hole. | 18 |
I created the first functional time machine on January 25th, 2010.
I know what you're thinking, looking at the clock in the corner of your ancient Windows 8 tablet and thinking, "If that were true, I would have heard about it by now, it's been more than four years!"
That's the thing about time travel. It only works one way. Or, at least it should. I'll get back to the should.
You see, time, at least for us, normally only travels in a single direction. That direction of course being forwards. We move along a singular path along a singular spectrum of time. I am sure those of you who might understand the mechanics in their more intricate complexities are groaning audibly at this explanation, but you have to excuse it for now, it's really for the benefit of those among the audience who do not.
Now as I was saying, I created the first functional time machine over four years ago. To be honest, I couldn't tell you exactly how it worked. I was trying to build one, yes, but I have never come remotely close since, and I don't expect I ever will again. What happened that day is one of those rare flukes that only can occur when every imaginable circumstance is correct. I'm talking planets aligning on your eighteenth birthday level of coincidence.
It was so long ago for me, I couldn't even begin to tell you exactly what happened that day. What I ate for breakfast, or if I ate at all, are a blur. I remember only one thing clearly. I was adjusting a mounting bracket when I lost my grip on the screw driver. It fell, pulled a wire free, and I reached in to grab it. When I leaned up, I was in the middle of a city, which is not typically where I attempt to calibrate my equipment. Normally I do that in my rather poorly supplied lab in my attic. And that's only on days where I am not attempting to improve the performance of the data offloading system on the F-35.
I'm still doing that you know, the F-35 thing. I can't believe we're still working on that thing. It's not as though jet engines will be obsolete in three years.
I digress.
At first I was simply confused. How had I gotten hear? Had I somehow gotten a bit too drunk and wandered off with my work?
It seemed highly unlikely, but somehow I couldn't dismiss the notion so easily. I mean, I certainly had no idea where I was, and I had once seen a TV show where the man I had assumed was the protagonist had done something similar.
"Woah. What's with the get up?" A young man asked me, as I rose to my full height. I was easily a foot taller than the youth. It was odd. He did not look to be so young that a 5'9", stick thin, scientist would tower over him, but I supposed he might suffer from an amount of dwarfism. I was not biologist. That wasn't my field.
"It's a lab coat. I am afraid, I might have been a bit drunk. Could you tell me where I am?" I asked.
"New Detroit."
It didn't really take me long to grasp what had happened. Those words combined with a quick examination of my surroundings with a more keen eye, I realized I was now quite far in the future. A vehicle I would learn to call a Derigimobile hovered nearby, it's occupants slowly unloading to gawk at me.
I suppose for many of you, this might be the part of the story where it gets interesting. Where I have adventures in a new world, where I see the evolution of our culture and science, and then perhaps relinquish my old convictions or stand for something that was lost in this different time.
I wish I could say it was so interesting. Hundreds of years had passed, but the truth was that aside from a few things, we were the same. Humans had changed very little in that time.
There were billions and billions more of us perhaps, stretched across the stars. The citizens of this new world praised me for having been the first creator of time travel, and hundreds of years ago at that, calling me 'one of a kind'.
It was true.
But so was she.
She died. January 3rd, 2122. The truth was that had I been thirty years off, I could have met her. Tell her what had happened. Everything is being recorded you know. In a hundred years, you'll have a record of when you visited this reddit page, read this story. I had that for her. I saw her go through grief, confusion, and even hunt for me. Then I saw her move on. She had a family, children, grand children, even great great grandchildren. She lived an entire life, and she lived it without me. She never heard me say it. She never heard me say the words that I know we both wanted to say.
I became famous for a while. There is novelty in a time traveler. My machine was replicated. I reverse engineered it with little issue. Of course, the ability to fling oneself so far into the future is a luxury few really desire, but the technology made me wealthy for the uses it could produce.
For several years, I, and other scientists worked to try to alter the time period, but there was never any significant success.
Then, all I had left to do was grow old.
I lived my life.
I tried to move on, but the truth was that I never could. These people were from an entirely different world. Though in stature I was enormous, I was an intellectual dwarf compared to what comprised common education to the people of that time.
After thirty years, I could no longer stand that I was still so entirely alien. One night, I bought myself a knife. I had already tried once with a gun, but the safety automatically re-engaged every time I pulled the trigger. I cut my wrists. That's the last I remember of that world.
The next morning, I woke and made myself pancakes. I was pouring that awful high fructose corn crap on when I finally realized where I was. I was in a tiny run down apartment, with a guest bedroom converted into a clean room and lab. A lab that had more than once inspired neighbors to compare me to a certain serial killer.
I checked the calender. The date was January 25th, 2010.
I picked up my phone, and dialed a number I had first entered three years before, or was it thirty now? It didn't matter, I heard the ring.
Once.
Twice.
"Hello?"
"Heather?"
"Rick?"
"I love you. Wait. No. Ignore that. I mean, would you like to go get coffee?"
"Don't we have work?"
"I have been waiting a long LONG time to tell you how I feel, to SHOW you. I know you feel the same- er- at least similarly."
"I-"
"Please."
"Okay."
We actually lost our jobs because of that. I had kinda forgotten about the particular importance of that day, but it has a new importance for me. We're married now. We have new jobs, and for the last four years, we've been happy.
I destroyed the time machine. I don't need it anymore.
I know now that quantum immortality is real.
I just have to make sure that I never lose her again.
---------------
This is pretty bad. I apologize, I think this is the equivalent of a scratch sheet for an artist, or a warm up exercise.
I really liked the prompt though! | 30 | A man was suddenly separated from everything and everyone he had on Jan 25, 2010. He finally let's go of his past, finds true love, and is happier than ever. The next morning, his mind is cloudy and he is in his old bed again. The calendar reads 1.25.2010 | 54 |
*I fucking hate shaving on a Saturday* Jim thought has he dragged the razor up his throat. *I hate it* he tried singing it in his head *hate, hate hate hate haaaate it. shaving on a saturday, saturdaaaay suuuuuccccckkkkssss"* when he heard a *clank*.
"What the hell?" this time out loud. It came from the mirror. Or behind the mirror. He hadn't paid any attention to that mirror since he and Sharon moved in. The real estate lady said there wasn't a medicine cabinet so he had no reason to. Till now.
Jim banged on the mirror. "Hey!" he yelled.
Nothing. He banged again "HEY!" louder this time.
Nothing. So he went into the living room and grabbed his softball bat.
*One badassed motherfucker* he thought, looking at his reflection as he walked toward the mirror.
*SMACK* and the mirror cracked. *SMACK* the mirror broke through.
"WHAT THE HELL!" there was a room behind the mirror. *A ROOM. HOLY CRAP!*
Jim crawled through the hole he created into the room. There was electronic equipment, microphones, servers, monitors. Jim stumbled as he looked around. A desk. A half drunk cup of coffee. A note.
*A note?*
He picked it up and read it.
"Hi Jim, sorry about this. It's not for you, just so you know. We set this up to get the guy who used to live here, a real scumbag drug dealer. He's doing 20 years upstate. Anyway, we apologize for the intrusion and all, but it's just that Sharon is so fucking hot that we couldn't stop."
| 77 | A man who has been living alone for the past 20 years accidentally discovers that his bathroom mirror is a two-way mirror with a fully functional monitoring room behind it. | 134 |
Tomas stood in front of his girlfriend, arms spread wide in a defensive posture that boasted a confidence he certainly wasn’t feeling. The man in front of him was brandishing a knife and had a wild look in his eye, his head tilted at an uncomfortable angle. He wore a strange smile on his face and spittle was running down his lips onto his chin. With a shuddering motion, the assailant took a step forward, closing that small gap between himself and his victims.
Just then, a taxi appeared at the end of the alleyway and a large man wearing a suit stepped out of the vehicle. He slipped the taxi driver a 20 and then began confidently striding down the alleyway toward the madman. “Just what do you think you are doing?” The man in the suit asked with a deep baritone that seemed only slightly forced.
“We’re just having a taste,” the madman said as more spittle flew from his lips. “Big man should mind his own business!”
“Please help us!” Tomas yelled, hoping that with the man’s help he could overpower his attacker. At the very least the man could call the cops.
“Fear not citizen!” The new arrival said with that dramatic tone. “For you are now under the protection of…Bodyguard!” As he exclaimed this he removed his jacket and attempted to rip his white button down open. Only a few buttons hung, but after a moment’s frustration he revealed a spandex suit with the letters “BG” emboldened on his chest. He then awkwardly undid his belt and removed his pants to reveal the rest of the ensemble.
At this point, curiosity seemed to overtake fear and insanity as the primary themes of the evening.
“…Who?” The madman said, turning his attention to BodyGuard who stood in a stereotypical superhero stance.
“Look at me and know fear, criminal scum! For you look at justice incarnate, the heroic BodyGuard!”
“Allow me to rephrase my question,” The madman said as he wiped the spittle from his chin. “Who the fuck are you? A superhero? Are we really doing this?” As he said this, the manic look in his eyes was replaced by something more along the lines of exasperation.
“Yeah,” Tomas interjected. “Not to be offensive, but could just call somebody? Unless you actually have some kind of powers I feel like we are all kinda wasting our time here.”
BodyGuard squinted his eyes in annoyance. “You dare challenge the power of the heroic BodyGuard! I, BodyGuard, have %100 control over my entire body!”
At this point Tomas’ girlfriend, Amber, spoke up. “So, like, you have control of your body? So you can like move your skeleton and stuff? Or make yourself super strong by controlling your muscles?”
Had BodyGuard been a normal human, he would have blushed. Instead he lowered his head sheepishly and in a more conversational tone said, “Well… not really. See that stuff is pretty set in stone, I mean, if I moved my skeleton that would be like, crazy painful.”
The madman folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head. “Soooo… what exactly can you do?”
“Well,” BodyGuard said as his forced baritone crept back into his tone. “The heroic BodyGuard has %100 control over his body!”
“Right, you said that,” Tomas replied. “So like, you can handle hot and cold and whatnot?”
“Well no, I can choose not to get goosebumps though!”
“Okay, that seems kinda cool, I guess.”
“I have complete control of my bowel movements!”BodyGuard exclaimed proudly.
“Well that’s a good one, seems like more a nice feature than a superpower though,” Replied Amber.
At this point the madman held his head in his hands. “So you have a very regular BM schedule? Wait, so how much percentage of one’s body do most people have? Cuz I have never really thought to myself that I sure wish I had like %20 more control. This whole thing just seems kinda arbitrary. I really don’t understand this at all.”
“Well I’m glad you asked ne’er-do-well! I guess most people probably have like %45. Most of the body is pretty much automated processes. However! I, the heroic BodyGuard have %100 control!”
“So what you are telling me is that you have to control %100 of your body? So all those automated processes like breathing, blinking, and digesting have to actually be done actively instead of passively? That sounds fucking awful!”
BodyGuard thought about this for a moment and realized how nice it would be not to forget to breathe occasionally. “Well, you know… there’s the whole pooping thing.”
“Yeah yeah,” the madman said flippantly. “Listen, you’ve taken up enough of my time, I’m just gonna stab these people and drink some of their blood.” He turned to look for Tomas and Amber only to see them disappearing around the corner on the other end of the alley. “DAMMIT!”
“HAHA!” Was the triumphant response from BodyGuard. “Another villain thwarted! Know that wherever evil lurks, Bodyguard will be there!”
With that he turned around walked down the street, trying to hail a cab. The madman sat down for a moment and contemplated existential thoughts. He realized that maybe he shouldn’t be out stabbing people and drinking their blood, he decided that maybe, he should be an accountant. | 42 | A superhero who's power is that he can control %100 of his body. | 20 |
It's terminal.
My wife's cancer that is. At first we were so strong. We would go to the cancer awareness functions, wear the bracelets. Everything.
But whenever she needed me, I would... change. I don't mean my personality or anything. I mean I would legitimately transform. I always get made fun of for it, so I might as well just say it: I'm a WereKitty. It skips a generation. We have a few theories of how and why it happens, but theories won't keep me normal. Theories won't support my wife. I only change when I'm overwhelmed with emotion. So whenever I see my wife get an MRI, blood drawn, or anything along those lines... I change. She is essentially alone. She told me she doesn't care, that it makes her happy. She even calls me her "Little Kitty" most times. But even through that weak, pale smile... I can see sadness.
It was a Thursday. She was in bed at home. The hospital said it'd be best for her to pass on in her own home. It was just me, and the nurse. My wife had our photo album in her lap, and my hand in hers as we flipped through the pages of our lives. Starting from us sitting on the park bench we met at. The next few pages were us at parties, and beyond that were pictures of us on vacation. We lingered at the photo I had the waiter take when I proposed. Tears welled in her eyes as we relived our wedding day. Then, the heart monitor began beeping more frequent as her breaths became less. Her grip loosened under mine tightening.
Her eyes were lost, she was searching for my eyes through a waterfall of tears, even though she was already in my eyes. The life in those sapphire rings slowly fluttered away. She weakly told me that she wanted to tell me one thing before she goes. My heart and stomach are one with each other. I let the warm streams sprint down my cheeks. The room began to spin violently as the colors blended into one.
I woke up the next morning in my bed. I looked around and my wife was gone. I quickly stood up and searched high and low for her all through out my house like a mad man. The nurse was standing in the living room, waiting patiently for me to calm down. I looked at her through the pain flooding my eyes. The nurse handed me a picture. When I looked at it, I put my hand over my mouth and surrendered to the tears.
It was of my wife, laying in bed, pale and sick. In her arms was a kitty, fluffy and cute. There was a tiny half smile on her face. The nurse told me she wrote my wife's last words on the back.
"I love you, My Little Kitty."
| 96 | You are a werekitty. When you lose control of your emotions, or the moon is full you transform into a tiny, cute, playful, declawed kitten and it is ruining your life. | 94 |
Numerous witnesses attested to his arrival. A flash in the sky, and then a large, metallic object floating tenderly to the ground. It lighted in Trafalgar Square, right next to Nelson's Column.
He was heralded as an angel, but methinks he comes from hell.
When presented to King Edward, he presented a cockamamie tale of travelling backward through time, on a mission of a military nature.
"Does our guest seem a little... coarse to you, my darling?"
"No, Cedric, I think he is absolutely fabulous, don't you?"
"Perhaps he has his moments."
I eye the... gentleman... suspiciously. He winks at me and upturns a bottle of Vin du Calais, which I had purchased and secured away against the arrival of a proper visitor. My wife had deemed this to be such an occasion and asked our steward, George, to retrieve it from the cellar along with sufficient cups.
As it turned out, he did not need a cup. I notice some specks of dribble seeping purple into the front of his shirt.
"Where did you say you were from, er, Richard, was it?"
"Dick."
"Dick. I see."
What a fitting name. A shortened form of 'Richard', but also a name that means a common man, which this gentleman certainly is.
"It also means penis where I come from."
I gasp, as does my steward. My wife, the Lady Brindenwald, giggles at this bit of trivia. This time Dick winks at her.
"And Rich - er - Dick -" Lady Brindenwald giggles again as I speak, "From where do you hail?"
"I hail from Cincinnati, Ohio, and I'll even tell you when I hail from: 1968. From the land of the free, man, the United States of America. Brought to you by the good grace of God and white coat wearing pricks of General Electric."
I ignore his vulgarities, attempting to steer the conversation toward a more civilized clime.
"Ah, Cincinnati. My father personally invested ten percent of the cost when the Miami and Erie canal was being built."
"Oh yeah, the Miami canal. I know that place. I took a girl down there in my truck and fucked her in her ass, on account of her being Catholic and all."
I gag. Lady Brindenwald flushes and begins to fan herself. "Oh, sorry. I, uh, buggered her is what I meant to say."
"Sir, I will have you know that your manner of conversation is not, in any way, appreciated. Were it not for the behest of King Edward to foster you, were it not for his personal request, you would not be sitting here and, to be quite honest with you, sir, I would have you flogged for a week for this insolence and impropriety."
"The King thinks that much of me, huh?" He swigs at the bottle. "Brindenwald." He smacks as as though tasting the name. "What is that, German?"
"It does have some Germanic derivation, but my family has not been associated with that culture nor those lands for over a hundred years now."
The glint of humor leaves his eyes. "I fucking hate Germans." He stands with a swagger. "I fucking hate the Germans more than anything, and if I told you how many I killed with rifle, pistol, knife, my bare goddamned hands, you would no longer pre-fucking-sume to talk to me like that!" His voice rises to a fervor and I notice George sidestepping inconspicuously toward a saber hanging from the wall. I shake my head ever-so mildly and he stops. A good man, that George.
"Ah, er, apologies, good Richard. I believe that there is something of a cultural rift between us. I do sometimes forget how being out of one's element may cause consternation. I am just not accustomed to being placed out of mine own element within the bounds of this hall."
He squints at me and swigs the bottle again, but this time he drinks deep and long, not taking his eyes from me. The apple of his throat moves up and down. When he's done, he brings his chin to his shoulder and wipes his mouth there, leaving a purple smear. "Apology accepted. Now be a good chap and tell me where the scotch is."
I look to George. "I believe there is some Laphroaig in the globe, sir."
"Laphroaig'll do it." Dick stumbles to the globe, opening it. He pulls the stopper and pours himself a good measure into the glass. "Want some?" I decline and excuse myself and Lady Brindenwald, as it is getting late.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
The next morning, we are seated to breakfast. Dick is nowhere to be found, thank God. And then, I realize, neither is Mary. "Where is Mary, Catheryn?"
Lady Brindenwald looks at me and continues to chew, a good long time, before deciding to swallow. "I am not entirely sure, Cedric. I sent her to look after Di - Richard this morning." I eye her. "I was certain that he would be in a state after last night, so I sent her with some of your clothes and a pitcher of water."
I press my knuckles into my eyes. "This man will be the ruin of my house."
----------------------------------------------------------------------
In the afternoon, Mary's eyes do not meet mine. "Mary," I ask. "To what level did you assist our guest this morning?"
She clears her throat. "Only to the extent that my office allows."
"And to what extent was that?"
"I laid out our guest's clothes and poured him some water."
"Nothing more? Your presence was quite sorely missed at breakfast."
"Aye, he asked only that I show him the grounds."
"And you did?"
"Yes, my lord, I did not think it meet to decline him."
"I see. And where is our guest now?"
"When I last saw him, he was in the larder, helping himself to some ham."
"Eating in the larder?"
"Yes, my lord."
The man's devilry knows no bounds.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
That evening, George entered my chambers with news. "My lord, King Edward has sent word of his arrival on the morrow. He shall bring a retinue."
"On the morrow?" I am incredulous. "How are we for food and drink?"
"We are well prepared to that end, my lord."
"Excellent. And what of our guest? Where shall we hide him?"
"Hide him, my lord? His Grace will be visiting for the express purpose of speaking with him."
After all I had done for the King, he'd never visited. But this b------ comes from the sky and tells some jokes relating to the anal expulsion of gases and the King travels to meet him. The world is quickly descending into hell.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
The next morning, Dick joins us for breakfast. Lady Brindenwald finishes early and excuses herself. Dick engages me in conversation - whilst chewing. "Man, that Mary sure can suck a cock."
I choke upon my egg. "I beg pardon?"
"That girl, man, she could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch."
I do not know what in the hell he meant by that but my face reddens. I am furious, but I do not know whether this fury is a product of Dick or of Mary's insolence and impropriety. I shall rid myself of her service after tonight's dinner.
"I do not know if you've heard the news, Dick, but the King is coming to visit tonight."
"Eddy? Aw, man, that's great."
"I would that you not bring dishonor upon my family name with vulgar language nor action."
Dick clears his throat. "Oh - uh - yeah, absolutely, man. Look, about the other night... I'm sorry. I'd had a little too much to drink and, well, you were a soldier, you know what that can be like."
"My soldiering days are long gone but... You do have a point, Dick, I do remember some ribald actions and less than chivalrous words said due to drink. I accept your apology and hope that this can be a new start."
"Attaboy." Dick grins at me. "Hey, Georgie," he says, "bring us some tea." George looks at me. I nod at him. He nods at Dick. The rest of the morning passes in peace.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
The soiree is much like any other, excepting the presence of the King and Dick. They are fast friends and, aside from performing my hostly duties, I steer clear. My worries of Dick's actions removing me from the King's favor were unfounded. They exchange military stories and when Dick says words like "tank" or "plane", the King nods knowingly, even though the words are gibberish.
The King mentions his American tour and, here and there, Dick speaks of his own "kingly conquests" regarding ladies in cities the King had visited.
Others are crowded around them, laughing when the King laughs and trying hard to suppress their disgust at Dick's coarse speech.
At night's end, I realize that I've given no thought to where we would house our guests.
"George, are the guests' quarters quite prepared?"
"There shall be no need of that sir. The King and his party leave tonight."
"Tonight? At such a late hour?"
"Yes, my lord. Dick will be accompanying them. But before they leave, the King would like an audience with you and Dick in your library."
"Ah, yes. Inform them that I shall be awaiting them there."
The notion of Dick's departure brings me great relief.
I leave for the library. I prepare drinks for the King, Dick, and myself. When they arrive, a fire is blazing.
They enter and we are left alone.
"Cedric," the King says.
"Your Grace." I bow.
"Cedric, our Dick will be leaving with me."
Dick winks at me.
"It saddens me that my house will be bereft of his presence. I hope that he returns soon as my esteemed guest."
"There is no need of all that, Cedric. Our Dick will be departing tonight for Germanic shores."
I open my mouth to speak a word of alarm, but say nothing.
"We would appreciate it if not a word of this is spoken to anybody. It is only he, yourself, and I who know his destination. Should word reach any ear and be spread, I shall know your treachery. Understood?"
"Yes, your Grace, of course."
"Good. Now let's have a drink." I parcel out the drinks. "To Dick! I do not know the task set before you, but I do believe your presence here to be an act of God himself. Good luck to you on that Germanic land, and steer clear of that prick nephew of mine. To Dick!"
We drain our cups, Dick faster than either the King or myself. | 45 | You are a prim and proper 19th century man or woman of high status, and a time traveller just arrived in your time period. He seems decent, but has a sick and twisted sense of humor. | 51 |
This is not how it was meant to happen.
Conquest, strapping his bow to his horse, surveyed the battlefield. He found it funny, in a morbid way, that they were almost losing every battle they went into; he is sometimes called victory after all. War was still riding around the battlefield on his blood-red steed slaughtering those demons still clinging to their ephemeral mortal forms. Famine was sat, his frail body cross legged and wrapped around the scales which he always held.
The world had not always been like this, for millennia it was peaceful and vibrant and distinctly alive but now that is not so. The seals had not been broken by the lamb to release the horsemen, they had chosen to release themselves as the armies of Celestia, Infernia and the Abyss battled on Earth leaving nothing but devastation in their wake. The horsemen chose to intervene in these affairs as there is something about the human race that they can relate to, a race fuelled by desire and lust for power was exactly the kind of race that the horsemen wanted to preserve. So the horsemen came to Earth and did what they do best… brought about the apocalypse.
Conquest sat beside his frail brother - famine – and put a steel clad hand upon his shoulder as a sign of comfort. Famine was always the most sensitive of the four and was initially reluctant to break the seals and go to earth.
“We are never going back to the outer realms are we?” asked Famine, sadly.
“No, I doubt that” replied Conquest “but we had to do what we did, this war isn’t justice, it isn’t holy and it isn’t fair.”
“Don’t you think it is wrong that all we can seem to do is kill though? The people of Earth fear us and cower from us and we are the ones trying to save them it just seems… hollow” said Famine, staring at War decapitating yet another demon.
“We do, but we are not the most feared by far. It could be much worse my brother… much worse” answered Conquest.
“What do you mean?” asked Famine. Conquest gestured in the direction of the fourth brother and the two watched him in silence.
Death walked out of the farmhouse he had gone in to in his search for survivors of the latest attack. He was holding in his arms the tiny corpse of a child, it looked cold but somehow its features were still veiled by the illusion of life. Death placed the child on the ground and sank to his knees reaching for the nearest flowers on the ground. Death picked up the small patch of bluebells and scattered them over the child but as soon as his skeletal hands had touched the delicate flora they had turned to ash in his hands. The ash blew over the infant’s body and around Death’s cloak and the skeleton lowered his head.
Famine was sure he saw him cry.
| 38 | The four horsemen of the apocalypse, re-imagined as vigilantes in a post-apocalypse setting. | 54 |
She was kneeling, dark hair obscuring her face. Ian looked at his knife, held loosely in the hand that refused to move. The blade winked at him, inviting him to do it. The masked man in the corner watched him. His left hand curled around the throat of Ian's daughter, the right pressed the muzzle of the gun to her temple.
"Choose," said the man, sounding rather bored. "Kill your wife, or I kill your daughter. Or lose them both. Choose."
Ian heard the deafening drumbeat in his chest, and prayed for a heart attack. The masked man had come. It was a horrendous joke, and his wife and daughter were in on it. They had to be. Ian started laughing at the joke, the knife shaking in his hand.
"Time's up," said the man, his voice darkening with pleasure at the thought of what came next. The words scraped at Ian, twisted his laughter into a scream of denial.
"No! Please, please, pl -" he said, as the finger wrapped around the trigger. An animal sound escaped him as his daughter fell, and then the blood spread around his wife.
The woman rose.
"Good job, Jake," she said, nodding at the masked man. "Everything sounds almost perfect. You guys want to run through it one more time before we're done for the day?"
"Sure," said Ian, then spoke to the little girl. "Remember to whimper a little when Jake's holding you, alright? Okay guys. One more time! Only a week left till opening night." | 31 | Write a sad story with the happiest twist you can think of. | 23 |
Edit: silly mobile typos
We sat on the bed, still dressed and silent. Jaidah's skin was glowing with the golden rays that shown through the thinly curtained window of our hotel room. My parents have put me in a situation I didn't think I would be able to survive. I still don't think I will.
I tried to look at her, but she was intimidating. I couldn't even raise my head, afraid that she might see the hard truth that was my face. My face, my asymmetrical face. Her's was undoubtedly perfect, at least compared to my low standards. I would've thought to marry a cow before even dreaming of being married to this angel. Hope was lost for me. This marriage just began, and it will inevitably end with her tiring of the same, gruesome face that I wear. There's no future between us. How do my parents plan to consummate the marriage if she wouldn't want to sleep with me in any situation?
I started to cry. Oh, God, why did I start to cry? Was I that pathetic? That insecure? She didn't even look at me. Not even when I raised my hands to my eyes to cup the downpour. Why was I crying? Who was I kidding?
I thought about how stupid I must look. Me, in my dad's tuxedo from his wedding day, with my crappy hairstyle, my cratered face. I thought my parents would have at least paired me with someone of my attractiveness. But when I lifted that veil. God, my jaw dropped. My knees shook. I didn't want to say the words out of fear that she wouldn't either. So here we sat in the hotel room. Here we sat in silence... In awkwardness. But then she let out a hand. Her soft hand, she lent it to me! Put it right on my shoulder! Maybe... No. No, she probably just feels sorry for me. For herself. Hell, I feel sorry for her.
But she broke the silence.
"Kabir," she said. She said my name... It sounded so sweet. I looked away from her. Why torture her with my face?
"Kabir," she repeated. "I know this was forced on us both. I know how you must feel."
No she doesn't. She's ashamed of her parents for offering her to this troll. How could they agree to this? What did she do to them that they would spite her with my mere presence? I shook my head, denying her compassion.
"Kabir, look at me."
I continued to look down.
"Husband. Look at me."
My tears stopped at the word. Is she accepting her duty already? I humored her, looking into her grass green eyes. The expression on her face remained the same. No disgust. No regret. Just a neutral face. She felt my face. She felt my shoulders. What was she doing?
Her hands hovered over my nose, tracing he bumps and grooves of the bridge. She pushed her fingers through my hair. It was soothing. And all I could do was look into her eyes, those hollowed emeralds.
"You have pretty eyes, you know," she said.
I muttered a thank you. It was the only compliment I have ever received about my looks.
"You have a good body," she said. "You're strong."
All I do is swim. Badly. How could that mean I'm strong?
She held my hand with both of hers, "Kabir, I am your wife."
She looked down, stroking my thigh.
"I know you don't think you could make me happy," she spoke the truth, to which I bowed my head once again. But she held my chin up, "and I know you think you don't deserve me. But that is not true."
Her lips pressed against mine, and I drifted back into the purest happiness that I have never experienced before.
| 41 | You are very unattractive and have had no luck with the opposite sex your whole life. You have unwillingly been placed into an arranged marriage. Your spouse was covered during the ceremony and now you are in your bedroom and your new spouse is the most beautiful person you have ever met. | 33 |
Dear Mr. Simon,
I paid Tammy $20 to give this letter to her sister's boyfriend to give it to you. Tammy says you do favours for people all the time. I know I don't work for you, you don't even know me, but this is really important and I don't know who else to ask for help. Santa never wrote back even though I asked him for the last two years and was the best I could be and got all As in school. I even got an A+ in English.
I want you to kill my dad. He was in jail for two years for hitting my mom and my little brother and me. He promised Mom he would never hurt her again But he's been home for a week now and he never promised us that.
I am strong and I can take it. I am almost eleven and when I grow up I want to be a fire fighter so I need to learn to be strong. But my brother is only six. Dad already took out one of his eyes, and he only has one left.
The $20 I gave Tammy was all I had, but I can make up to $10 on a good week from recycling. I could also work for you to pay off the debt. I don't know how much it costs to kill people, but I'm willing to do whatever it takes.
Thank you for considering my letter, Mr. Simon, and I hope to hear a response from you shortly.
Sincerely,
Rupert Jones
--
It was dark when Rupert Jones was woken up by the screams of his father and the shouting of his mother. There was something going on in the kitchen of their small apartment. That was nothing new, but usually it wasn't his father screaming in fear.
"What is it?" asked Paul, bleary. His lid drooped over his empty socket.
"Get under the bed and stay there, okay? Everything will be alright."
The man hauling his father across the floor by the back of his shirt was not a tall man, but he looked strong, and besides that he had a pretty big gun.
"The fuck do you want?!" screamed his father. "The money's in the fridge! The money's..."
The sound of the gun was not as loud as Rupert thought it would be. Maybe it had a silencer, he couldn't tell. But it was loud enough that Mrs. May's poodles started barking, and loud enough for someone to probably call it in.
The man walked across the floor, careful to avoid the spreading pool of blood, and squatted before him. "You must be Rupert."
He resisted the urge to stick his thumb in his mouth. "Yes, sir. What do I owe you?"
Ruby Simon just patted the top of his head. "Free of charge, kid. I'll even give you your postage back." He reached inside of his dark jacket, handing him a crisp, new twenty dollar bill.
"Thank you, Mr. Simon."
"No problem, Rupert. I planted some crystal in the crisper, you be sure to let the police know that's where Daddy kept all his stash and people had been calling about shorting him. And I put your Mom's savings in the cupboard so the pigs don't confiscate it."
The boy stared at the bill in his hands. It seemed unreal. "Isn't there anything I can do for you, Mr. Simon?"
The man only gave a smile, one that didn't show teeth. "Yeah. Keep getting those As and be a fire fighter, Rupert."
"I will, sir."
"Good stuff, kid."
That was the last time he saw him. His brother lost no more eyes.
| 60 | A city kid enlists help from a drug lord to kill his abusive father, who recently returned home from jail, to protect his younger brother. | 48 |
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