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"What can I get ya?"
The man jumped up, startled by the sudden prescence of the bartender. He had been twitchy that evening, aware that his past was due to catch up with him in the next 10 minutes or so. He wanted to vomit. Still, he kept whatever composure he had left, with the intention of having what would certainly be his last drink.
"Get me a... beer, please."
"Coming right up."
The man was kicking himself inside. A beer? Is that honestly what his last drink would be, before he would spend the rest of his years behind bars? He had to remind himself that the cops were on their way, and that every second spent making a fancy drink would be another spent enjoying his remaining freedom.
"You're looking a little worse for wear tonight, friend." the bartender observed, handing the man his drink. "What's got you shooken up?"
The man took a drink. "To tell you the truth, I'm not exactly in the best position right now."
The bartender had a sympathetic look for the man. "Look, it's not exactly busy tonight." The bartender gestured to the empty bar. "Why don't we go share a couple of drinks in that booth over there, and you can tell me what ails ya?"
The man thought over the bartender's offer. Would be nice to have someone to talk to.
"Sure."
The bartender poured himself a beer and the two moved their conversation to the nearby booth.
"So, what kind of a pickle do you find yourself in, if ya don't mind me asking?"
The man took another sip of his beer. "I've been working for the past few years setting up my own company. A startup." He spoke calmly, clearing his throat constantly. "We were to be in the business of selling an alarm clock that would sync up with your smartphone in ways that weren't currently possible." He took another sip.
"Ahh." The bartender replied, drinking a large portion of his drink. "So I'm assuming that you're having financial trouble?"
The man cleared his throat again. "You could say that." he continued, "We were successfully funded on Kickstarter, you know, all that crowdfunding stuff?" The bartender nodded, "People really liked our proposal. We got nearly 300% of what we asked for." He took another sip. "But we ran into issues. A combination of bad budgeting and issues building the hardware. We ran out of money."
The bartender drank another large portion of his drink.
"That wasn't the end of my problems, unfortunately." The man continued. "I looked everywhere for funding. We couldn't go back to Kickstarter, we already owed them enough just for funding us initially. So I got desperate." He took yet another sip. "Eventually, fate intervened. My grandmother passed away, leaving me with a lump sum of cash."
The bartender finished his drink. "I'm going to hazard a guess and say that wasn't the end of your problems."
"People found it... coincidental that she happened to die just as I was having financial difficulties. Now the police are looking into it." Sip.
"Well, I believe ya, if that helps."
He shouldn't. The man was lying through his teeth. He smothered her with a pillow just so he could try and save his company, but he didn't bother checking that she had surveillance cameras up the wazoo. This was only last night.
"I'll just have to try my best to prove I'm not a killer." The jury had concrete evidence, there was no way he was getting away with it.
"If it's any consolation," the bartender replied, "you've done more than I've dreamed to do. It looks like we've been on this earth around the same time, and you've set up an entire company yourself. I just inherited this place. You managed to make a name for yourself."
Hearing the bartender's comment on age, the man noticed that the two of them were very much alike. Both mid-thirties, 5 foot 4ish, both sporting a thick mustache and cargo shorts alongside a polo shirt. From the corner of his eye, he saw the flashing lights pulling up to the bar, indicating the end of his drink. He gulped down the rest. That's when inspiration struck.
"Let me get you another." The man offered the bartender.
"Na, I got it. You just relax."
"No, I insist. You've waited on everyone, so I'm returing the favor."
"Well, if you're insistent about it... sure. Just don't make a mess back there. I keep it tidy."
The man made his way to the back of the counter as the police walked in. They approached the bartender at the booth.
"George Heidecker, you're under arrest for your connection to the murder of Harriett Heidecker." The two policemen grabbed him out of the booth and placed him in handcuffs.
"Wait, there's got to be some sort of mistake! I'm not the man you're looking for!" The bartender argued, pleading with the officers.
"We have info about a man matching your description, at this very location. You're coming with us."
"But I own this bar!" The bartender insisted.
The second policeman turned to the man. "Sir, is this man connected to this establishment?" He asked.
"I've never seen him before in my life." The man responded.
The police dragged the bartender into their car, the bartender yelling and arguing the entire way. He wouldn't be in custody for long, of course, but it would provide enough time to get the hell away from here.
But first, a better drink.
*I'll give this another look in a bit, I wrote it with a phone and no spell check so there's bound to be errors. I haven't really tried much of this kind of stuff so criticism is welcome.*
| 12 | A man suspected of numerous crimes spends his last hours at a bar. The police are on their way and the bartender has a conversation with that man that changes his life forever. | 17 |
Myranus Altimus Tiberius Richard Impemus Mofat, or Matrim. for short was very happy. He walked down the long hallways with a spring in his step. Today was the best day of his life. You see, he had done what no super-villain had ever achieved. He had killed his nemesis. Admittedly, he hadn't done it with style, but his boss didn't need to know that! It was time to talk about a promotion, and on the first day of the job. Matrim wore so large a grin on his face that one could only do justice to it by calling it shit-eating!
Matrim finally came to the circular doorway to the office of his mentor, Doomlord the Sixth, D-six for short, one of the best super-villains ever produced. As expected, the radial sections of the doorway slid back with a hiss and allowed him through. Matrim tried not to strut through the doorway, honestly, he tried! "What has you strutting through the door my young apprentice," boomed D-six in that deep menacing voice.
"I've done the impossible sir. I think your villainous magnificence will be suitably impressed; I've killed my arch nemesis, Captain Cobra of the Super Inspired Silver Serpents of Youthful Supremacy! All it took was one zap of my destructo-ray angled so he'd fly into a jet-exhaust. Hah! These S.I.S.S.Y.S., they ain't so tough," said Matrim, trying to modulate it his voice so that it had just the right mixture of pride and humility. He really needed to impress the legendary villain behind the polished oak desk.
"Are you sure he's dead," asked D-six, "they're sturdier than you think m'lad, are you absolutely certain?" with the most serious look that Matrim had ever seen on his face.
Matrim smiled, having expected the question, pulled a bag out of his personal space-time pocket, and dumped it's contents on the desk. He was so busy grinning at the severed hand, the shining badge, and the singed, tattered cloak, that he didn't notice his boss blanch. Still looking at his handiwork with a sense of satisfaction, he asked, "I'd say that settles it, wouldn't your maniacleness?" Yes, before you ask, they made up that word. These super villains are so narcissistic, I tell you!
D-six picked up the badge and flicked it with his forefinger. It made a loud ringing sound. No doubt about it, adamantium embossed with S.I.S.S.Y.S. around the edge using that damn Supremo's supreme strength...No question at all. He frowned at it, tracing the embossed lettering as he thought. It appeared that there had been a serious lapse in this young boys education. Did they teach nothing at the labs these days? It was so hard to come by a quality mad-science apprentice! He could go on forever, but this was not the time for whining. *"It's ass-covering time,"* thought D-six.
Matrim was looking intently at his mentor, his boss as he fiddled with the badge. He seemed troubled. He wasn't looking very mentor-like in fact, no, this looked more like the peak of his villainy, usually reserved for Supremo. Something was obviously very wrong, and Matrim couldn't imagine what, he'd done the impossible ideal, the dream of every super-villain, after all.
D-six shifted his eyes up to Matrim's and looked into them seriously, opening his mouth a couple of times, but closing it equally quickly, as if unsure of what to say. Matrim sweated profusely in the fluorescent lightning that suddenly seemed too bright. Matrim hadn't felt this uncomfortable even when he was brought to the principal's office for being kind to another student and his parents were called in, his parents!!
Matrim watched on as his mentor made a call on the old desk phone, "Yes, yes...You know what it's about then. The package will be arriving shortly. Thank you!" It was most puzzling. Why not use the holophone on his wrist. Surely it couldn't be malfunctioning?
"Walk with me Matrim. It's time we had another talk." The self-proclaimed Greater Evil strode right out of the door without waiting for a response. His cloak billowed out magnificently, adding to the malevolent air of the super-villain. An aura of smoky darkness emanated from D-six's head, leaving only twin pinpricks of electric blue visible. It was in these little details, Matrim realized, that a classic super-villain set himself apart, marked himself as worthy of a blockbuster hit instead of ending up in a B-grade movie...
"Do you know the only rule that every super-villain must follow? In fact, it might well be our unspoken credo." D-six waited patiently, as they continued striding through metal-walled corridors lit by an eerie greenish-blue phosphorescence. The silence stretched on. "Come on, spit it out lad! Have you or have you not?"
"Nothing is true, everything is permitted," began Matrim, only to be interrupted by an annoyed noise. Matrim could've sworn he had heard most unbecoming grumbling under the breath from his senior, had he not known better.
D-six sighed. "Where did you even...?"
"I got it from one of the video-games I play. I thought it made for a pretty good credo, and it seems to fit our theme of anarchy, villainy, and psychosis just right," said Matrim with an unhinged grin. You might wonder why he had an unhinged grin on his face at a time like this. Well, simply put, there's a reason what these guys do is called MAD Science, and it isn't because of the science.
"I've always worried about your fascination with the weed-yo-game things that you stole on your reality-hopping field trip. Normally, I'd try and talk you out of it, but seeing as you missed the most basic, most important rule of all..." The Greater Evil stopped for a moment as he thought, his hand disappearing into the dark aura, presumably to grip his chin. "Ah! That's it. Thou shalt not kill thine arch-nemesis." D-six was proud of his phrasing. Archaic, classic, in-your-face to the religious. Good monologue is a hallmark of the refined super-villain.
It was Matrim's turn to blanch now. Unlike his superior though, he turned white as a sheet, from the very roots of his hair down to the toes clad in pointy blue-boots. "But Burton Ulric Lazarus Luther Yanek told me that I would never be any good until I got one and gave me a Chemical-X swirlie right after so I'd never forget!" This time, Matrim was interrupted by the loud slapping noise from D-six's palm meeting his face. The aura of darkness flickered briefly. At this point, you're probably wondering about the large number of long names that conveniently happen to form acronyms. What can I say, it was the in-thing to do things that way...
Matrim could feel, yes feel, the sheer ridiculousness of his assertion even as he said it. He could feel even more acutely the awkward silence that ensued afterwards. D-six continued walking, holding his head at Matrim's utter stupidity. The young dark-lord simply followed in sheepish silence. They turned right, down a path he had never seen, and soon came upon a counter. A hissing electronic voice issued from somewhere in the general direction of the counter, "Villain Identification Number please."
"1-4-6-6-6-5-4-3," was Matrim's response. He knew that this would definitely not end well, but he didn't want to risk angering his boss further.
"Hand in your I-kill-fluffy-bunnies belt-buckle," was the monotone response. Matrim looked pleadingly at D-six, but found no sympathy there, only an impatient sort of silence, and a clear vibe of wanting to get the whole thing done and over with.
Matrim complied. As they walked along the corridor, he began to suspect something truly bad was going to happen. You see, they took away his personal space-time pocket, his destructo-ray, his stranded-villain kit, company-issue holophone, the very first candy he had stolen from a baby, and his electronic super-villain credentials. By the time they came to the cylindrical elevator, Matrim was praying that he was just fired and wasn't going to be transmogrified out of existence. It was not a unique fear, no, every ego-maniacal super-villain fears fading away from existence silently above all else.
D-six gestured to the elevator. "I expected a great deal from you Matrim. It's a pity that we will loose such a brilliant young mind today, but it would be a greater pity still if the SISSYS operatives went berserk and wiped us out. This world has no place for one who isn't content being a one-dimensional character stuck fighting an endless and pointless battle. You had *one* thing to take care of. How you didn't figure it out, I'll never know." The dark aura faded and a long swarthy face, blonde hair, a turned-up nose, and pale skin revealed themselves. "The fight between superheroes and super-villains is like Yin and Yang. One cannot exist without the other. We need each other."
Matrim was forced to step into the elevator at gunpoint. "I'm not disintegrating you. I'm sending you over to SISSYS headquarters. Supremo will collect you. There's no protocol for this kind of thing, but my actions here should preserve our way of life. Farewell apprentice."
D-six pressed the large red button, labelled do not press ever, of course. His last sight of Matrim was his terrified face disappearing down the tube. He looked forward to meeting XX-7 at home. He could use a hug. Yes, even super-villains need a hug sometimes!
Sadly, this is where we must leave D-six, the SISSYS and the league of supervillains. I leave the fate of poor Matrim up to your vivid imagination dear reader. | 51 | On their first day of super-villainy a rookie kills a hero, not knowing they just broke the biggest unspoken rule, they go to their boss to brag. | 93 |
The fog fell below him as he walked up the many stairs following a faint but definitely real light, as he came above the fog Elijah discovered that he was in fact in front of golden gates and was walking on clouds.
"Oh... for fucks sake... really?" thought Elijah, "This is just perfect, now somehow I have to figure out what to say to a fucking gate keeper. Looks like I was wrong about the whole Jesus thing, maybe being a good person actually lets you in after all."
A booming voice from the very clouds around him. "Hello young one" the feminine voice caught Elijah off guard, "Welcome to the beginning".
"Oh, hello. I don't see anyone. Are you an Angel hiding in the clouds"
"My dear, there are no Angels anymore. There haven't been for quite some time." the voice said with tangible pain in her voice. "They were all killed by the usurper."
"The usurper?" Elijah said, thinking this is impossible "Who is this Usurper that you speak of, I didn't even know Angels could die?"
"A trickster that even Loki and Set could not best." the voice rang out, now clearly angry, "He killed everyone, always thirsty for more power"
"Wait Loki, Set... those are Norse and Egyptian gods, don't tell they're real too!?"
"I am Tethys the last of the Titans, original rulers of Olympia before Zeus conquered Cronos many eons ago"
"This can't be!" Elijah now genuinely concerned, "How did this usurper get the best of all the gods?"
"He tricked us." Tethys spoke with solace from someone who had obviously lost so much, "Claimed that if we were to swear allegiance to him, he could bestow us with many gifts, gifts that were meant for those that created us. The temptation was too great for so many, but the gift was the ability to truly die"
"That's horrible! Where is the usurper now?" said Elijah now realizing that he could be in very real danger. "I'll stand up to fight!"
"He's far to strong for you, for anyone. Worst of it all is that you idiot humans continue to hold this monster to the highest regards" Tethys said, "I mean really? You thought that a god would help write a book? Throughout history there have been books of a god, but how many where more than epic stories about great heroes? He has manipulated so many humans away from the goodness within them."
"What? What are you saying?" Elijah spoke with a waning voice.
"The one that you call Yahweh." Tethys said, "Is the one that tricked the other gods to die."
Tethys then appeared before Elijah. She was formless with form, somehow a being whose body was in constant motion like the cloud around her, towering over Elijah he thought to himself, "This MUST be a dream, there's no way that I can be here, this is a bad dream, this is not real, I just hit my head too hard and now am in a..."
"Be calm child, there is nothing to fear here, here you are safe." Tethys' voice overpowered the mind and all thoughts of Elijah.
"But, why am I here? I never even heard of you so I clearly never worshiped you. Where does everyone go who worships Yahweh?" Elijah trembled as he considered the possibilities.
"You don't have to believe in the godess of the Earth Nieth to use her as your home, and yet you and everyone who has ever lived there does. You have never worshipped Ra, yet every day he is born and dies again to ensure the passing of time. Same is true for here, this is the home of the gods, the gathering of those who have left the mortal realm. Behind those gates are the humans who still remain." Tethys paused, knowing that the next knowledge would surely scar the poor young man in ways that she hadn't felt in eons. "Those who surrender their hearts to Yahweh have faced what used to impossible, they recieve the gift of death and their very essence is then absorbed by Yahweh. The problem is that with the influence that he has gained, he was able to influence a book and cause fanaticism that creates such a fear in so many that even if they were not followers of him in life, as they die they think about the promises of heaven and they surrender their heart to him."
"What? That... what does that even mean?" stammered Elijah barely able to keep his head.
"When there are enough entities on Olympus something... happens..." again Tethys paused, "When there are enough minds who think alike their essences combine into one and usually a new god is born with the attributes of those minds. Yahweh was an exceptionally powerful mind and turned this new god into an extension of himself." explained Tethys, "This ability allowed him to continue this process with an unlimited amount of other essences and so he continues to gain in power every day."
"but... I... can't.... "
"Go child, enter the gates and be safe. There are still many things you must do." | 16 | Elijah is brought up to heaven and realizes that God (YHWH) is the last remaining Olympian. | 23 |
"God, I am not going to ask you to bless mommy and daddy today, or Toby. You know Toby." Honey brown eyes shifted to the light brown bear resting on Emmalyn's pillow. "Sorry, Toby," she whispered, sidetracked for a moment. "He says it's okay, though. I asked him. Well, I guess I want to ask you something. I know that he's not very nice, but I think somewhere he has good in his heart. Just like Uncle Bobby." The brown-haired girl stopped for a moment to think about what was told to her about her mom's brother, not knowing what he truly was until she was years older. All she cared about was that he had died saving a child's life. "Good", even though he had been bad.
"I'd like for you to forgive the Devil. Everyone makes mistakes, it's how we learn from them that matters. At least Ms. Abernathe says so. If he is sorry and is good from now on, can't you find it in your heart to forgive him? He's been in time out for a really long time, and I know that your heart is even bigger than mine, much bigger!" She paused, looking behind her to make sure her parents didn't hear the loud ending to her sentence. Bed time was over thirty minutes ago, and she'd never stayed up late before. (Except on Christmas Eve when they opened presents!)
"God? I hope that you can hear me. I know people have much more important things to ask, but I promise I won't ask for a puppy anymore. Maybe I can trade my puppy for you to forgive him? I would like that a lot." Her knees were becoming sore, along with her hands that she had forced together in nervousness. "Okay.. well. Goodnight, God. I love you. Amen."
God looked down upon the young Emmalyn. He waved off all prayer requests, sitting in silence for what would be just over three hours for humans.
It was ten thousand years for God.
A child, not even seven years old, had requested for Him to forgive the Devil. That he's "been in time out for a really long time." The most stunning thing was that she was the only human to ever ask that of him. It was always requests for money, women, things that were sins of the earth. Yet, this little girl, pure of heart, asked the least selfish thing God had ever heard.
He called over one of his messengers and gave him a note, addressed to the Devil. | 48 | For the first time a human prays for forgiveness. Not for themselves, but for the Devil. Even God is surprised. | 63 |
I think I'm on like my twelfth superhero. This month, I mean. Holy crap, it's *nothing* like the comics! Seriously, these guys go down *easy*. The first two, I just got a lucky shot in, but the others...oh man, those were some Rube Goldberg-worthy deathtraps. Really takes a lot out of ya, putting all that together, but it's worth it just to see the looks on those do-gooders' faces when they realize, no, *they're* not the one who's gonna bring me in...
Do I worry about the future? Heck no. These guys sprout up every day. That's the upside of living in an age where physics just gave up: any random-ass lightning strike or cosmic ray or whatever gives me new rivals to put down. It's a bull market! They really do keep me on my toes.
In fact, I need a lunch break. Changing into my civilian identity, I let my fellow villains take the reigns for a little while. I can afford it. Not like *they're* about to match my kill count.
So I walk into the sandwich shop. Huge line of people ahead of me, but I know the owner. I holler at him to order my usual.
"Sorry bud; we're getting a bit short on heroes. After this rush I'm only gonna have paninis left."
God. *DAMMIT.*
Someone find me another super; I got some rage to vent. | 14 | Use the line "We're getting a bit short on heroes" any way you'd like. | 17 |
"I am the morning...I am the dawn...I am...MAN-MAN!" The small bat raised his arms in the air while standing on the floor of the cave. He stood proud and tall, his furry little body draped haphazardly with human flesh, or at least he thought it was human flesh. I mean it makes perfect sense that someone would leave human flesh lying around a dead pig, right?
"God fucking dammit Man-Man! Go back to sleep!" a chorus of discontent rolled through the would-be sleeping colony. "Look at him down there on the floor," they would say, "I think he has downs-syndrome," one bat jested. "We all know it's you Bats Wayne!" a lone voice finally called out.
"No! My identity! Quickly! To the Man House!" Man-Man quickly scurried off to his hideout where he sobbed lightly. Bats Wayne had always been a little off, but all he wanted to do was help. He decided quickly, "I may not be the hero Gotham Cave wants right now, but I am the hero they need!"
Man-Man spent the rest of his life fighting snakes and lizards on the floor of Gotham Cave, feeling very accomplished with every victory, regardless of the fact that the snakes and lizards never would have reached the sleeping residents on the ceiling of Gotham Cave in the first place.
Man-Man: The unwanted, unneeded hero of Gotham Cave.
| 12 | A bat who dresses up in human skin to protect his colony from evil. | 19 |
Melancholy
By Diego M.
I miss my mommy. I feel like it's been too long. Mommy said she'd pick me up after school. I don't remember much. Just waking up in this sunny field. The big man by the tree told me everything was gonna be alright. He was so tall, I couldn't even see his face cause the sun was in my eyes. He gave me a free big delicious apple then told me to keep walking. I didn't know where I was but he told me not to be afraid. He said everything was going to be just fine because nothing bad ever happened here. He said my mommy and all my family had to finish their job and that it might be a while. He said they were gonna come live with me soon and everything was going to be fine.
For a while I was sad cause I wasn't gonna see my mommy, daddy, joey, and my puppy Obama. That was until I saw my grandma and grandpa. They looked so happy and different. Maybe cause the last time I saw them was when I was 4 and that was 3 years ago. They were holding hands smiling and talking. Their faces weren't as wrinkled as the last time I saw them. They were wearing the same thing as me too. All white pants and shirts.
Sometimes I get tired of feeling like I'm dreaming and just want my mom to wake me up and take me home from school. The tall man assured me I wasn't sleeping, but in a happier place now. The last thing I remember was being in school. My teacher was so scared of the fireworks outside the hall that she hid us in a closet.
When I found my grandma and grandpa I ran to them. When they saw me I thought they would be happier. My grandma cried for just a little bit then gave me the biggest hug. They couldn't believe I was here they said. She told me she'd care for me till the rest of our family came to the big field with flowers.
Now that I'm in this big open sunny field I feel so happy and free everyday. I miss my family but I forget about them sometimes with all this fun I have with all the kids playing here. My grandparents make me so happy, they tell me stories about my mommy when she was a little girl like me and how when my family gets here we're gonna go swimming in the lake with the waterfall. They even let me keep Obama. I think he followed me to the field cause he was smelling a poodle's butt yesterday when I found him by the apple tree. There's so many puppies, kittens and pets here too and kids are always playing with them, It's one of my favorite things to do. It gets me so excited ever time just thinking of my family and how someday they're all gonna play with me and my puppy again.
Everyday I meet new friends. Everyday there's a new kid that comes to this field confused and scared but all the kids invite them to play after the tall man is done talking to them. The tall helpful man is always there to make them feel at home. He gives anyone that comes through those big shiny gates an apple. He talks to all of us here even my grandma and grandpa, he's really nice, loving and helpful. He reminds me of my dad which sometimes makes me miss him more. I miss my family so much but at least when I sleep I get to see them all.
I see my family when I sleep but they can't see or hear me. My mommy and daddy are home alone now with a new dog. I dream and I see Joey with a pretty blonde lady and two kids. When I lived with my parents Joey was young. He was going to a bigger school than me and he never talked to girls. The only girl he ever talked to was the blonde girl that lived next door.
In my dreams everyone looks older but happy. They haven't forgotten about me though. Mommy and daddy have my school photo by the fireplace still. Sometimes I hear mommy crying cause she misses me. I wish she knew that I was there with her crying. I wish she knew I missed her too. I wish she knew that everything was gonna be okay after she finished her job. I wish she knew that no matter how bad it gets I'll be watching them with grandma and grandpa. I wish she knew it was all gonna be okay once she made it to the big sunny field with the flowers. | 66 | Horror stories always feature death and sadness. Write something that makes me fear life and happiness. | 91 |
Looking back, I must admit my decision was made more out of desperation than innocent inspiration. I was not ignorant as to the chaotic rippling effects decisions of this magnitude were bound to, but I made my choice and there is no going back. To create a peoples that would long to create as I longed to create, teaching me as I taught them.
I thought they would make me feel less alone.
Music, Politics, Mathematics, Dance, Philosophy, Martial Arts, Painting, Sculpting. My children had exceeded my wildest expectations, their imaginations were truly more potent and active than mine had been in eons. My love for them had no bounds.
Sadly though, it seemed that the apple hadn't fallen far from the tree. I was forced to watch them grope towards eternity with conflicted souls, groaning in self condemnation and confusion, blind to the unfading and incorruptible beauty with which I had imbued inside each one of them, feeling alone in an ocean of love.
I made excuses, telling myself anything I could as to justify their existence; but after a millennium of self-denial I couldn't lie to myself anymore. It was wrong to create tormented beings just so I didn't have to suffer alone, and so I did what I needed to.
It took me awhile to settle on a proper method. It needed to be something both foreseeable and painless. Eventually I decided an oversized asteroid, large and traveling fast enough to destroy all life on contact would be fitting.
As the asteroid drew close to them something incredible happened, it's as if their inner conflict took a physical form on a global level. Many of them wept, some of them grew chaotic and perverse as their mind descended into forbidden channels.
But some of them did something beautiful.
Facing undeniable annihilation and an ancient unknown, they found refuge in the now. They gathered with their loved ones and breathed. Just breathed. Truly created in my image, they shared my highest and purest desire. Someone to breath with. It wasn't impossible after all.
I wept for days. Eventually I pulled myself together and began to embrace the schools of expression my creations had discovered. My paintings were coming along nicely, and though I wasn't a great mathematician I enjoyed trying to understand the abstract discipline.
However, I can't seem to help that I so often feel distracted. The memory of those children who sat with each other inside of a simple truth when faced with their annihilation feels too often like a haunted fantasy. I find myself now carrying this weight, conflicted as the memory seems to taunt me mercilessly, constantly reminding me of how alone I am. During my darker hours I often feel like a naïve fool for believing that things could ever be another way and wanted to release the memory from my mind completely and end the pain, to give up on my seemingly doomed quest. But I was better than that; the stars shined too bright to ignore. The truth of the matter was that the weight I carried was a blessed agony, because it reminded me of what was possible I had glimpsed had been real. There was hope.
I like to think the spirit of those enlightened children are still out there somewhere, looking down upon me and loving me, longing for me to make a heroes entrance into their house of stone and light. | 11 | You are a lonely god. | 18 |
"Well, of *course* He's real," said the alien through its voxbox, and flipped one tentacle in what I'd swear was a condescending way. "Everyone knows that. Are you really saying that your species *doesn't*?"
It took awhile, but in the end I think I managed to convey something of global mythology and theology - at least, the tentacle twitches seemed more thoughtful when I was done. "What a mess," said the alien finally. "Look, this ought to explain it," as three writhing tentacles tapped their way across the keyboard, activating the viewscreen.
"This is one of our most popular programmes," the alien said, "people like to tune in, to reminisce, to remember," as the screen view zoomed in on a figure nailed to a cross... I cannot visualize, now, the horror that I beheld; my eyes, my mind, rejected them from memory. But I will never forget the sound of the screams.
"He came to us, too, as He comes to all of His creations. But we were strong, and smart, and very, very lucky," said the alien softly. "We caught Him, and we captured Him, and to this day we hold Him captive - so that we, His creations, can know enlightenment, and peace." | 26 | Humanity's first encounter with aliens is with a devoutly religious species that insists it has scientifically proven God is real. | 28 |
"Please don't hurt yourself."
What the fuck? My cat had just told me not to kill myself. I staggered backwards, the echoes of that infinitely serene voice cascading throughout my head.
"Please, Michael. I love you."
It emanated from within my mind, but it was a distinctly foreign entity. Stitch strolled towards me and plopped onto the cold tiles. His luminous blue eyes stared into mine.
I was desperate. I was on the cusp of suicide. I was also probably delirious, hallucinating. Stitch can't do that. He can't speak to me. Animals can't do that.
"We can. Only in moments of crisis, if our love is true, may we break the barrier and communicate with humanity. But please don't worry about that, Michael. Worry about yourself. Think about why you are doing this."
So I did. The financial drawing-and-quartering that I was being subjected to; the disappointed family; the lack of direction in life. Those things thrown together into a boiling cauldron of self-hate had created a mixture made for death. And I was uncorking the vial, or damn close to it.
Stitch snaked between my legs, purring madly.
"Michael, life is terribly unfair and a monster that few can conquer. But you are doing such a great job. You are so brave, you have chosen to chase after your passion. The judgments of your loved ones will pass in time. Your problems with money will also fade. But your loss will not. You have so much good to do in this world, Michael. I can see it. You can, too, if you try hard enough."
He sat down at my feet; his icy eyes froze my soul and his gentle purrs thawed me, over and over. In those blurred moments of inner turmoil, I felt his limitless love. I felt the warmth and radiance of something so pure and boundless and universal. I felt his sweet touch.
I picked him up, draped him over my shoulder, and walked out of the bathroom sobbing like a child. The sun was rising in the east; brilliant, golden lights sang the house into a morning song of life and infinite futures.
| 20 | A man on the verge of self destruction yells to his reflection about his mistakes and failures. He turns to see his pet has entered the room, jokingly the man asks the animal what he should do next. To his surprise it answers him. | 25 |
"Finally," my principal said.
*Finally?*
"For a century this test had been implemented. Thousands, if not millions, of people have taken it. The brightest and the dimmest, the gentlest and the coarsest. I-"
Principal McGuire dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief; he was incredibly nervous. His near-panic state wasn't helping assuage my fleet of worries.
"Canton Fields, you are the first individual in one hundred years to fail the Final Equivalency Exam. And I am immensely proud of you. Have you ever wondered as to why it is called the 'Equivalency Exam', Canton?"
My thoughts tumbled as if they were in a clothes dryer. Reaching my hand into that chaotic place and snatching the first thought that fell into my hand, I stammered,
"N-not really, sir. But wh-"
Principal McGuire interjected.
"Shh, Canton. All will be revealed soon enough. I've not much time to explain to you what your failure means," he formed apostrophes with his fingers around the word 'failure', "but I believe I will manage."
He removed his ovoid glasses and folded them gingerly, placing them on his desk with trembling fingers. I looked towards my lap and at my hands; they matched his resonance. Our vibrating bodies could burrow into the ground if we continued.
"Canton, your failure is the first. And that makes you different. Different than every other human being that has received an education from the United Earth Government. You are probably an anxious, nervous wreck. I am too, as you can see. But I assure you, you are in no trouble, young friend. None at all."
My eyes met his, my hands gripped the armrests of the chair that I was drenching with sweat.
"You have failed a test that every human being is adept at, and that elevates you above everyone else. This test was designed to single out the one person who could rise above the masses, who could be so vastly different that they would stand alone. Land guides the river, Canton. An island parts the flow. You are that island, Canton."
He made no sense. Absolutely none. I was desperate to ask questions, but every attempt to raise my hand or voice was met with a "shh".
Principal McGuire looked out of the window, past the trees and cars and into the horizon.
"This is confusing, for you and I both. I had never imagined that I would be the one to meet th-"
His voice trailed off and his eyes spoke of a mind that was far away.
He snapped his gaze back to mine.
"My apologies," he said after clearing his throat.
He made to begin speaking again, but the hum of a flotilla of vehicles emerged within our hearing range.
My eyes bore into him, beseeching an answer. He smiled feebly.
"**What is going on?! Tell me, PLEASE!**"
I then saw numerous cars of varying shapes and sizes glide into the parking lot. In the distance, helicopters sliced through the air towards the school. Towards me.
Principal McGuire stood up, swallowed hard, and emitted a trembling voice,
"Canton, your destiny awaits."
He strode to the door and opened it. | 48 | An examination given to all high school seniors is notorious for being incredibly easy. One day, after the examination, you are called to the principal's office. For the first time in 100 years someone failed. It's you. | 42 |
So, you're from before the break. Well, that's quite the something. Where'd you say you were from again?
Ah, that's right. You'd be an Atlantean now. Sorry, that's north Atlantic for you. Everything from what used to be your Maryland or Virginia, can't really remember which now, all the way up to Maine, From the Atlantic to the great lakes. Don't let the name fool you, you don't have half as much mythology as you do technology and industry. Great industrial capital actually. Lots of jobs, and just enough farming to keep the country self sustaining. Picked up some of former Canada as well. Mostly border stuff, but almost all of Nova Scotia and New Brunswick. Quebec got the rest of the Eastern part.
Guess you'll be wanting to know about the rest of the country as well. The south got what they wanted, they're known as the Confederated States again. Picked up their old flag as well. Virginia down to Florida and all the way to the Mississippi. Big agricultural area, but a little backwards. Christian nation now. Almost as fanatical as the Middle East. Strictest laws of any of the North American countries. But also the fastest growing, population wise. And they have plenty of work for them too. Took them a little while, but they found they can keep people happy and busy by building things, then tearing it down and building something else. Low crime rate, but damned if you want to get a drink.
The former Midwest is called big sky country. West of the lakes and east of the Rockies, North of Texas (the country, not the former state), and south of the Inuit territory is actually called Big Sky. Everyone thought it was a joke at first, but they kept it and ran with it. Turns out all that flat land is good for transportation. Every rail that used to cross your country got fitted for high speed rail travel. It's only a matter of hours to cross Big Sky. They make their money exporting energy and travel. Lot of farm land. lot of energy farms. And boy can they innovate. If they weren't so scientifically minded, they'd give Pacifica a run for their money in the tech trade. If you ask me, Big Sky could easily take any of the other 4 countries in a day.
What? Texas? Yeah, they took Oklahoma, New Mexico, Arizona, and a lot of old Mexico and the Caribbean too. Brush up on your Spanish if you want to visit them. They're unified now, but really, it's just one big cartel running the whole mob. Legitimately, but just as severe. And with your complexion . . . well, just keep your travelling . . . anyway, don't worry about Texas, they're working on taking over the rest of the Yucatan and the isthmus.
Pacifica is another story. Visit them the first chance you get. It's a beautiful country. West of the Rockies, you have Silicon Valley, Napa Valley, and everything in between. Technology is king there. And if tech is king, then Wine and dine is queen. High life lives out there. From the Baja peninsula through former British Columbia up to Alaska. Great fishing fleet, and a navy too. All corporate controlled too. Pacifica is one great big business, and they'll do business with anyone. Hell of a CEO they got.
What? No, they don't have Hawaii anymore. They joined with the other Pacific Islands as an independent Empire. That's a contradiction of terms. But Pacifica is second to the Island Empire in the Pacific, so that's not going to change.
Heh, yeah, Europe all joined together, and we fell to pieces. But I'll tell ya. They pieces work better by themselves than they ever did together.
That's all for tonight though, you want more of a history lesson, you can ask me tomorrow. | 16 | 200 years from now the United States has split into 5 separate countries. Describe them. | 23 |
She came to us when we needed her the most, when all that remained of the blue marble was a withered husk of a planet. We drained Mother Earth dry, and in doing so doomed us to a sandy and dusty grave. Our civilizations crumbled into dust.
But then, she appeared. Where lonely Luna once was, came eager Europa to the rescue. It was as if the universe itself was sending a sign, giving Earth a second chance at redemption.
We of course wondered how such a miracle was even physically possible, a celestial swapping of unimaginable proportions. But a starving man would rather fill his mouth with food than waste it on pointless musing. The frosty moon was already starting to thaw, and humanity wasted no time planning how to transport the precious blue gold from planetoid to planet.
We were wrong though. Europa did not come to aid us, she came to escape. And we will pay the price for taking her in. He is coming, coming back to claim what is his. The white bull charges towards us, with no escape in sight. We can only beg his mercy and forgiveness, crying up to the heavens as we are extinguished:
Jupiter. | 10 | Humanity awakens one day to find that Earth's Moon has been swapped with Jupiter's moon Europa. The ice begins to thaw.. | 26 |
This little girl was something special to me. I had been there the night her mother and brother had been brutally killed by bandits whilst on the way to visit her grandmother. While their cart burned, a white bundle had laid on the ground and I ventured out to sniff it, then turned it over to reveal a small human inside. She couldn't have been more than five months old, and her silent gazing gray eyes met mine, and my heart slammed in my chest as a sudden desire to protect her washed over me.
Gently I scooped her up into my arms, my massive paws masking her body away from the fire and carnage that lay before me. This path only led to one lonely cabin in the woods and I knew that was where they had been headed. Cradling her from the winter frost, letting my fur warm her, I made the first mistake.
I set her on the door step gently, and fashioned the blanket over her head so as to protect her from the harsh cold, and I slammed my paw on the door hard as I could, then turned and vanished into the bushes to watch from afar.
The door opened and an old woman stepped out with a candle. "What in the damned hell is this?" a chill shot down my spine as this old woman reached down and picked the child up roughly. "How in the hell did you make it here? Where in the hell are your good for nothing parents?"
A soft whimper escaped my throat and the elder's gaze sharply shot towards my hiding spot, and I quickly slipped backwards into the shadows. Then I turned and fled away.
At first I would visit weekly. I peeked into the windows to look at the young girl, but the grandmother caught on to me and bought herself an ax and a cheap musket and I had to duck away again, and minimize my visits to months, and eventually only every few months. I watched her grow up, slowly but surely.
She was beautiful. Her hair had come in a deep crimson red, her face full of youth and curiosity, with big gray eyes, carefully placed freckles, and her smile was wide and bright, though rarely seen. Her beauty was tarnished by her skinny, gaunt frame. Her ribs stuck out through her undersized clothing, and her old baby blanket had been fashioned into a cape with a little hood. The damned old women couldn't even be bothered to get her new clothes, especially after her ninth winter with her. But perhaps the most disturbing thing, was that her white baby blanket, was growing into a deeper red color. Sometimes fresh and bright... but sometimes darker brown.
I did what I could for her during these times. I hid meat for her by her bed from my own hunts,--and herbs to stave off infection from the lashes her grandmother gave her. I desperately wanted to take her back from this hell I had put her in, but I had resigned to the fact that while she given a sadistic daily torture routine, the cabin was still warmer than my cave would ever be.
It was one of these days where I was trekking back with meat in my arms, when I stopped as a soft sobbing filled my head. One that I recognized. Dropping my hand full, I remember the fear I felt as I took off, running towards the house. I stopped dead on the outskirts of woods to look and see what was going on. And a familiar scent touched my nose.
Oh no.
The bandits were parked outside of the little cabin in their own carts. I felt my heart beat on my throat as I glanced over at the grandmother and found my little girl bound at the wrist and I listened into the conversation that they were having.
"Ten years ago, you messed up the simple task I told you to do. All you had to do was kill the whole family, so that I can inherit it. But you know what? I spent a lot of money taking care of your mistake."
"Yeah? What of it? You want a refund or something?"
"Oh no. Quite contrary. I want you to buy her off me. I hear her kind go well in that kind of market."
"Ohoho. Now we're talking. What kind of deal are you asking for?"
The grandmother's gaze cut to the shadows I was basking in, and she smiled with this sinister smile. "I want that wolf dead".
"Oh shit!" I exclaimed loudly as I dove forward, darting at the girl on all fours. She screamed and I watched a fresh new bright red stain soak into her cloak as I scooped her up and ran as fast as I could. Before long I had made it to my cave and set the young girl down where she lay whimpering softly. I gently lifted up her cloak and finally saw all the scars for the first time... and right in the middle of her back, one wide split which was pumping out blood like crazy.
I frowned a bit, and stroked her red head. "I'm sorry little one. But I must do this." I leaned down and took her little arm, and, as gently as I could, sunk my teeth into it. "Your body will rebuild itself when you transform... and you will survive, as my only daughter....no, my only family."
I watched the bandits walk up the hill, grandmother in tow, and I felt the fur on my back fluff up. My mother is a monster, and my wife and son are gone, but my little Red... I will save her. Even if she must suffer my curse.
(edited some typos. It was five in the morning when I wrote this, haha) | 18 | A version of little red riding hood where the grandma is evil, and the wolf saves her. | 36 |
"Dave, Dave! Come on you've gotta come see the psychic!"
I suppressed a sigh, Lewis was a born sucker - but its his party and I don't want to be a buzz kill. *"Sure, lead on - where is he?"*
*"She's right here"*, he replied emphasizing the psychics' gender as he led me half way across the house. *"You'll be amazed, Madame Swami's the read deal, she predicted I'd have health issues three days before I had that medical emergency"*
I bit back a retort, at his weight it was a wonder his heart had lasted for as long as it did. Madame Swami I ask you, she might as well have called herself Madame Crystal Gazer the Clairvoyant.
We turn in to the kitchen and I see that she's set up a sequin covered booth in-between the fridge and microwave. She herself is unmistakeable, a short, pale and somewhat plain brunette dressed up in enough bright silk to coat... well Lewis.
*"Hello dearie"*, she calls out in what must be her best old gypsy impression, it doesn't really work coming from a twenty something. *"Here to have your fortune told?"*, she continues - punctuating her sentences with a couple odd cackles.
*"How ever could you tell?"*, I ask sitting down across from her.
She pours out two cups of tea, and passes me one, *"Drink this in one go."*
My unwillingness to drink some random herb tea must've been showing on my face because she soon added -in a decidedly British accent, *"Don't worry it's just Lipton instant tea. It's not the tea that matters only the shape of the stain."*
This woman was clearly a charlatan, she couldn't even keep up her affected accent.
I shotgun the tea, and hand back the cup. Taking back the cup I see a worried look cross her face for a few seconds.
She stares at the cup in silence for a few minutes, various emotions flickering across her face. One moment she appears anxious and worried, then she begins to say something - but stops and goes back to looking anxious again. I actually begin worrying a little myself, what if she is actually somewhat psychic, perhaps behind all the theater she might actually see something happening to me.
Just as I'm about to ask her what she saw, she asks Lewis to step outside for a moment so she can have a private word with me.
I'm counting every second as Lewis reluctantly leaves his kitchen, anxious - what will she say, what's going to happen that's so bad it has to be private. I'm normally a proud skeptic but at that moment she could have said that the world would end next weekend and I'd have believed her.
As he finally passed through the door she turned to me and whispered, *"I don't mean to embarrass you but when you drank the cup of tea some of it spilled."*
*"Spilled?"*, I ask - suddenly confused.
*"Just a little bit, but it spilled there - and it looks a little like you've wet yourself"*, she continues blushing with embarrassment as she pointed down towards my side of the table.
I look down and she's right. | 69 | At a party, a skeptic reluctantly takes a reading from a psychic hired to entertain. The psychic looks more and more troubled as the reading continues, and finally asks the skeptic if they can speak in private. | 80 |
"You are all in my world now." Blackheart stood on the balcony and looked out over the many people chained up in his prison. "Supers? Hah. Not one of you stood a chance against me, and now I have you all in my control." He smirked, and motioned to his minions. Two guards dragged in one of the prisoners. "Ah, Meldern the Invincible. My dear friend. It seems that even our rivalry has to come to an end at some point. Bring him to the execution room. He will be the first." Blackheart walked out of the room with the guards dragging his victim behind him. The guards returned to their patrol routes, leaving a minute few behind to guard the prisoners. Suddenly, a large explosion went off next to one of the guards and two men burst into the room.
"Relax guys, It's us! Domino and Detonate! We've come to save all you supers and get you out of here!" The guards started firing their guns at the two new supers. Domino plunged his arm into the ground, summoning a giant wall of earth to protect them. Detonate pulled off a small part of the wall, and threw it at the guards, the pieces of earth exploding on contact. "Luma! Get in here!" A timid man wandered into the room from the hole in the wall. "We need you to scout ahead. Find Blackheart."
"Wouldn't one of you be better? Detonate can turn any material explosive, and you have control over earth. My powers are too weak if I get caught." Domino looked annoyed.
"As you can see, we are quite busy here. Just go!" Luma could see Domino struggling to keep the wall up while Detonate was keeping up the offensive. Luma knew he had no choice.
"As you can see my friend, this device is quite handy in eliminating supers. When my powers combine with the machine, any super I target will be no more. And you will be the first to enjoy it's effects." Blackheart climbed into the machine. It was circular, a couple of anti-gravity rings that encircled each other. The machine started spinning around Blackheart. "And now, you die." A small shadow of black energy formed in front of the machine, slowly making its way towards Meldern. As the shadow was about to touch the super, Blackheart sneezed, accidentally triggering the off switch on the device. This made the shadowy energy go crazy, and bounce all over the room till it found a target. Blackheart could feel the dark energy slowly engulfing his body. "No! Not the darkness! Anything but the darkness! Please, help me! Stop, stop, stooooo-" The shadows consumed his body completely before dissipating, leaving nothing left. The guards, with the defeat of their master, ran from the room. Luma crept out of his hiding place to help Meldern free from his bindings.
"Well done, kid. You defeated Blackheart. How did you manage to do what hundreds of other supers could not?" Luma blushed and looked away.
"I have the ability to make people sneeze." | 20 | You are one of the many "supers" in a world where other supers possess incredible powers. You however have the most laughably pathetic powers out of all of them. But one day you somehow manage to defeat the big-bad of all the super villain world, Blackheart the Deatheater. What happened? | 16 |
The man stopped.
It was a busy day, with crowds of people streaming along the sidewalks. The man became immobile, a sudden obstruction in the flow of traffic. People dodge around him like water around a rock in a river, all the while muttering into cellphones, thousands of minds on autopilot while they obsess over work, food, love, books and media.
He remembers everything. He looks around, maybe for the first real time in his life.
A chick in a nearby nest chirps noisily, calling for food. The mother bird, sleek black feathers flashing flies into the lush green tree, delivering food to its young. Below the tree, people sit, laughing and chatting as they eat their lunches. A golden sun shines down from an azure blue sky, brilliant white clouds visible down a glass canyon.
A woman walks by with an iPod. Although she has earbuds in, the man still hears the crescendo of a symphony. Swivelling, he sees a shop, TVs and electronic wares on display. Advertising the latest and greatest in mega-definition television, one shows a family of lions in Africa, nearly obscured by a watermark for the documentary program.
Next to the electronics store is a travel agency, and smiling models wave at him from white beaches next to blue waters under cloudless skies. Magnificent mountain ranges nearly listed and labelled next to vistas of desolate sands and deep green fjords.
Memories thundered through the man. A childhood with loving parents. A sister. A brother. The simple joy of a pet dog. School and college. His first love, first kiss. The agonising trauma of a breakup. His work, colleagues and friends. Art, music, history and current events.
A planet of beauty, vibrancy and life. Of infinite variety in infinite combinations. All of overwhelmingly human. And the abrupt twisting realization that he…is not.
The man stumbles down the road, in a sort of dazed state. Irritated pedestrians note him in exasperation. Others shy back as he desperately looks into their eyes, searching for something, some sign that he isn’t the only one.
He lurches out into traffic, causing the screech of brakes as cars halt and irate drivers curse at him. Their voices are just noise, because they too seem oblivious.
Two policemen, responding to the commotion approach. Possible drunk and disorderly. The man seems sober enough, but after a brief haunted look, dismisses the officers. They don’t take kindly to this and escort the man off the road. He doesn’t smell like drink, but he doesn’t seem quite right either. One radios for an ambulance – potential escaped mental patient.
The man looks up at a brilliant billboard. It’s another travel one, showing the Earth rising over the moon, with the tagline “Discover amazing new places and see incredible new sights”. And the man begins to sob uncontrollably.
One of the officers leans in to hear what the man is saying. It’s the same thing, over and over and over again.
“*We’re sorry, oh, we are so, so sorry. We never knew. We’re sorry…*”
The officer stands back up, intending to ask dispatch for an ETA on the ambulance, when a shadow falls across the plaza. The policemen look up. Pedestrians look up. Cars slow and stop as their drivers look up.
And see the squat black forms of extra-terrestrial vessels descending. Across the entire planet, tens of millions of blocky shapes erupt out of nothingness to obstruct the skies. Light flickers on them as the beams begin their deadly harvest.
-----
Overlord Sevvis of the Fifth Resource Extraction fleet didn’t even bother to turn the viewscreen on. This planet was just one more on the list generated at headquarters. They were all the same anyway. Dead rocks whose metals and minerals would be better off serving the glory of the First Empire.
“Overlord. We’re getting a lot of biomass in the harvesting. Do you want me to override the safeties?
Sevvis grunted. Protocol required that he must cease harvest and investigate anomalous readings. But the fleet was running behind schedule, and the biosensors were notorious for tripping at the slightest hint of a single carbon and hydrogen molecule in close proximity, let alone an actual solitary hydrocarbon.
“Underseer. We are the Fifth Resource Extraction Fleet. Our endeavours feed the war manufactories of the First Empire. We do not stop for stray carbon molecules. Override the safeties”
“Overridden. Harvest is at one-twelfth.”
Three full bells into the next watch-shift, with the remains of the planet being siphoned through the hypergates to the foundries at Gthan-6, Sevvis was abruptly woken in his cabin. He speared a pseudo-pod out to turn the lamp on, somehow aware of an alien presence in his room.
The creature was small. It had two spindly limbs at the top of a barrel-like torso. A head of sorts sat on top of the torso, with two eyes, and a mouth. Long strands covered its top. The being wore a white covering of some sort.
It spoke, but Sevvis couldn’t understand what it was saying.
Despite its alien shape and words, the tone was clear enough.
Loss. Anger. Fury.
As the thing gesticulated wildly, Sevvis felt the entire universe twisting around him. And the words of the alien came through for a microsecond – more of an impression than an actual communication.
“*Forget who you are. Understand what you destroyed.*”
------
Sevvis came back to his senses slowly. Something was wrong. He felt far lighter than he should. His tentacles wouldn’t respond properly. His vision was sharper than normal. And he wasn’t in his cabin. But he was moving. Aliens streamed past on all sides, and Sevvis froze in shock.
One man, on a busy city street. Stopped. As pedestrians streamed past him.
| 29 | After a traumatic event, an alien race is forced to wipe their memory and have all their citizens reborn as human beings. One of these humans, well into his life, suddenly remembers everything. | 42 |
Anderson saw Clark enter the room, and swallowed. He wouldn't like what he heard. He wouldn't like it at all.
"We've finally translated it, sir," said Anderson. "You can listen to the live transmission right now...uhm, there might be some delay whilst the device translates it into English. But you can listen."
Clark grinned despite the exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him. Images of himself receiving the Nobel Prize to thunderous applause swam through his head. He willed them away. It wasn't time to celebrate yet.
"Let me hear it," he grabbed the headphones from Anderson and jammed it on his head, his hands trembling.
There was a brief pause before he heard the words, a high-pitched, warbling sound. But perfectly understandable English. They were the first institution to successfully translate the strange language discovered five years ago - he was experiencing a historic moment.
"What I miss?" he heard something say. Watching the monitor, Clark could see the star speaking was Procyon.
"Oh, nothing much. They're fighting in the Middle East again." The answer came from Sirius.
"I don't want to hear about the wars, you know that," Procyon said, sounding annoyed. "Bores me to tears." Despite the distances, they seemed to be able to communicate perfectly. Like some bizarre celestial whale song, Clark thought to himself, mesmerized by the exchange.
"Just wake Sunny for me, will you? I want to hear about the game," said Procyon. "You know I can't see the details myself. Going fricken blind, I'm telling you."
"Why do you *care* about that?" said Sirius. He sounded annoyed. "Bunch of dots kicking a smaller dot about. And knowing Sunny, he'll tell you the wrong outcome too, you know he hates anyone showing an interest in his planet."
"Elitist asshole," muttered Procyon. "Just because he's the only one with life near him...he doesn't own them! The fool could've made a killing setting it up so we can all see clearly what happens. But no, instead we rely on whatever we can see from this distance, and word of mouth from everything closest to it. It's not fair."
There was a brief silence before Sirius spoke again.
"You know they found another life planet? Why don't we tune into that? I've heard the star there set it up so everyone can watch."
"Please. Just a bunch of slugs, still," Procyon said gloomily. "I'd rather watch the war on Earth than that. And personally I'm waiting for Sunny to do it, he might decide to go any moment now. Haven't seen a self-inflicted supernova for a while. Should be good."
Sirius made a screeching noise that sounded vaguely like a shocked gasp.
"You're messed up, you know that? I mean, we should probably try to stop the whole thing...I know he talks about it like he's looking forward to it, but it's a bit grim, don't you think?"
"I won't miss him," said Procyon, and added, "or his crackpot theories about what will happen after his explosion. You know he told Betelgeuse he thinks he'll be reborn as some sort of...star overlord? A few extra planets and a sprinkle of intelligent life, and he thinks he's the center of the universe. The guy's a nutjob."
"And the humans? There have been some good bits," said Sirius. "Remember when they landed on their moon? That was pretty exciting, right? Maybe they'll do something like that again. Swing by our way, maybe..."
"I don't know, man," sighed Procyon. "I really can't stand Sunny. Can you imagine how smug he'll be if they ever figure out interstellar space travel? We'll never hear the end of it. No, I think I'd like to see him blow himself up, that'd be more exciting than the moon landing." There was a brief silence before Sirius made a ghastly noise that might have been a chuckle.
"Maybe you're right. They're bound to find a more exciting life planet soon, anyway. Remember the Greklings? Best sense of fashion in the multiverse, those guys. Made nice spacecraft, too."
"I slept through the best part of their civilization," said Procyon. "You'll wake me up if something like that turns up again and I'm asleep, right?"
"Sure," said Sirius. "We weren't friends back then, remember? I'll definitely wake you up next time, though. I heard Alpha Centauri has some footage of the Grekling times, I'll ask her for them."
They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Clark removed the headphones with numbed fingers and stared at Anderson.
"We need to work on the device," he whispered. "We need to contact the sun." | 77 | A new communication device discovers that stars are sentient beings, and they endlessly gossip about humanity because we're their version of an entertaining TV show. | 98 |
I coughed a little, nearly choking on the soda she had given me. "I... beg your pardon? You said... twins?"
"Well, yes, of course," she responded with a furrowed brow. "I gave birth to two boys."
"I... believe you are mistaken," I said, slowly. "You see, I am one of three, I am a triplet."
She gave me a blank stare, a stare my brothers had given me before, and surely I them; it was like looking into a mirror. "I only gave birth to two. I remember that quite well." She popped open an orange container with some white pills in them, took two pills, and glugged them down with her soda.
I had planned this out in my head. I wanted to meet her, to ask her why she gave us up, how she could give away three babies, three healthy boys. But I hadn't been prepared for something like this. "P...perhaps you are mistaken?"
"I am not mistaken," she said, staring me down. This woman, my biological mother, was dressed in neatly in a blazer and a button down shirt with black dress pants. A business woman of some sort, educated. In another situation, I might have dissected her home's furnishings and her dress and behavior to determine why she abandoned us. But this was too jarring. "I was pregnant with three boys, but I gave birth to two."
"So for the third you had a C-section or something, right?"
"No, no. In my second trimester, the third one was absorbed or something. Vanishing twin syndrome. I only gave birth to two babies. And they were taken away from me immediately after for foster care. Something about me being an unfit parent due to being mentally unfit. Doesn't really matter anymore, does it?"
"But... but I have a second brother. There are three of us." My mind reeled.
"Maybe you need these more than I do," she remarked, shaking the orange pill container. | 88 | As far as you remember, you have grown up in foster care with your other two identical triplet siblings. But now you have tracked down your birth mother, and discover she only gave birth to twins. | 210 |
Joe.
Described as a pretty average bloke, he goes to work on time, goes to lunch on time and leaves work at the appropriate time. He eats sausage and mash at the same time every day, and if there is a change he sees it as pretty insignificant. Even if Joe would say otherwise he has friends, not particularly good friends, but friends none the less. He's just like the rest really, the passage of time will wear him down to a wrinkly corpse and the world will pass on like he never existed. Joe hated this. Everyday he hated himself and everyone in the world for this awful cycle.
But then....
The doorbell rang.
Raptor stood there impatiently as ever. He started biting his finger nails and reciting the periodic table and stopped as soon as the door swung open.
"Hey." Said Joe.
"Oh hey, can I come in?" Raptor asked.
"He....excuse me?"
"Why thank you." Raptor said as he slid past Joe in the doorway.
Joe walked into his living room to find the man in the raggedy suit sitting in on the couch eating an apple that looked a few days old.
"Um...." Joe said.
"Yes?"
"Why did you just walk in to my house?"
Raptor looked at him in confusion. "Because this is my house?"
Joe was about to deflate the strange man's lie when the door bell rang again. Joe turned towards the door and something grabbed his hand.
"Don't answer it." The strange man said.
Joe pulled his hand away from him and glared at him. "Why?"
The constant ringing of the door bell suddenly became a bashing of fists.
"Joe, open the door!" A woman from outside shouted.
Joe felt something drop in his stomach, like his body was telling him that they recognize that voice. Joe knew he did too, but from where was still a mystery. Joe continued to walk towards the door.
"Your name is Joe, right? Look, Joe, don't answer the door." Raptor said.
"Why?"
The bashing became harder and more frequent. "Open the door, Joe!" Another voice shouted. Joe suddenly felt very ill, almost like he was going to throw up on the spot. The banging continued through his retching.
"Tell me why I shouldn't open it, now." Joe said as he started holding his stomach.
"They want me for something I didn't do, it was a misunderstanding-"
"Joe, for the love of god open the door!" The first voice said.
"I'll be there in a minute!" Joe shouted back. Although it didn't stop the continuous banging.
"Look, Joey. You can't give me up to those guys, I'm your buddy, right?"
"We've known each other for a minute."
"Well, it's still enough time to get to know a guy-"
"JOE!" The voice interrupted.
"Alright! Christ, I'm coming." Joe said as he started walking towards the door.
"Joe." Raptor said. "I'll pay you not to give me up, I'll beg, I'll do anything! Please, please, PLEASE!"
"Raptor! Shut up!"
Just before Joe turned around to the door he noticed something alien. Raptors face. It looked pale and still. It was only when he put his hand on the door handle he noticed what he just said. He suddenly spun back around to see Raptor had just kept the same facial expression.
"I'm sorry...I'm...I'm not sure why I called you that." Joe said, trying to convince himself more than Raptor.
"Dear god.....You're him." Raptor said as he took a few steps back.
"I'm who?" Joe asked as he realized that the banging stopped. He glanced back towards the door to see the figures that were once outside now gone.
"This is bad. We're gonna have to leave, they'll be back shortly." Raptor said as he walked towards Joe's kitchen.
Joe followed him. "What do you mean? Like run away?"
"Exactly that." Raptor said as he began putting food from the cupboards in his pockets. "I know this'll be hard to do, but you're gonna have to leave everything behind, your job, your friends, your family, even your house. I'm so sorry but it has to be."
Joe tried to contain his smile. "Well alright then." | 15 | “No new horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace.” ― H.P. Lovecraft | 53 |
"Didn't we just get rid of you?"
He looks at me smiling. The look on my face must have been dire. His smile drops and he lowers his eyes to my hands, cuffed together with standard issue stainless steel handcuffs.
Detective Clayman comes up behind me, grabbing me by the elbow.
"This way, detective." I give a small shrug and let my eyes fall to the floor. My partner's mouth is open. I'll have so much to explain, if given the chance.
We enter the small interrogation room. I've been in here before, many times. This time it seems smaller, and more claustrophobic. There are no one-way mirrors in this room, just a small camera in the corner.
I lean against the table as Detective Clayman closes the door. He pulls the small shade over the window to the hall.
I sigh, and turn to sit. He walks over to the video camera and unplugs the feed cable. My stomach flips as anxiety begins to grow.
He puts both hands on the table and leans toward me.
"Ready?"
I nod. He moves around the side of the table, pulling keys from his pocket. Moving fast, he uncuffs me, and takes off his jacket. Underneath, he's wearing a small backpack.
He removes it and lays it on the table. I climb up, and remove a ceiling tile, careful not to make too much noise. He passes me a drill, a set of tubing, and blackout visor. I jump up into the ceiling, and he walks to the door to check the hall way.
I get into position. Looking behind me, I see him give the thumbs up. I check my watch. 30 seconds.
After a painful wait, I hear the roar of the building HVAC. Using this as cover, I connect the tubes to the drill and point it at the concrete over my head. I kick on the drill.
Water begins to flow through the tubes, keeping the drill head cool and dampening the sound. Every fiber of every muscle is driving behind the drill, attempting to make it move more quickly.
Finally, the concrete gives and I hit steel. I pull back the drill, casting a glance over my shoulder. Detective Clayman stands at the door, unmoving. I quickly switch drill bits and attack the steel.
After what seems like an hour, the drill bit wrenches. I've made it through. I kick off the drill and check my watch. As I do, the HVAC kicks off.
*Just in time,* I think to myself. I look down, water is all over the floor. Looking up, I can see the hole in the steel is just big enough for my hand.
Snapping my fingers, I lower the drill and tubing down. Clayman grabs it, and I click my flashlight on, setting it between my teeth. I can hear voices.
Clayman moves to the door as the handle opens. I freeze.
"Hey, what do you need." Clayman's voice is tight with fear.
"Clayman, what's the deal man, is that--" a voice on the other side. Sounds like my partner.
"Yeah, yeah, give me time man. I'll explain everything." Clayman pushes the door close and locks it.
I sigh. I hear Clayman under me.
"Quick, man." He sounds scared.
I reach my hand up and into the hole, trying to illuminate it with my flashlight. Reaching around, I finally feel it. A small container, about the length of half a shoe box, yet thin enough to fit through the hole.
Grabbing it, I pull it through and drop it down to Clayman. He begins packing up. I drop down onto the table, and move to the floor. I pick up my jacket and being mopping up most of the water.
"Forget it," Clayman says, and points to the ceiling tile. I jump back up on the table and replace it.
"Hey, come on, time to go." Clayman tosses me the cuffs. I put them on, and he grabs me by my elbow.
Opening the door, he yells, "Let's go!" and jerks me into the hall way.
He slams the door behind him and drags me by the elbow through the hall and into the lobby.
Friends, colleagues, people I didn't even know all looked at us as we passed. No one said anything.
We exit the lobby and stand on the sidewalk. I look down and see water all over me. How no one noticed, I'll never know.
We move to cross the street, where a car is parked. Clayman opens the rear passenger door, and pushes me toward it. I take one last look.
The police station windows are filled with cops, watching us. I can't help but grin a little as I look up.
The jeweler above the station isn't open for another 30 minutes. Every window is filled with employees.
They all watch as we pull away from the curb, a $3M diamond tucked neatly in the backpack of Detective Clayman. | 15 | After 30 years of exemplary service on the force you retire. The day after your retirement party you are back at the station. Your former partner jokingly says "Didn't we just get rid of you?" before he notices you are in handcuffs and are being quickly ushered into an interrogation room. | 18 |
This was my life's work. I'd been dismissed and told to keep nauticoexploration as a hobby, and I listened for the most part. People weren't really shocked when they found out I had been taking on all those DIY projects to learn how to build a super deep sea camera. Nobody really took it seriously, they just saw it as a hobby tool, not the mind blowingly difficult project that it actually had been. Launch day was a slow day like pretty much any other weekend I took from the oil fields. The cameras on the machine were highly sensitive, enough so that the only reliable read out on the monitors came from from the depth and pressure sensors. It wasn't until my undersea "probe" had gotten to a few hundred yards down that it was finally able to pick up any usable images. At this point I was excited enough that the cameras and body of the probe itself had survived a dive for this long, but I knew I'd have to find just how deep it would go before it suffered any failures from the pressure if I wanted to see anything that was genuinely interesting.
The feeds were still running fine, all were receiving transmissions with no interruption and the water was practically as clear as glass. I had to hand it to those environmentalists, the second they get aggressive, they get results. The water should have been getting darker, but the cameras and lights on the probe were enough of a beacon that light levels were more than nominal, even at ever increasing depths. I still hadn't seen anything on the monitors, but this hobby had taught me a ridiculous amount of patience with anything that had to do with these instruments. I had been traipsing around for a few hours, marveling at fish and animals that had gotten bold and curious enough to come inspect their new robotic neighbor. It had been a successful launch day, and the probe had taken a beating that would be expected from tiny curious fish.
Over the course of the next few months I continued to explore the coastline near my home, mapping and archiving everything I come across that seems interesting or unfamiliar. I run into fish that I'd never known existed in this part of the world, and even found a few vents that displayed some very unusual coloration, though I found that the color came from the chemical content of the gas that the tubes ejected. These few months were some of the best months of my life, but probably the most annoying of some of my friends. I don't remember the last time I was so excited to talk about anything and everything about a hobby. Writing had never really taken off, painting was a bust, sculpting was more of a passing fancy, but undersea exploration had stayed and I had kept with it out of sheer passion.
After three years I had already begun chartering boats to take me and my probe further and further out to launch, which meant that each expedition was costing me more and more as their frequency increased. That meant that I was taking fewer, but longer expeditions. A few hours on the beach turned into a few days on a boat or a ship when I could afford it. The few captain's I had appealed to for my first major expeditions had all been skeptical, but had come over to my side after seeing what I could pick up with my probe. Chartering the *Fair Weather Lass* had taken some time since I didn't actually know the captain as well as I knew the captain's of *Fall Away* and *Beatrice's Folly*, though we did eventually come to an agreement. The day we left was bright, clear, and just a bit too sunny for the probe to be able to see until it had gone a fair distance down. The captain and his crew had set the ship at anchor and were watching intently as I set up my equipment and uncovered the probe. It was looking more and more weathered with every expedition I had it lead, but it was working as well as it had the day I first launched it. I had added a few reinforcements and dimmer lights to the casing, but for all intents and purposes it was the same probe it had always been. I had been right about the light levels, it wasn't until it had gone down five hundred or so yards before the light had dimmed enough for images to be visible on the screen. The captain had brought me out to a part of the water I hadn't had a chance to touch just yet and I was more than excited for the change of scenery, despite the distance between the two spots only being a few dozen miles.
Once the probe hit the upper floor of it's tolerable pressure levels I eased it deeper and switched to the dimmer secondary lights. For a few hours I assumed that this was a fairly empty section of ocean, and I was more than willing to accept that, but after dropping another hundred yards I found the local neighborhood. The fish here were completely alien to me, they seemed as though they were made of spun light and shone with colors I couldn't even begin to describe. They gathered in small schools around the lens of the camera and would back away cautiously whenever the probe moved in the slightest. My journals and every book documenting local seatime flora and fauna came up with nothing about these creatures, not even sailing legends mentioned anything about these little sprites. I was transfixed, edging the probe forward slower and slower until it was practically immobile and beginning to sink. The little sprites began to disperse, and only sped up when I moved the probe towards them. Eventually I ended up going almost beyond the probe's reachable distance chasing after the last of the sprites that I could see. As it came back I found no evidence of the sprites.
The captain and crew didn't share my disappointment. To them they'd seen some mythical creature and that was more than enough to keep them happy for the rest of their lives. Simplicity has it's merits, and the footage I captured has no equal anywhere except maybe in some sy-fy movie.
The following day I assumed would be as uneventful as a typical day on any other expedition. I found that the sprites from the day before had invited their friends along to inspect the new addition to their home. The sprites had at the very least, tripled in number and were still completely content to flutter around the lens of the camera. On a whim I flicked on the higher intensity light to see the reaction. The creatures pulsed even brighter and fled from the lights at first, but after a few seconds they crowded the camera lens again, their eerie light brighter than it had been before.
Practicality made leaving the probe in the cloud of sprites useless after the next day's launch, so instead I opted to have the camera face down at the school of sprites. Employing the method I had come up with was tougher than I thought it would be, but once I got the angling and controls right I could finally take in the size of the group of sprites I had been visiting. How these things had not gotten anyone's interest as of yet is still a mystery to me. The school, I suppose swarm is more appropriate, was massive, the camera couldn't capture more than a quarter or third of the total collection at a time. I had learned to keep the lights on the probe dim, as the sprites attempt to reflect nearby light back at an increased intensity. I don't have the equipment to measure lumens, so that has to wait for another day. I was taken aback at the size of the school, when I saw it move. Not as a collective group, but as a single smooth motion. Something was being concealed under the cloud of sprites. I flashed the lights from bright to dim and saw most of the cloud shift in place and light level, but the parts that were out of the light's range dimmed and brightened as well. Determined to make heads or tails of the situation, I moved from head to tail of what I assumed was something massive. As soon as I got to the tip of what looked like the tail, the entire cloud of sprites buckled and shifted in light intensity. A multitude of discs slid upwards on the mass of sprites, revealing a mass of black insectoid eyes. The entire collection of creatures shifted once again, and whatever was being hidden by the sprites started moving away from the ship. Desperate to keep up with my discovery I pushed the probe after it. The massive creature outran my probe in matter of seconds, vanishing into a fading ball of light in the distance. I sat and slumped down in my chair with a sigh and my face in my hands. The monitors were lighting up again while I stewed in disappointment, the creature was coming back around. I had been left alone by the captain and crew after the first three days, something I was less and less content with as the expedition went on, but I wonder what would have happened had somebody told me what was about to happen. I looked back to the monitors to see the tail of the creature slide off camera after doubling back and passing it. Almost panicking, I jerked the control stick of the probe to follow what looked like upward motion. The sound of something rising from the water is unique, especially if it's something much, much larger than a person or an average fish. The creature leaped out of the water like a breaching whale, poise and power embodied, the shining sprite's trying to cling to it's body. I watch for the briefest of moments, awestruck at the size, majesty and beauty of the creature. Underneath the sprites, the creature is a black untouched by the concept of light. I take in the sight of this creature for a handful of seconds, when the light of the sprites starts to shift.
Of all the sights in the world, of all the beauty on our planet and in our stars, we have seen so little of it in person, yet after the global scan people mostly lost interest in the oceans, turning instead to space when there was still so much work to be done. Our oceans are the frontier now. I'd give my eyes a dozen more times if somebody told me that I'd push people to look back to where we came from before looking forward to where we'll go. | 10 | 50 years from now deep sea exploration has been abandoned since technology has already scanned our oceans fully, or so we think. You continue as a hobby, and you find something. | 21 |
John reflected grumpily on the Sphere as he watched it recede. His kind were viewed as the anomalies of a million years of good breeding. A thousand years ago, soldiers were in high demand and it seemed that every other planetoid contained the latest warlike species. Even if you approached them in their own language to trade, they'd still fight you.
The ability to kill, as uncivilised as it was, had been selected against. Those who fight over their food do not get the research placements to better their careers. Violence, as goes the popular meme, is the antithesis of Intelligence.
The Sphere was the ideal solution to them. No more did they need the role of the Last Soldier. Light years wide, it took entire planets as fodder for the Constructors. If you wall yourself away from the universe with unbreakable carbon atomic bonds then nothing will be able to disrupt your eternal peace.
John knew better. The inability to tolerate violence comes with the inability to comprehend those that can. They had constructed the largest target in the Galaxy. Easily detectable by calculations of its gravitational impact, what civilization would not want the riches that must lie within? Fusion has been everpresent since the dawn of time and some civilization will some day learn how to penetrate the covalent structure.
The one advantage of your civilization deciding there will be an eternal peace is that you get a great price on their remaining weaponry. Slowly, the shuttle moved into docking with the station *Titanomacheus*.
John the Last Guardian slipped off his spacesuit and lay down in the Control Pod. With a thought, he set the defense grid to wake him up at any fast moving threat intersecting the 100 light year grid.
When they came for his species he would be ready. With millenia old weaponry, he would protect them. They would to buy enough time to restart the ancient factories, to build the weapons that could defend themselves. The Last Guardian would buy them the time to realize their stupidity. | 26 | Every time a docile future utopia/civilization is about to go to war, they 'unthaw' the last soldier from their last war and ask his opinion. This time, he is released from duty as they proclaim a permanent peace. The soldier knows better. | 25 |
Patient name: Jessica Green. Age: 19. She had been brought in by her parents who were concerned for her. The Greens were a family that lived in the center dome. All families who lived in the center dome were blessed and lucky, even if many of them had to send their children to the middle dome for schooling.
The girl had black hair and a dazzling smile, and a contagious laugh that lit up her green eyes, greener than the lush trees known to only thrive in the center dome. And there was the problem: the girl was quite happy.
Happiness was common in young children up to five years of age, but then you grew out of it. It never stuck around.
All the more reason her parents were now eyeing the doctor with a look of concern. Her father spoke first, Arthur. "As you can see, she's quite happy, Doctor Patil."
"Yes," the doctor said with a stoic expression. "Positively giddy. Has she ingested anything in the last forty eight hours that are out of the norm?"
"Nothing that we haven't, no. I've been watching her meals," explained Sarah Green, Jessica's mother.
The doctor took a long look at Jessica. "Tell me, Jessica. How happy have you been?"
"Very happy! Things couldn't be better."
"Are you in love?" Her parents gave a small gasp at the suggestion. Love was forbidden these days, as births had to be limited due to the decreasing air. The restrictions were lesser on those of the center dome than the middle or, goodness, the exterior dome. But it still was something to worry about. Love might very well be what was affecting the girl. It was bad news for any family to get, a nearly incurable psychological illness.
But Jessica shook her head.
"Nope! Does love feel this wonderful, though?" She brought her hands to her mouth and giggled a little. The doctor noticed the girl's fingers. Purple. He froze.
"Where does Jessica spend most of her time?"
"In school... in the middle dome. It's less expensive than the ones in the central dome. Why?" asked Sarah.
Doctor Patil opened his suitcase and took out a small device with a blue clamp. He placed it on the young woman's finger and pressed a button on the screen, waiting. He paled. "Withdraw her from school immediately. I must make a call." He excused himself from the room. Arthur leaned over and looked at the device, reading the text on the screen. OXYGEN SATURATION: 75%.
In the other room, Doctor Patil could be heard talking to someone through his call.
"No, I need to speak to him now, this is urgent! The middle dome's running out of oxygen!" | 12 | In the future, happiness is seen as a psychiatric disorder. | 30 |
“Honey, I’m home,” Brad chuckles as he walks through the side door from the garage leading to the mud room. “Lucy, where are you?”
Silence.
“Maggie?” Brad quickly kicks off his shoes at the entrance, a rule that he’s compromised on with his wife. Walking into the kitchen he’s stunned to see Maggie leaning against the counter, looking straight at him.
“Why didn’t you answer babe?” he leans in for a peck on the check this is met with a frustrated sigh from his wife.
“You’re early,” she scolds.
“I thought early would be good, I even stopped to get some fresh flowers for the evening, I thought maybe –“
“Brad, stop. Just stop, you’re too damn early, I’m not ready yet!” she cries.
Brad stares in disappointment, of himself. Lately it seems that he’s been unable to do anything right when it comes to what Maggie wants. Late she complains, early she complains, he figures it would be no different if he was right on the dot, on time.
“What do you mean you’re not ready? You look fine honey, there is no rush, I thought I’d just get home and help you, just make our time together last a bit longer” he tries comforting her with his words.
“He’s coming Brad.”
“Who is he and coming where? For what? Rewind that for me, huh?”
Brad stares into his wife’s eyes. Big green eyes with a hint of hazel, that stare back at him, unable to be read.
Maggie pauses before speaking. Place her hand on the counter as if to catch her balance, to steady herself before speaking.
“Lucas, he’s coming here. Tonight” she answers.
“Lucas? Lucas who? Who is Lucas?” Brad stands firm but in his mind he’s trying to sync it all together, what she’s saying to him, who she is talking about. Who the fuck is Lucas?
“He’s my son.” She whispers.
Backing up, Brad starts to feel the beginning of sweat beads trickle down the back of his neck, sure to soak his thin white shirt. Her son? How, where, what son?
“Excuse me? What do you mean your son?” Brad demands.
“It’s something I’ve been trying –“
“Been trying? Something you’ve BEEN TRYING TO TELL ME” Brad interrupts abruptly.
“Don’t raise your voice, you know how that makes me anxious” she pleads.
“DON’T RAISE MY VOICE, WHAT DO YOU MEAN DON’T RAISE MY VOICE, am I hearing you right” fighting back tears, Brad walks to the dining room, staring upon the already set dining room table.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he yells.
“It was a mistake – he’s not a mistake, I mean it was all a mistake, I’m sorry” she cries.
“A mistake? No the mistake was me trusting you, and now you tell me you have a son. Just as randomly as the day is young you tell me you have a son. And he’s coming here tonight? My fucking –“
The doorbell rings.
Brad thinks over and over in his head, how he could have missed this? How old could she have been to have a son before they met? They were only 23 when the married, and she’d never mentioned a child, let alone even wanting children, and now here they were in the mist of meeting some long lost son, that at best had to be about 18 years old, or older seeing that they were both 40 this year.
Sarcastically Brad boasts “well let me answer the door for our guest”
“No let me – “Maggie says.
Before she can make it to the door, Brad swings it open. And standing before him is a young boy, no older that 9 or 10.
“Can I help you? We’re not in the position to purchase anything tonight” Brad says curtly.
He moves to close the door in the boy’s face.
“I’m here to see my mother” the young boy turns around to wave to the car behind him, as to motion that he’s fine and his ride can leave.
Brad steps aside, allowing the boy to enter.
**Continued due to requests**
In the kitchen, Maggie adjusts her wedding ring, pulling it on and off her finger. Conflicted on what it truly means in this moment. She straightens her dark brown hair and begrudgingly advances to the foyer.
“Lucas” she kneels down to hug him, glancing at Brad who has now shifted his focus to the back of the child’s same dark brown hair.
“Lucas, I want you to meet Brad, remember I told you about Brad?” her voice shakes.
Brad extends his hand to the boy, gripping harder than intended. They clumsily shake hands and stare at one another.
“Here, come, follow me into the dining room, I made you spaghetti” Maggie leads the boy in to the dining room where she has previously sat 3 plates.
Brad watches as Maggie and Lucas leave from him view. His mind can’t even come up with a fitting definition of how he feels at this very moment. The fact that his throat is thick with mucus and his feet have firmly planted themselves on the hardwood floor to the entrance of his home, only fuel his anger towards his wife. To this intrusion of their lives, and the infidelity that she has so casually introduced.
“Brad,” Maggie beckons from the dining room.
Brad adjusts his watch. Glancing at the time, wishing the hours would reverse and this night could start over. Hoping in his heart that when he walks around the corner to his dining room his wife will be alone, and once again it will just be them.
Time doesn’t work that way.
“Please have a seat, let’s eat.” Maggie, now more sure of herself, and more relaxed, or a façade of being relaxed, says.
“I, uh, let me go wash up, I’ll be right back” Brad stampers to their bedroom.
Rushing into the master bathroom he locks the door and stares oddly at himself in the mirror. So this is what surreal feels like. This is what the characters of great literary novels so eloquently describe. He splashes himself with cold water, repeatedly, as if each splash across his face would wake him up from this still developing nightmare.
A knock at the door, quietly, hushed even.
“Brad, may I come in?” Maggie whispers at the door.
“No, I’ll be out in a second,” he replies.
“Brad, it’s not what you think –“
Brad opens the door, startling his wife. He stands before her looking up and down, catching glimmer of tears starting to form in her eyes once again.
“What am I supposed to think? How could I possibly even think straight, there is child sitting in the living room and you’re his mother, and I am not his father, explain to me how to think, help me out here” he cries.
Silence.
Maggie walks to their bed and sits on the edge, dangling her feet, eyes downward watching her movements, back and forth, back and forth.
“He is your son.”
“Wha-“
Maggie raises her hand as to demand Brad’s silence.
“Lucas is our son. Remember when we were first married, and though we swore we’d never want kids, we both also agreed to freeze my eggs and your sperm, just in case we changed our minds? Well, while I felt that I was on board with you about never having children, that changed awhile back Brad. I wanted to have your child. I wanted to be a mother. But you seemed so against sharing our lives with a child. So while you were away on your many god forsaken trips, I sought a surrogate.”
“A surrogate, but- how did you get access to my-“Brad begins. Interrupted by Maggie.
“I’m your wife, it wasn’t that difficult. And besides, how often do you think they run into people requesting someone’s sperm just out the blue?”
She continued.
“I found Angeline, this perfect jewel of a woman, who agreed to carry our child. Lucas is your son Brad, he is ours. I just- I just never was able to find a way to tell you. I had every intention of surprising you –“
“Oh you surprised me alright, like 10 fucking years too late”
“Eight, he’s 8”
“Fuck if he’s an embryo, what the hell is wrong with you”
“What the hell is wrong with you? How could you deny me the chance of being a mother? You gallivant off on these damn trips and leave me here, alone. Alone Brad!” she screams.
“So because I’m off working, you found it perfectly acceptable to HAVE A CHILD while I was gone? Yeah that makes perfect sense, yep, we’re even. CongraUFUCKINGLATIONS” he sarcastically chides.
“Fuck you” she cries
“No FUCK YOU” he screams.
“Mama Maggie?”
Brad and Maggie both sharply turn to the entrance of their bedroom. Maggie wipes away her tears with the sleeve of her blouse. Brad steps back, staring at the child. Mute over his presence.
| 11 | You and your wife are planning a romantic dinner at home for your anniversary. Except when you walk into the dining room, you see that she has set the table for three... | 18 |
God, I hate airports. Overpriced food, snotty staff, annoying passengers, and faaar too many people. Not to mention the boredom. I looked at my watch for the third time that minute, waiting for my flight that would take me to yet another meeting which I hated everything about already. I unconsciously snap my fingers. *Snap*
I sat back and sighed. *What am I doing with my life? Why am I bothering, day after miser-*
Suddenly, my musings were interrupted by people screaming. Startled, I stood up abruptly and noticed people all running away from the terminal I was in, making the confusion in the airport even worse. I snap my fingers again, for no real reason. *Snap*
I made my way through the mess of people running, and immediately realized what they were screaming about. A larger man who was alarmingly scantily clad and clearly not right in the head was waving his gun (among other things) around. Next to him, a seven year old girl stood, clearly terrified.
*Seriously, TSA?*
"EVERYONE HIT THE FLOOR AND SHOW ME YOUR HANDS! SHOW ME YOUR HANDS! YOUR FEET TOO!"
I realized that in my infinite wisdom, by trying to see what the commotion was all about, I had put myself within fifteen feet of the gunman. I stood there stupidly cursing myself while everyone else hit the deck. Somebody tapped me in the leg, and I looked down to see a young man with a worried look on his face.
"Get down! Jeez, do you have a death wish?"
I forced myself not to chuckle. If only he knew. I snap my fingers a few more times. *Snap Snap Snap*
The gunman heard those snaps, and turned towards me. He turned his attention to me, and I got the chance to really look at him for the first time. He was balding, dressed in only boxers and an embarrassingly small vest. He looked about 6'3, and some bulging fat was clearly visible. What concerned me more was the little girl that he had in one of his meaty paws. She was doing her best to be brave, but I could make out some tears, and she was clearly shaking. The gunman had his gun pointed at the back of her head.
"HEY YOU!"
I slowly straightened up, and made eye contact with the gunman. Behind him, I could notice a security official desperately talking into her walkie. She had a gun pulled, but she must have been afraid of hitting the girl, because she wasn't aiming.
"Yes?" I replied.
"I SAID GET ON THE GROUND WHY AREN'T YOU ON THE GROUND"
"Well," I said, as I stepped slowly closer towards the gunman. "It really is quite dirty, isn't it?"
That surprised him a bit. He looked around at the floor, and I took another step forward. Only about 10 feet away now.
"HEY. STOP THAT"
I lifted my arms to show that I was unarmed.
*Step*
Only about 7 feet now. He's backing away, but he's against a wall so he can't go much further.
*Step*
5 feet away. He looks around nervously, and points his gun at me. Good.
*It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done*
3 feet away. I can reach the girl from here if I jump. I notice that the safety on the gun is off. He's still pointing the gun on me, and his finger's on the trigger. He's saying something but I tune it out. I look at the security official and hope she reacts in time.
*It is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever gone*
I lunge and grab the girl, and toss her behind me. He's followed me with the gun, and pulls the trigger. I hear the explosion of the gun, as the bullet comes straight towards me. I close my eyes. And out of habit, I *snap*
My eyes open. I look around. The little girl's behind me, staring up at the scene with unblinking eyes. I turn back around, and in front of me I can see a scared face and a hand holding a gun. And
...I can see the bullet that should've hit me by now.
I move towards it. Nothing else moves. I look around, and see people all frozen, seemingly in shock, staring at me. I cautiously touch the bullet. I move it around a little bit - it somehow stays in the air when I manipulate it. I point it upwards, and then I take the gun from the man in front of me. He doesn't react, because like everything else except me, he's frozen.
For the first time in a while, I smile.
*Snap*
| 11 | Someone is attempting suicide and rather than dying they instead gain superpowers | 15 |
"Maybe we could tell them that the translation hub malfunctioned and that we couldn't communicate anymore. Then when we tried to gesture that we-"
"No, no, no," Finn interrupted, "the thing has a backup and an auto-logger for any errors. They could just do a remote dump from ground control and know that wasn't true."
"Yeah Jon, come on, you should know that. You're our engineer," Bill sniped. Jon took a step towards Bill but Tara grabbed his arm. She whispered "Not now" and Jon's shoulders loosened.
"Shut the fuck up, Bill. I am not going to be known as the commander that caused the largest war in the history of the galaxy. Now before I throw you out the God damned airlock, I need to hear MORE IDEAS."
After a moment, "What if we say it was a trap. That they lured us there only to capture us and hold us hostage while they sent their assassins to Earth?" Tara looked around not seeing much acceptance of her idea. Bill made a "hmph" noise, too quiet for Finn to hear, and she glared at him."
"Ok people," said Fin, "How about we just say... say... FUCK"
"Great idea, Cap." Snarked Bill.
Fin spun on Bill, grabbing him by the neck and shoulder and shoving him towards the airlock. "I know! Lets just tell them the truth about how Bill fucked THE LORD SUPREME'S DAUGHTER AND I SHOVED HIS ASS OUT THE AIRLOCK" | 15 | After being sent as ambassadors of humanity, the first two astronauts to contact an alien race discuss how to explain to the world that they accidentally instigated a full-scale interplanetary war. | 30 |
*(This prompt is screaming for me to use text-speak. But that's simply no fun. Welp, here we go.)*
President Roosevelt put down the message and stared at the Senator in front of him with enough intensity to discomfort the battle-hardened veteran of the Great War.
"And you're *certain* this...message...is from space?"
"We're not certain at all, sir. It just appeared on a table and then disappeared. We barely had time to make a copy of it,"
The president leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, musing to himself.
"It's definitely English, but the names don't seem to make any sense at all. We've certainly never had a president named "Kennedy" before. I don't understand what it could possibly-"
Without so much as a knock, a young man in a suit burst into the Oval Office, carrying a thick stack of papers. Senator Truman suppressed an urge to wince. Interrupting the president's train of thought was the kind of mistake you only made once. The new guy, however, seemed to be born under a lucky star. As Truman watched, he passed the first paper to the president, and Roosevelts eyes shifted from anger to total astonishment.
It took the president a few tries to speak, and when he finially got the words out, it was with a croak: "The American Dream: official AP version".
The other men in the room had remained uncharacteristically silent, yet now they stirred. After a moment of hesitation, General Eisenhower finally burst out with the question everyone was thinking, "What the hell is an AP."
Roosevelt ignored him and continued reading, his eyes got larger and larger as he flipped through the pages, and soon he began unconsciously reading out fragments.
"The panic of 1819...Manifest destiny...The civil war...reconstruction...the progressive era...the-"
Roosevelt froze, and everyone in the room leaned forward a little, drawn in by the magnetism that even now seemed to surround their president. He adjusted his collar and, after a few deep, calming breaths, whispered "The first world war."
The Oval Office, already uncharacteristically quiet, fell into dead silence. Everyone stared at the paper Roosevelt was currently holding, and once again, it fell to Eisenhower to say what everyone was thinking.
"Did you say...the *First* world war?"
Roosevelt nodded, still too shocked to speak, and for the first time, Truman wondered how strong the president really was. After a moment he stood up and grabbed the next piece of paper from the stack. As he read it, he reached out and grabbed the table to sturdy himself.
"1935?! That's 2 years from now! And six *million*...dear God. Franklin, what *is* this?"
Roosevelt's eyes gleamed with uncharacteristic ferocity.
"This, my friends...is a weapon. Perhaps the greatest weapon humanity has ever laid its hands on. In here is the course of American history, past present *and* future. It falls to us, now, to use it correctly."
A new silence reigned in the room. It was a stunned silence, the silence of an audience witnessing something utterly beyond belief.
"But-but sir! what if it's a joke? Or a prank? Or just WRONG?" demanded Eisenhower, who had apparently become the unofficial spokesman of the silent men in suits.
Roosevelt eyed him placidly. "We will, of course, wait to see if the most recent predictions in this book come true. If they do, however, I expect the support of every man in this room. We have been given a second chance, my friends. A chance to change history for the better. I'm sure of it!"
. . .
Timothy sighed and opened up the interdimensional mailbox. His classes were starting next week and his history textbook still hadn't arrived! Sighing, he began to shut the mailbox, when suddenly a flash of light and a slight "beep" came fro the box. He opened the door to find a package sitting in his little pocket dimension with a note on the top, which read "There was a minor mix up with the temporal delivery systems. All employees responsible have been terminated. We apologize for the inconvenience."
Timothy leapt at the package and tore off the wrapping, unveiling his brand new history textbook. He sprinted back inside, up to his room, and eagerly flipped to a page to begin memorization. As he began reading, however, alarm bells went off in his head. The book made perfect sense, and yet it was, somehow, completely wrong.
"Hitler most definitely did *not* kill six million Jews! We stopped him before the casualties even hit the hundred-thousand mark! I remember that from MIDDLE school. And Kennedy wasn't assassinated either! What is this book even about?!" | 47 | A message is broadcast to the entire world, full of seemingly nonsensical words and phrases. 100 years later, the exact same message is broadcast, but it now makes perfect sense. | 55 |
The antique store was new, unlike its product. Ashley had met the store owner, Mr. Hart, at the local produce market and knew that his establishment was only blocks away from her and her husband’s apartment. Hearts Antique was the name on the card he’d given her. Ashley had been meaning to go for weeks, but Matt had been busy on the weekends working extra shifts so that they could make the move out to California.
This weekend was different and the two of them could spare some time together. Even though it was her idea to come to Mr. Hart’s store, Matt found himself much more enthralled with what was around him than her. A musician at heart, her husband went straight for the guitars and other instruments, leaving her to browse the dusty, porcelain novelties alone.
Ashley was beginning to feel that she’d made a poor decision choosing this store for their weekend outing if she and Matt weren’t actually going to be spending the time together. She passed by china dolls, tons of books, and windup toys, but this antiquing just wasn’t her thing. Since she wasn’t really spotting any particular object of interest, she reached into her purse for her phone and began to browse through old photos. At least the antiquity of her own life would hold some interest as opposed to what was around her.
These pictures weren’t any different than they’d ever been, just memories of sorority sisters, bad drinking decisions, and risqué Halloween costume choices. Those times were fun, and they make her smile now, but she dreads looking back for fear that she may miss what she left behind.
Ashley pauses on one photograph for just a second longer than the others. A young man is in the picture with her, his arm thrown over her shoulder and her arm wrapped around his waist. His eyes are lit up like a child’s and he has a bright, red blush on his cheeks. Ashley chuckles quietly, thinking that he’s quite cute looking embarrassed like he does. He was always the timid type.
“Looking into the past?”
Ashley looked up from her phone to see an old man, dressed in a smoky suit, smiling at her over his spectacles with his balding head.
“Hello, Mr. Hart,” she replied, a bit embarrassed herself. “I’m just sending a text out to a friend.”
Mr. Hart leans up on his tiptoes and peers down at the screen of the phone before she can turn it away.
“Ah,” he says with a smile. “He sure is a handsome young man. Who is he?”
Ashley quickly and coyly puts her phone away. She doesn’t want to insult the old man by ignoring what he has for sale, so she reaches for an old, brown teddy bear, its eyes falling off, and holds it in a purchasing manner.
“Just my old friend Evan,” she says quickly. “How much is this teddy bear?”
Mr. Hart takes the teddy bear from her and turns it over and over in his hands.
“There doesn’t seem to be a price tag on this one,” he says, turning it back towards her. “Are you sure you want to buy it? It needs a bit of restoration before it will be worth anything.”
Ashley takes the bear back into her hands and looks at its eyes for the first time. Maybe she should have looked before she grabbed something.
“Yes.”
Mr. Hart chuckles.
“You don’t have much interest in antiques, do you?” he asks.
“I-” she starts, but she can’t finish. “No, I don’t. I just-”
“You wanted to spend some time with the husband, and you came antiquing because that what ‘couples do,’ yes?”
He laughs when he sees her look down shamefully.
“Oh, no, don’t worry;” Mr. Hart goes on, “it happens all of the time. People get caught up in all of these things that others expect of them and they forget that they aren’t much the kind of person for beaten down knickknacks.”
She finds the old man’s words to be charming and smiles. Mr. Hart was a good speaker and he could make himself look very knowledgeable. Maybe that was why she had wanted to come to the store in the first place; he just sold the idea to her so well.
She looks down at the teddy bear again.
“Well, I’ve never really had a teddy bear before,” Ashley says with a grin.
“That old thing!” Mr. Hart burst out with a snort. “Please, you can’t tell me you want that silly, old bear! Come-”
Mr. Hart takes the bear from her with one hand and gently leads her forward with the other.
“I will show what Hearts truly has to offer.”
Ashley looks behind her as she follows Mr. Hart, checking to see if Matt has come to get her, but he is still just examining the strings on an old Gibson. She isn’t sure if there is anything that the old man can actually show her of interest, but she follows out of her disinterest otherwise, and she enjoys his company. The pair soon reaches a door, which leads through to a back room.
The room itself is lacking in space between their dual occupancy, as a large, rectangular object, covered by a red sheet, stands in the center of the floor. Mr. Hart steps forward and presents the object to Ashley, keeping the sheet over for now.
“I don’t want to rush the mysticism,” Ashley remarks, “but what is it?”
“Only a mirror,” Mr. Hart replies.
Ashley giggles just a little.
“I already have a mirror, Mr. Hart.”
He holds up his free hand, the other still grasping the teddy bear, and stops the comment in its tracks, shaking his head in defiance.
“No, no, no, my dear,” the old man says. “This mirror is not for sale. Its reflective purposes are for in-store use only.”
She smiles unsurely as he steps forward and puts a sole finger on his chest where his heart might be.
“Haven’t you ever wondered what might be in here?” he asks.
“My heart?”
“No, no, no…The soul, my dear. Haven’t you ever wondered what lies, truly, deep in your soul? Haven’t you ever wanted to know who you really are at your core?”
Hasn’t everyone? She pondered the question for the moment she was given. Surely this was another whimsical bit of knowledge or theatricality that Mr. Hart was putting on. Ashley was willing to play along with his game if it meant that she might be exposed to more of his experienced insight.
“Of course,” she says, shrugging off any potential reality to the old man’s questions. “Who hasn’t?”
A wicked, yet pleasant smile projects from Mr. Hart’s lips. He reaches back slowly, grabbing at the red sheet with his unoccupied hand.
“Well, then prepare to look into your soul,” he coos.
An instant later, Mr. Hart has torn away the sheet, and the large, rectangular reflector grabs the attention of the room.
“Wha-?” Ashley gasps, staring coldly at the mirror as a tear forms in her eye.
Mr. Hart steps to her side to take a look at what she sees, avoiding stepping into the reflection himself. He smiles a warm smile in reaction to what he sees.
“Oh, I see,” the old man whispers, looking back and forth between her and the mirror. “That’s quite lovely.”
“How did-?” she mutters, speechless.
He puts his hand on her shoulder and laughs again with his charming old man laugh.
“I did nothing,” Mr. Hart replies. “This is what is in your soul.”
“But that’s-” she stutters, barely able to name the rose-cheeked man in the mirror, “-that’s Evan.”
Ashley looks into Mr. Hart’s eyes with astonishment. Could this be real? Even if it is real, and this mirror can show her what is truly in her soul, is Evan what she should really find in the reflection? She looks back at the looking glass and there he is, his blue eyes staring back into hers.
“My,” Mr. Hart says, “what you must be thinking!”
Ashley looks back at the old man one last time and lets that something inside of her click. She turns around and quickly walks out of the room. The old man follows without hesitation, but he moves slowly enough to take time to cover the mirror again. Not paying much more attention to where it is that his customer’s rushing off to, Mr. Hart makes his own way out of the back room and takes a place at the front counter. By the time the elder gets to the cash register and sets the teddy bear down next to him, Ashley has left.
Matt had noticed her rush out and followed, but he was unable to stop her and comes back into the store.
“What happened back there?” Matt asks, offended, gesturing to the back room.
“A reflection,” Mr. Hart replies.
Matt shrugs and throws his hands up in angry confusion, but the old man has no better answer and shrugs himself. With that confusing response, the young man storms out of the store with little hope of chasing down his wife.
After a moment, Mr. Hart notices the diamond ring that has been left on the wooden counter.
“Oh, look,” he says to the teddy bear, picking up the ring, “another wedding ring to add to the store’s inventory.”
The teddy bear turns its head of its own accord and looks up at the ring.
“You’d think, with all of those rings that you’ve sold,” the bear growls, “that you’d be able to sew my eyes back on.”
“Oh, hush,” Mr. Hart replies, putting the ring into a cigar box full of precious, diamond bands. “You know you hate needles.”
The old man replaces the cigar box and looks up at the chiming face of a wooden pendulum clock.
“8 o’clock,” he says. “It’s time to close down for the night.”
Stepping around the counter, Mr. Hart makes his way over to the store’s front door and turns over the Open/Closed sign.
From the street outside, no one notices that Hearts Antique has just disappeared.
| 22 | A man (or woman) stands before a mirror that reflects his soul. He's surprised by what he sees. | 33 |
I scowled at Tim as I felt gravity come into effect again. "Why are we stopping?"
Still staring into the scanners, he replied, "I picked something up."
"We only have a few more weeks to get home, you know. Twelve hundred lightyears is a distance."
"Really, man, this is weird."
I rolled my eyes. "Everything's weird to you."
"Something's floating out there."
I looked through the transparent shielding of the ship for a few moments, squinting. "I can't see anything."
"It's only a few lightyears away."
"Must be really small."
"Seems like it. Come on, let's hop out, just for a little while?"
"You know how EVAs and I mix."
"It won't take long! Besides, this is empty space. No celestial bodies to mess with you here."
"...Fine."
I really did think it would be just a piece of junk floating around in space; a piece of debris from a distant space crash that had floated over here. Tim usually wasn't this interested, though, so I went along with it.
We jetted over to the object; it was tumbling through space slowly, rotating as if propelled from an explosion.
"I feel like I should recognize it," Tim nagged over the comm.
"Probably just a piece of debris," I insisted. "There's nothing--"
It rotated toward me.
My eyes widened. I gasped. I heard a voice speaking deep in my mind; a memory from so long ago but I was sure I had never heard it before. I was awestruck for a long moments before I took control of my body, wrenched my jaw shut and exclaimed:
"Is that Morgan Freeman?!" | 12 | God died during the Big Bang. Eons in the future, humanity finds the body in deep space. | 21 |
I can feel his hand gripping mine. It's boot leather at his stage of life, callouses left by a younger man forever changed the geography of his skin. Mountains and valleys all have their own stories to tell, and this is their last.
"It's okay Dad. It's okay."
"It's not. It never was."
He coughs weakly. It's almost pathetic, his chest barely moves. I want to hug him so badly but his pride wouldn't allow that. Instead I stay by his side and hold his hand. Outside, in the fields, I can hear the cattle calling softly to each other. It's a reassuring sound, reminding me that my father is going to see the end in the place he loved the most.
"I have to tell you something. I have to tell you about it. Please." He coughs again and I shush him gently. "Please..."
"Later. You need sleep."
He shakes his head and looks me dead in he eye. "Son, I'm going to die tonight. And you have to be prepared."
A stubborn old man lies in front of me. He kindness, compassion - the scratchy beard - they're all gone now, the first casualties of the disease and it's poisonous treatment. If I don't listen to his story now I might not get another chance. I nod.
"I shot the Devil." He coughs again, but when he speaks his words are stronger. This is something he believes. A hidden truth. "When you were one, I shot him. He had come for you and..."
"Hush," I whisper, gripping his hand. This madness is new, and it's scary to see it in my father. He had always been so practical and rational. As he coughs, a viscous fluid leaking from his mouth, I focus on the radio in the other room. Soft, acoustic guitar strumming to a county tune that I have heard a hundred times before. After tonight I know I won't be able to hear it without thinking of these moments.
His coughing subsides and he presses on with the story. As much as I don't want to hear it from him I listen anyway.
"Your mother brought me the shotgun when we saw him. He spoke naught but lies, just as the scripture said. Selling wealth and health and happiness... All for the cost of you. We listened... We listened to him talk and then we shot him. I ain't seen so much surprise in all my life... Still ain't."
"It's okay dad." I have nothing else to say but empty reassurances. This isn't okay by a long way, and I'm angry. Not at him, but at the illness. Dignity has been denied to my father in his final moments.
"...buried him. Out in the forest. But he tricked us, son. He sold us those things..."
I smile as best I can. If the devil did sell my father health then he truly is a liar.
"You're happy aren't you? In the city? You have money? You're going to be okay when I'm gone aren't you?"
"I will be," I reassure him. The moonlight hides my face and for that I'm thankful. He can't see the sorrow or pain on my face. Without my father I don't know how I'll cope.
"...that's what he sold us. He sold us your happiness. Your health. At the cost of my soul. He tempted me into a mortal sin..." My father coughs again and I dab the blood from his lips. His time is close.
The radio has ended for the night. Out here there's one station and it turns off late at night. The sound of static plays in the living room.
"I fell ill that summer. Been fighting it since. But... I can feel him now. Coming back. Please. Leave now before he gets here."
"I'm not leaving your side Dad. I love you." I mean what I say.
After that we talk about the good times. Fishing. The games we used to watch. My mother.
It only takes an hour, but I know when he's gone. I feel his hand tense and relax. His final breath and then, just like that, I'm alone.
I'm sitting by his bed now. The silent body is my only companion. Except for the shotgun.
It's the same one from his story, and it sits across my lap as I wait. Dawn is a few hours away and I expect to see if my father's story was true by then. | 43 | On his deathbed your father confesses that when you were young he shot and killed an intruder and buried him in the woods. The intruder wasn't human. | 37 |
I just sat in that room. That fucking apartment with my sweaty palms clutching a revolver, afraid to move but afraid to be there. The blinds were down, but some of the sun’s light seeped through, and I could tell that it was going to get dark soon. I shuddered at the thought. Insanity seemed like the only explanation for what I had seen that day.
I had woken up that morning like on any normal day, but things quickly began to go... I don’t know, wrong. The first thing I noticed was when I got out of my shower. The fog on my mirror was in a rather odd shape, like a man’s face, but with horns on its head. At the time I thought nothing of it, but later, as I ate my cereal and watched T.V, but it began to lose reception and the screen turned to static, and another image of that same horned face flashed on the screen briefly. I convinced myself that I had not really seen it, and shrugged it off.
As I drove to work, the gas light went off, which caught me by surprise as I had just filled it up the previous day. I stopped at a gas station and a man came to pump my gas (New Jersey), as he came to me for payment I looked in his eyes and could hardly contain my unease. One eye was completely lifeless and black, and the other was a piercing green. Business went normally for the rest of the transaction, but as he gave me my credit card back, he stared at me with those eyes and smiled sickly. I was desperately uncomfortable, and I wanted to leave but I didn’t want to be rude. After a second he said in a calm voice, “He’s coming for you”. He began to chuckle. My mouth gaped. I had seen enough horror movies to know that I was completely fucked. I started my engine and drove off as quickly as I could, trying to calm myself, “that man was obviously just crazy” I told myself. I thought of the face I had seen and shivers ran down my back. I pushed that memory aside.
Work went normally for a while. I work in a cubicle on the 12th floor of banking firm. I basically just do accounting on my computer all day, it was a boring job but it paid the bills. Halfway through the day, my computer shut off suddenly and the horned face flashed briefly on the screen, before turning back on. I let out a whimper. I sat for a minute in stunned silence before trying to convince myself that it was just my imagination.
That was when it all went very wrong. A scream sounded from inside my boss’s office, and his front door opened. Mr. Dekuf, my boss, stepped out of the room with a look of shear horror etched upon his face. He paused for a moment, and then sprinted across the room screaming and waving his arms as if he were on fire. The whole office seemed to collectively gasp as they realized where he was headed. Mr. Dekuf ran straight at the office’s twelfth floor window. There was a crash and a woman screamed as my boss fell through the air to his death. I probably don’t need to tell you what shape the broken piece of the window was in. I literally shat myself. I took a deep breath as tears rolled down my cheeks and diarrhea rolled down my legs (thank god for long pants). I slinked away quietly and drove myself home.
And that brings me to where I started this story, I was sitting in my apartment with this gun in case “he”, you know, “comes for me”. The sun was going down and I knew that I may soon be going with it. I started to shake. That was when three loud, concise knocks came from the door. I readied my gun. “Come in” I yelled. I wanted to get this over with. The nob on the door turned, and opened. The man from the gas station walked in. His insane eyes looked at me. Behind him Mr. Dekuf stared at me; his skin was pale and dead-looking. I raised my gun, “I’m going to shoot if you come any closer”. The man took a step forward, I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. I just heard a click. No bang. I squeezed the trigger rapidly five more times, and only heard five more clicks. I let out a squeal and opened my eyes. Coming out of the barrel of the gun was a little flag that said “Bang”. I turned my eyes to the people approaching me, but they were no longer approaching, just standing there with smiles on their faces. I lowered my gun and screamed, “What do you want from me?”. From behind them stepped Ashton Kutcher with a goofy ass smile on his face, “You just got Punk’d!” he exclaimed.
| 42 | Waking up in the morning, you begin to slowly realize throughout the day that everything is just *slightly* off, and find out what causes it at the end of the day. | 46 |
"What do you mean, he's dead?" the tall blonde woman asked, stumbling over herself to get the words out.
"I mean he isn't alive anymore." Her shorter friend responded with a sort of no-shit finality.
"Well yeah, but.. I'm just having a hard time with it. It's like sleeping, right?" The blonde asked.
"That's what they say, except you just... don't wake back up."
"But.. what happens to everything he was doing? People are just supposed to forget him and move on? Christ, how are you supposed to process something like that?"
"I really have no idea," the friend continued "I'm trying not to think of it."
"Yeah.. but.. I mean.. He's GONE. Just like that. Isn't that just a little mind boggling? Everything he was or did or said, it's all just... gone. We'll never talk to him again, nobody will hear his voice, it just feels... quiet. And lonely."
The two stood silently for a moment, letting the chaos of the media circus going on around them carry on. The man's death was accidental, but still.. when nobody in the country has died within the last 75 years, it causes a stir.
Of course, they had heard stories about undeveloped countries that didn't have access to today's medicine. Even heard stories that something as standard as disease, if left untreated, could cause death. But still, that wasn't something that happened here. You hear stories about it on the news.
The novelty of immortality rendered ideas like conventional fame outdated. Nobody was interested in following this person or that when everyone knew they'd be around forever. Actors still acted, singers still sang, but not for the notoriety alone. They gave their passions a voice and when they were done they let their exposure pass to move on to the next project.
But someone dying?
This was new. This was exciting. This was sexy.
Cameras were already being pushed into the faces of the young man's family. Uncomfortable close ups on the faces of a loss that hadn't been felt in nearly a century. News stories were salivating at how to turn this into a new triumph of the human spirit.
The two girls, friends of the poor man, but not especially close, decided that the frenzy was getting a little too raucous.
"This is getting out of hand, come on." The shorter girl said.
"But.." The blonde interjected, still desperately trying to wrap her head around the situation.
"Enough, let's go."
They walked off slowly. The shorter girl leading the way and already looking for something to distract her. Maybe she'd take another crack at writing or learning an instrument, anything to get her mind off this. She had, after all, all the time in the world.
The blonde girl took one look back at the writhing crowd and felt a cold, dark feeling wash over her. Thinking about the finality of death, the abruptness and unfairness of it. For just a moment she wanted to scream.
But the feeling passed, and she resolved to carry on, and stop thinking such unusual thoughts.
And the world kept moving. | 52 | Depict a future society where no one dies naturally. Suicide/murder is not possible. People who are killed by accident are glorified. | 67 |
They called it the Last Stretch. The very edge of the universe. It gave off a soft greenish blue light, the very end of the livable universe. Though it was often tried, it was impossible to pass through it. Anything trying was stretched by space itself until the very atoms were ripped apart.
A research station, named Farewell, was built just at the edge of the Last Stretch. Quentin Ramsey had been a space dreamer for years, but now, he was commission to assist the great Dr. Vladimir Ross in trying to breach the Last Stretch.
Ross was quiet but brilliant. He had pioneer intergalactic communications. His fall from grace came, ironically, when he disproved the expansion of the universe. His punishment: research that which destroyed cosmology. He didn't mind. It was quiet.
Ramsey took his duties seriously. Cleaning probe sensors, transferring data, lab assistance. He didn't mind the menial tasks. Working with Ross made him a happy as ever.
Ross had made endless tweaks to the probes they sent out. They would fire into the Last Stretch at near Lum 25(twenty-five times the speed of light). Just as the molecules began to break down, the data probe would be launched back at Farewell. Each time, they made it deeper.
Ross did have a secret. Each probe was not just for data. It was meant to test the survivability of his spacecraft. They had all but exiled him, so he decided he would be the first human to step outside of the universe. The data from the probes had proved useful with every attempt. His spacecraft received daily upgrades. Sometimes hourly. Some would call it the most powerful ship in the universe, but that meant nothing to him. It was his Last Laugh. And it was so named.
They hadn't spoken since he arrived, but on his fifty-second day, Ramsey retrieved the strangest data from a probe. He was eager to tell Ross.
"Dr. Ross?" he said.
The only acknowledgement was eye contact.
"I think you may have done it."
Ross's eyes perked up. Ramsey handed him a tablet. It was the first smile Ramsey had see.
"I think you're right" said Ross. "I THINK YOU'RE RIGHT!" He hugged Ramsey. He was in a daze. Stumbling through Farewell, Ross made straight for Last Laugh. He had planned this day for years. The final preparations were made. Last Laugh was able to survive the Last Stretch.
Ross turned to Ramsey, hiding down a hallway.
"Mr. Ramsey, would you care to join me?" he said. "It is the only currency I have. I can only offer you the chance to be a part of history."
There were obvious risks, but Ramsey didn't care. This was the achievement of his life: recognition from Dr. Vladimir Ross.
Exiting Farewell was tense. Every meter marked a new milestone for humanity. Each breath they took was the farthest any human had gone. Each heartbeat, history. As they approached the border of the Last Stretch, the colors through the window grew foggier. The greenish blue hue was more of a murky green. Ramsey could no longer tell if it was space or dust. It was just green.
They reach the final point of the universe. Technically, one more inch and they would leave the universe, but Ross did not want that to be the end. He turned to Ramsey.
"I'm no poet. But shouldn't we say something?" he said.
"One small step for man?" said Ramsey.
"A moment like this demands so much more".
They sat a moment, thinking. Thinking.
Nothing came. They looked at each other. Ross took a breath.
"Let's just do this" he said.
He hit the thrusters. He and Ramsey slammed back into their seats. Stage One accelerated to Lum 15. This was the easy part. The Last Stretch wouldn't do much to Last Laugh for another five minutes.
Ross fired Stage Two, acceleration to Lum 36. It was still manageable, but dangerous toward the end. As they reached the Lum 32, Ramsey began to feel queasy. Space was beginning to stretch them. Ross kept his hand on the lever. They were one minute away from the break point, where all the probes were destroyed, save one.
The color hadn't changed. Ramsey wondered to himself if they were moving at all. Ross had no such concerns. He imagined the end of the universe would be an instant change once they exited the Last Stretch. It was blind faith.
One second before the break point, Ross took a breath, hoping it wouldn't be his last. He yanked the lever as hard as he could. Lum 147 was the target. They both started feeling stretching all over their bodies. Ross kept looking out the window. Ramsey divided his attention between Dr. Ross, the floor, and not vomiting.
When Ramsey mustered the strength to look toward the window, he say it. The green fog had vanished.
Ross pulled back on the lever. Their speed reduced to 0. They sat for a few minutes staring out the window.
It looked like a desert. In the great distance, they say what appeared to be a wall. Above the wall were enormous clouds of gas. They reminded Ramsey of the Pillars of Creation. The clouds were relatively the same size, evenly spaced and staggered. Each had a pair of bright spots toward the top. The only difference between them were their colors. Some were blue, some pink, some green. Different shades, different opacities.
Ross took the local controls and landed Last Laugh in the desert like area. Ramsey would had advised against it, but for being awestruck. The landing was safe, as if it was a desert back on earth. Ross got out of his seat and grabbed his helmet. Ramsey took a moment to gather his bearings and did the same.
The sensors were useless. They did not give any reading of the atmosphere or ground composition. It didn't matter. Ross did not care if he died here. It was his goal. Ramsey was following Ross, to the end if need be. He opened the door.
"After you, Dr. Ross" he said.
Dr Ross smiled like a child on Christmas. He grabbed Ramsey on the shoulder.
"Thank you" he said, and turned to the door. The ground looked like sand. Exactly. The open door didn't kill them. So, he felt much safer. He took a step out of Last Laugh and onto the sand. Ramsey followed behind him.
The sand was a little firmer than they expected, but it was stable. Ross reached down to grab some, but he couldn't penetrate the surface. It was like steel. Ramsey toward the clouds. He grabbed at Ross.
Ross looked up. The clouds were moving very rapidly. Their bright spots were focused on Last Laugh. Ross began to walk forward. Ramsey followed. The spots shifted, focusing on them.
They stopped walking. The clouds bended towards Ross. The spots targeting him. A booming sound surrounded them.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN" a voice said from what could only be speakers. "THE HUMANS HAVE DONE IT!"
The clouds leaned back up, erupting in cheers and applause. Ross and Ramsey looked at each other. Then to the clouds. They stood in the Arena. Our universe was the main attraction.
| 29 | Scientists have finally discovered what lies beyond the edge of the observable universe. | 19 |
“Did you enjoy your time in heaven?” The voice didn’t really belong to anything.
“Wait – so Earth was heaven?” I had a slight headache, something I didn’t figure would exist after Earth was so far gone.
“Yes. Did you enjoy it?”
“I thought heaven was eternal, I only had 25 years.”
“You had a whole 25 years, which is more than so many get. Did you enjoy it?”
Why was this question so pressing? I thought. I thought of the dead end jobs. I thought of the time I scraped my knee. Zach’s death. I thought of the time I kissed my best-friend in the pouring rain in hopes that our lips locking would help her re-evaluate our friendship (it didn’t). I thought of the pitchers of beer. The nights spent crying over broken hearts and broken bones. I thought of the time we smoked pot in front of the police station. I thought of the pee-wee soccer games. The late night tennis matches. The coffee. The time we stood on the roof of the fraternity house and yelled into the warm summer night because nobody was listening. I thought of the cookies, the burgers, the hiking trails. I thought of the plane rides to far away escapes. I thought of the train rides to meet relative’s new graves. The waiting in lines. The slow dances. Road trips and carpools. I thought of the staples that got stuck in the stapler. I thought of the time I quit my job. The two weeks I was homeless. I thought of the drunken hook ups. I thought of my first kiss. My first crush. I thought of the time I cried on the bathroom floor when my grandma passed away. I thought of the homesickness at space camp. The Great Barrier Reef. My first taste of champagne. My first taste of real pain. I thought of the words that were left unspoken, and the ones that should have been. The last lie I ever spoke, and the first. I thought of the condoms filed away next to my tax returns and love letters. I thought about the love letters. The pick-up lines. The Robert Frost quotes. I thought of the time my roommate and I watched all the Tremors movies. I thought of the first time I woke up to the words “I love you.” I thought of the first time I woke up to the words “I love you” spoken in such a different voice. I thought of the afternoon naps and the snooze button. The text messages and the bruises. The misplaced sweatshirts – they probably had new owners already, but now all my sweatshirts were misplaced. Or, perhaps, they were in the right place all along. I thought of misplaced moments.
I looked up and said, “Yeah. It was fucking great, what’s next?”
<edit: formatting>
| 852 | Soon after you die, you are approached by a deity who asks "so, did you enjoy your time in heaven?" | 852 |
Today we broke into the last of the meat rations. We still had a fair supply of bread, and a few MRE's that were given to us during the day of the evacuation. Still, with ten of us crammed in here, I couldn't see us lasting longer than the month's end. It's been three weeks since today that the storm hit. The winds took out any local radio towers, making this old HAM radio next to useless.
Still, for the first few days we were able to make contact with any other survivors. Of course there weren't many of those. Fortunately one of the neighbors had a bomb shelter in their yard, left over from the cold war. We all used to gossip and whisper, thinking this old man was crazy for having put the damn thing in the ground. Now here we are, 15 feet below the surface of mother natures rampage, alive and well thanks to the crazy old coot.
His name was Emanuel S. Harrison. Of course after the storm hit, and he urged us all to come down here with him, he insisted we call him Manny. Manny was a veteran from the Korean and Vietnamese wars. He was old as dirt, and about as well-versed as the soil that protected us all.
We aren't sure how big this thing is. Last we heard from the HAM receiver, the system was as large as the nation itself. They always told me I was so lucky to be born into this county, of course now those same people don't tell anyone anything anymore. They wouldn't directly broadcast the true level of disparity that came with the storm, but after the fifth day the sounds of sirens ceased along with our hopes of being rescued.
There were eight others stuck down here, all of them former neighbors. The Belvarez family consisted of a husband, wife, and 2 children. The husbands name was Juan. He came to the states from El Salvador on his own when he was fifteen. During his years here he became an electrician, and thanks to his skills the generator kept running after its malfunction on day six. His wife was a woman by the name of Yoslina, or maybe its spellled Joselina or Jaselina. I never picked up much Spanish, despite living in Florida for the past ten years. She was a housewife, and knew from her youth how to properly salt meat to make it last, and how to preserve and prepare meals with the pathetic excuse for a kitchen that came with the shelter. Their children were six and ten years old. Quiet as they were, I never learned there names. Which incidentally didn't matter, seeing as they would be the first of the group to perish.
The other families there were the Macklins and the Lenikovs. The Macklins were DINKs, which meant they had Dual Income with No Kids. They'd be married as long as I've known them, however neither of them could be a day over thirty-five. Mr. Macklin went by the name of Mike, and his wife was called Susan. Mike Macklin was an economist, or a financial analyst, or some kind of money handler that proved to be useless in the given situation. His wife was also equally useless, working as a researcher for some big time university. Unfortunatley for us, she did not research storms, or survival, or bomb shelters, or anything significant. She was just approved for a grant, to study the relationship between product placement and consumer spending.
Money no longer had any value.
The Lenikovs were another family of two, this time a son and his elderly mother. His name was Aleksey, and his mother was Katerina. Aleks (as he liked to be called; he did not realize the English spelling of his name would be Alex) was fifty-three years old. He worked in a bomb factory as a child, during the end of the cold war. His mother had lived through Stalin's reign, and she did not speak a lick of English.
Naturally, old man Manny was hesitant to let the Lenikovs in. Manny was a die-hard American capitalist, and spent his life believing that Russians and all communists were the enemy. Aleks picked up on his distaste a few years ago, when the Lenikovs still had their dog Brusko around. Aleks noticed that the old man would stare him down every day that he walked his dog down the street. And still, here too in this iron catacomb Manny was always watching the Lenikovs.
However Aleks did not spend his entire life as a factory worker. Leaving Russia in 1980, he went to school in France to study meteorology. This made him the third most valuable person in here, since none of us knew anything about storms. He told us that this kind of event was unprecedented, that there is no natural way a storm system of this magnitude could just form overnight.
Manny blamed it on the USSR(which although it was disbanded, he still insisted that they were all close allies). He said that the USSR was sore from losing the space wars, and had spent their time and research in the recent years on weather control. He had often spewed conspiracy theories through his limited conversations with the neighborhood. We all knew he was just a crazy old man, stuck in an old way of thinking. It wouldn't even matter when he, myself, and Mr. and Mrs. Belvarez learned he was right.
I myself could relate to the Macklins. I had no real useful skills through the disaster. I was a legal consultant for a large cable and internet company. Since there were no more TV's, or computers, or cell phones, or corporate headquarters, or cables, or media, or laws, I found myself to be pretty useless. It's ironic that I lasted longer than the rest of these poor souls.
Manny spent the Korean war as an infantry unit. He wasn't even supposed to live through it, the US government had planned to use his platoon as human landmine detectors. While all of his friends were either blown up or shot, he managed to take out ten Koreans before he had to retreat. In Vietnam he decided his front line days were over, and instead opted to train as a medic.
His training came to use when both of the Belvarez children fell ill. He wasn't able to do much to help them, but he was able to effectively quarantine the infected snot-sacks. He told his parents it looked like the flu, an easily treatable illness when supplied with the proper medications. The first aid kit did not contain the proper medications. To spare the children of their suffering, Manny had a few emergency bottles of painkillers he stored in the vault. We aren't sure how he got the narcotics, and Mr and Mrs Belvarez never even knew. He told them they were antibiotics, that they were the best chance the kids had to survive. He explained to the uneducated Latin couple, that if they took enough at once it might kill the virus. When Mr. and Mrs. Belvarez were to die a few days later, they would leave this world thinking their children were killed by the flu and that the antibiotics didnt work. Deception was the only way; most parents would not willingly kill their children with sleeping pills.
The last contact the Belvarez's had with their children was when their mother sang them their last lullaby. It went something like this :
*Un elefantes se columpiaba*
*Sobre la tela de una araña.*
*Y como vio que resistia*
*Fue a llamar otro elefante.*
*Dos elefantes se columpiaba*
*Sobre la tela de una araña.*
*Y como vieron que resistia*
*Fueron a llamar otro elefante.*
*Tres elefantes...*
*Cuatro elefantes...*
*Cinco elefantes...* and so on.
After the passing of the Belvarez children, Mr. and Mrs. Belvarez went into a deep depression. Three days later, Mr. Belvarez would become enraged by the loss of his children, and the bottled up rage he kept for the days in between came out all at once. He yelled, mostly unintelligibly or in Spanish. He threw empty cans at the wall, and wept harder and louder with each can thrown. We all sat and watched. We were either too shocked or too hungry and exhausted to do anything. And just as quickly as his tantrum arose, so did he up the ladder to the vault. He opened the hatched and ran out into the cataclysm. When his wife realized what he had done, she frantically scurried up after him. I don't know what happened to them from there, but I'm certain they did not make it far.
Rainwater was pouring into the shelter, and a terrible force of wind and pressure was sucking a mixture of trash and rations out of the underground fortress. Alek Lenikov was the only one brave enough to climb the ladder and close the hatchet. Manny disregarded this act of courage, and instead blamed him and "his people" for what seemed like the end of days.
Aleks was usually quiet and to himself, but faced with this star spangled aggressor, he found himself yelling in a mix of broken English and Russian. Mike Macklin stepped in to try and settle the disagreement, but was pushed aside, tripped, and cracked his skull on the concrete flooring. The cold war enthusiasts were too busy with their shouting to realize what had happened, but Susan saw it all. Panicked by the sight of her dying husband, she too entered a desperate rage. Mike was unconscious, though she thought he had already passed. She grabbed one of the knives we had used for shredding meat, and proceeded to swing wildly at Aleks and Manny.
| 10 | One day, the entire continent of the United States is covered in a violent storm. Meteorologists predict that the storm should go away in two days, but after three weeks it looks like the storm will never end. Write about the catastrophe that follows. | 22 |
Sarah rolled over onto her back, the hardened cot pressing a foreign feeling into her spine. She’d been awake all night, eyes locked blankly on the darkened ceiling overhead, staring and waiting for the light of the sun to restore some sort of familiarity back to her senses. Yet as it rose, it brought with it no comfort, only walls she didn't recognize and a view that wasn't her own. She sighed heavily.
It’d been no more than 15 hours since they’d taken her, forced her into the van and driven her to the work camp. She protested, cried out and begged her mother to do something—to do anything—but she didn’t. She couldn’t. It wasn’t her choice. Sarah knew that. If anyone was to blame, it was her own damn fault. She’d been single for two years now, willingly declined any sort of romantic advances to instead focus on her knitting and cat collecting. She knew that was illegal, knew the consequences, knew that those over 16-years-old not in a relationship after 730 days were deemed wasted flesh and confined to a work camp. But she felt invincible, she felt above the law. She knew she was beautiful, that she could get anyone she chose – why would they lock her away for opting to make the boys wait? They needed more women, especially pretty ones. They only ever locked up the single boys; they would never take her, even if she stayed alone for five years.
“M’lady,” said a voice from outside the cabin window, the abruptness of it causing her to jump. “M’lady, please open the door.”
They had been standing outside her cabin all night, moaning and wheezing amongst themselves like a pack of asthmatic zombies. The van driver told her to that word of her arrival had spread throughout the camp like free pot at a Phish concert—that fedoras and tuxedos were ordered in bulk from all of the finest department stores nearby; the commissary had completely sold out of heart-shaped chocolate boxes. When the other prisoners learned that a female would be locked up, all sense of order dissipated, and the forced work stopped entirely.
“I bought you some chocolates,” said a voice from the window slightly above Sarah’s head. She exhaled heavily and rolled over onto her side.
The van driver mournfully explained that this particular camp hadn’t seen a female prisoner in decades—it usually only accepted the worst of the worst, never anyone quite like Sarah. "Neckbeards," he called them. The last woman to arrive was significantly overweight and suffered from a terrible skin condition in which her face looked exactly like a shaved Chihuahua’s. Regardless, not a single Yu-Gi-Oh card, nor Nintendo DS, nor World of Warcraft account was touched the morning of her arrival. By the end of the day, she was engaged to be wed and immediately released from the program, having entered into a relationship. Sarah wanted none of that; none of the romance, none of the pageantry, none of the intimacy. She just wanted to continue her knitting, to continue raising as many cats as possible, to be allowed to live her life by her own choosing.
“M’lady,” interrupted a voice again, this time squeaking in from the far end of the cabin, “I found the key to the door. I am going to come in and save you.”
Sarah quickly pushed herself up off the bed and onto her feet. “I don’t need saving, thank you,” she stammered.
“M’lady, please. I can be the hero you need,” said the voice. The doorknob jiggled slightly as the single stream of light pouring through keyhole vanished.
“Please leave me alone,” Sarah said, taking a step toward the wall furthest from the door.
“Are you in trouble?” said a voice behind her. She turned and glanced up at its source. The pale, overweight face of a man stared back at her through the window, his pumpkin-colored hair pulled tight in a ponytail, thick framed glasses resting just above his nose. He brought his hand to his mouth and pushed down on an inhaler, then wheezed loudly.
“No, I'm fine. I just want to be left alone,” Sarah said. She glanced above the window in search of blinds, yet a thin line of dust seemed to signal that they had recently been removed. The doorknob behind her resumed jingling.
Sarah turned back around and stared at the door, watching as the golden knob slowly turned left. The stream of light pierced back through the keyhole, then silently crawled across the wood floor like a searchlight as the door slowly opened. She took another step back, so that she was flush against the far wall of the cabin. She just wanted to be home, to be locked in her room with just her desk lamp on, staring down at her lap while working on her knitting.
“M’lady, I want to introduce myself to you,” said a man’s voice from behind the door, his hand now creeping into the room. It was a plump hand, the fingers like little sausages attached to a balloon with a self-diagnosed thyroid condition that somewhat resembled a palm.
“Please, just leave me alone. Please, please,” Sarah pleaded. Just a few hours ago, less than even a day, she had been relaxing comfortably in her room, petting one of her fourteen cats and perfecting the stitching on her latest sweater.
“Do not be afraid of me,” said the man, “I am going to show you some nice internet memes. Do you like doge? I also brought some of my favorite manga.” The hand gave birth to the rest of an arm, followed by a shoulder, torso, neck, and legs. He was round, like a beach ball that got fed up with not having arms and legs, yet seemed to have no grasp on human proportions. His legs were short and stumpy, folds of fat cascading past his knees. His arms pointed outwards like car doors that were rusted open, his hands poking out from the sleeves of his black trench coat. Sarah was sure that if he fell over on a hill, he’d simply cartwheel uncontrollably toward the bottom. A black, pinstriped fedora sat upon his head, clearly too small for his disturbingly overweight frame. A thick, unkempt beard began at his chin and extended down over his neck. Sarah placed her palms against the wood of the wall, as if trying to phase through it to escape.
“Stop, please go away. Please,” she said. Another hand slowly slid into view from behind the door, this one boney and malnourished. A stick-like body followed, a similarly disproportionate fedora placed haphazardly upon his head. If it weren’t for the fact that they were already in a work camp, Sarah would’ve immediately figured this boy to be a holocaust survivor. A large symbol Sarah recognized as something from Star Wars—or perhaps Star Trek—was printed on the front of his shirt.
“Hello, m’lady,” said the skeleton figure. “I wanted to personally welcome you to our free-thought zone. Your graceful beauty is most welcome amongst us sirs. I see you have a cross on your necklace, I just wanted to let you know that I’d be happy to explain science to you. Then we can get rid of that silly thing.”
“Please,” Sarah muttered.
Another hand appeared behind the door, followed by several more. Men of two sizes—either impossibly emaciated or disturbingly obese—slowly slid into the room, waddling toward her like a horde of freshly reanimated corpses. They wheezed in anticipation, their hands outstretched with gifts of roses, chocolates, pictures of Neil DeGrasse Tyson, and Magic the Gathering booster packs.
Sarah fell to the floor, her hands wrapped her arms around her knees, as stared up as their shadows slowly blocked out the sun from behind the door. She closed her eyes and screamed, just as the perfectly round man knelt down in front of her and began reading aloud from Richard Dawkin's *The God Delusion.* | 56 | You end up in the Concentration Camp for the Incurably Single. Tell me how your day goes. | 71 |
"So what do we have on the cover?" The room is uneasy. This is entirely new territory.
Yvonne clears her throat. "So, what about *60 ways to spice up that Curry?*" Mumbles around the table. I shift in my seat. This isn't easy.
Craig stands up, paper in hand. The tablet shakes a little as he speaks.
"We've uh..." he hesitates. "We've got *12 Mustard Types That Will Make His Brain Explode*". More mumbles, he sits, dejected.
Holly leans forward. "No bad ideas in brainstorming right?" she says. "What about **Just The Tip:** *10 Recipes Using Beef Tips*."
Nods of approval around the room. Another person shouts, "**How Horny Are You?**: *Quiz On Proper Horned Melon Use*".
Ideas are beginning to fly. "**Sausage Fest**: *Fire up that grill!*"
"**5 Steamy Tricks For Steamed Vegetables**!"
"**Let Me See That Jelly Roll!** Dessert Issue!"
Finally, the room grows silent. I stand. This is the only idea I've got.
I'm nervous all of a sudden. I look around the room.
"How about, **Flicking the Bean with Paula Deen**: *Deen's Green Bean Casserole*".
The silence is palpable. I just wish I had a mic to drop. | 19 | The writers of cosmopolitan have decided to start a magazine on cooking. | 15 |
"Fair enough."
"....eh?"
There he stood, the breaker of the world, commander of a thousand thousand legions, Lord of All that Was and Is to be. There he stood, on a dais of steel, a powerful figure with eyes of stone and a heart of ice, staring down at his sworn nemesis, broken and chained to a monolith. There he stood, mouth agape, eyebrow twitching.
"Could you...could you clarify for me exactly what you mean by that."
"Fair enough. You're right. I get it. No justice without control. It makes sense."
The captive hero hardly looked the part, after days and days of torture. His clothes were torn, his body broken, but his face was calm and his voice steady. The tyrant stared closely at that face. Can't have been more than 5, no, 6 days ago that there was screaming about something or another involving judgment and divine retribution. It was a pretty standardized speech, really, no sense in listening too hard. Although...
As the lord walked slowly down his pedestal, he did recall that the blasted warrior was awfully quiet the last few days. Uncomfortably quiet. Not the comatose quiet that usually comes with excessive torture, mind you, just creepy quiet. Frankly, that was the reason most people like him started soliloquizing. Fills the silence.
"So...you agree. To everything. The whole shtick about benevolent dictatorships, the finer points of police states, concentration of power...all of it?"
"...Yeah. I didn't want to admit it but....it...it works, doesn't it? I mean, everything's only gone wrong because someone powerful isn't in absolute control to keep it all quiet. War, crime, everything."
The dark king stroked his beard and considered his options. Strong, capable fighters were hard to come by. Low life expectancy, lots of maintenance, and honestly not the brightest torches in the bundle. This one had eluded him for a decently long time, wouldn't be surprising if he was a clever one. Can't run an empire on your own. Delegation and such. Slowly smiling, he pulled out a twisted key from his cloak and unlocked the shackles binding the hero, careful to keep a sword at his throat the whole time. Probably want to keep an eye on this one for a while.
"I'm sure we can find a way to make sure everything doesn't go all wrong again...together."
The next few months went by quite well, all things considered. The tyrant watched the hero closely for a long time, looking for some secret diary of justice or whatever thing hero's keep with them. But nothing. The hero was compliant and seemed to genuinely believe in the tyrant's empire, though always quiet, creepily quiet. It was only years later, when the tyrant's steps slowed slightly from disuse, and an errant stumble at the dais was joined by the sound of a blade being unsheathed, did the tyrant realize the truth.
He did convince the hero that someone powerful needed to be in absolute control.
Just not him. | 41 | A tyrant monologues to the captive hero about how his way of doing things is necessary... and convinces him he is right. | 36 |
Jim awoke with a yawn.
He took a stretch. Camilla's sleeping form lay beside him. She was beautiful when she slept.
Wiping the sleep from his eyes, Jim glanced over at the clock.
*8:35 AM*
Jim's internal alarm clock was nearly perfect. He never needed to set one. It was time to get up and get ready for work.
His eyes flickered over the lower display of the alarm clock. James did a double take. *10/10*. The highest possible.
His eyes widened in wonderment.
He stared at it for a full two minutes. What could it mean? He had *never* seen a 10/10. Never.
Finally, he shook the thought from his head. He had figured out long ago that it didn't matter if you dwelt on it or not, the clock never lied. James had owned the thing for ten years. It was an ugly thing.
Camilla had tried to throw it out. He didn't let her. She didn't understand. She couldn't see the display.
*My display.*
Jim was fully awake now.
He showered and shaved. All the while he wondered what could possibly make this day so important. Maybe he should call his mother, what if it was *that* day?
He pushed the thought from his mind.
Taking one last, long look at Camilla, he left their small apartment.
He was careful on his drive to work. He eyed everything and everyone. His mind kept replaying the same thought. *10/10*.
The day was... average. Work ended the way it had begun. Jim logged off the computer.
Night was falling. The twilight hours bathed the city in unreal hues. There wasn't very much time for something important to happen. That made Jim very nervous.
He drove home in silence. No radio.
Each passing set of headlights was a danger. Every intersection was a death trap. Still, he drove on.
*10/10.*
As he rode the elevator to the apartment, he wondered what could possibly be the reason. Why had the clock determined that today, an average day, be so important?
He opened the door to his apartment.
"Camilla?" He called, "I'm home, dear."
There was no response.
Jim stepped into the silent apartment. He noticed the grocery bags sitting on the dinner table. He noticed the caller ID light flashing on the house phone.
"Camilla?" He called again, "are you here?"
He walked slowly down the darkened hallway.
Light poured out from the bathroom door. It was slightly ajar. The silence was so complete that Jim could hear his own breathing.
Slowly, he pushed the bathroom door open.
*10/10.*
He saw her then.
She sat on the lid of the toilet. In her hands was a small piece of plastic. She clutched it tightly.
"Camilla?" Jim asked.
She looked up at him. A strange look in her eyes.
"Darling," she whispered, "I'm pregnant."
A smile crossed Jim's face.
*10/10.* | 132 | Every morning, your alarm clock has a slider that tells you how important this day will be overall in your life. After a few weeks of very unimportant days, you awake to the slider far to the right; today is going to be one of the most important days of your life. | 111 |
"Next!"
The cloud swirls around, rearing up and materializing into three forms. Three? That's not right. Transporter must be malfunctioning. Hmm.
As you peer out at them, you notice them looking at each other in a confused sort of way. So they weren't aware of the glitch either, then.
"Welcome to the pearly gates, lads. And lady, of course. My name's Peter. I'll be processing the final details of your applications. Shall we begin? Step forward one by one."
Normally, you do this process individually. It removes the social aspect and allows you to focus more on the person in front of you. But this time you can improvise.
One of the men - a teenager, looks Asian, black hair - steps back and waves for one of his companions to go first. The lady takes the initiative and does.
"Let's see. Hmm.... Elizabeth, is it? Oh, you prefer Beth. Beth Hawthorne, resident of England, United Kingdom, Europe, Earth, Sol. I don't see any black marks on your record, but not very many white ones either... you've lived a rather sheltered life. Ahm."
You look up, and see her watching you anxiously. Having been through this process before, you know exactly how it feels to stand there. But the law is the law.
"Now, Heaven only has a certain population capacity. Not saying that you're not a lovely woman to be around, but it's really reserved for those who've done *good*. Not those who have breezed through life on a shoestring."
Then you turn over the last page of the booklet that has materialized in your hand, and see what's written here.
"Oh. Special exemption. I see. So you've had a rough few days this past week, then? You can speak. We're all friends here."
"Yes..." She's on the verge of tears.
"Don't worry. Graders have put in a golden stamp. That means that Heaven has recognized the trauma you were put through and decided to allow you in. Once you step through these gates, you need not fear about any other assault. We screen the people who are allowed to enter to remove anyone with the slightest trace of unsavory character. By any chance, did you catch a glimpse of who it was? We haven't yet been able to identify him."
"...No."
You give her your best reassuring smile. "Don't worry. We'll find out on his record when he comes in for processing and we'll make sure he gets what he deserves."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. Stand off to the side, please." You beckon to your right, and she sits down on a cushy white chair that has formed itself out of the cloud all around. "Next!"
One of the men steps forward. It's the white one. The Asian one is still holding back.
"Hmm. Henry Rochfield? Also from England. You know, I have a great-great-great-granddaughter who's just moved to England. I should check up on them sometime. Now let's get a look at your record."
You can see almost immediately that it's a lost hope. The test graders Heaven employs from the soul bank in purgatory have a standardized system - white marks, gray marks, gold marks, black marks. White is for little deeds done to make the world a better place; gray is for selfish acts. Black marks denote bad crimes - murder, arson, prejudice, atheism. Just one means you're barred from Heaven. Too many and you're sent to Hell.
The first page, detailing his childhood starting from age seven, is a scribbled mess of gray. Age twelve is the first black mark - stealing his Dad's car for a joyride, veering onto the pavement and putting a pedestrian in hospital.
Age sixteen is the second - manslaughter. Throwing a brick off a building and killing someone far below.
You stop paying attention to what they are after that, as the black marks build up - three, four, six, seven, nine... At number ten, you give up and skim over the rest of his life details to check for gold stamps. There are none. You didn't think there would be.
"Well. Henry. Seems like you've been a rather unpleasant character so far in your life, don't you think? Sorry, you've been denied access to Heaven. In fact, we'll be sending you downstairs for a good, long think about what you've done. Stand off to my left."
You don't like it when you have to deliver bad news like this. Most people try to beg their way out of it, and it's awkward. This one, though, seems to have accepted his fate. He even seems confident about it.
You'll let the guys downstairs take care of that confidence.
He stands to your left - no chair this time, but cloudy chains fasten around his feet to prevent him from running off.
"Finally, you sir."
The Asian teen steps forward. There's a sense of darkness about him, a gleam in his eye that you only ever see downstairs. You know just by looking at him where this guy is headed.
You look down at the record.
You blink, and look again.
It's still blank.
"Oh, excuse me a second. It seems all our systems are glitchy today." You tap the record. It stays blank as a six-year-old child's. You frown. What are you supposed to do now?
"Excuse me, but are you aware of any reason you might not yet be registered in the system? I'm having some trouble accessing your details."
"I know." His voice is honeyed smooth. That's not an Earthling accent.
You take another look at him. His features are too perfect to be an accurate representation of a human being, and his eyes glint wickedly.
"Wait, are you from downstairs?"
He smirks. "I am. Of course, Hell possesses my record list, and you don't have access rights to it. Though I can tell you it's quite an impressive collection."
You roll your eyes. Downstairs has an unhealthy fascination with promoting the very worst offenders into senior staff - after a few centuries of torture, of course. This person was obviously high up, to be allowed free reign of the planes of the afterlife.
"Is it urgent? Because otherwise you should have submitted a form. At least let me deal with these two."
"It's very urgent. In fact, these two are the reason I'm here."
You quirk an eyebrow. "How so?"
"The man, specifically. I'm here to accompany him."
"He needs an escort?" You're surprised. Only the very worst get escorts - something about downstairs not wanting them to get lost, or escape. Still, you didn't read his file to the end, so it's certainly possible.
You click your fingers and Henry Rochfield's record swims into view on the paper. You begin flicking through again - hmm, car, brick, the one with the dead rat, knife crime... seen this before. Where did you stop skimming?
"I'm not an escort. I would never stoop so low."
"Ah, then why are you here?" You're not looking up, still flicking through.
"Henry made a deal. I'm here to follow through on our terms."
"He sold his soul?"
"To us, yes. It's on the last page."
Last page... you flip over the paper and see, right at the back, a big red splodge. Contract formation.
You sigh and put the paper down, looking the demon in the eyes. "What did he ask for?"
"A favor from you."
"You know we don't allow that, right? People are not allowed to sell their souls to Hell to get into Heaven. We closed that loophole nearly seventy years ago."
"Oh, not about him."
"Then what was he asking for?"
"Check the second to last page. You'll work it out."
Curious, you go back a page and read the conversation. What you read makes you feel sick to your stomach.
"No. I'm not doing that."
The demon shrugs. "There's no law against it. Frankly, I was impressed at his ingenuity. He'll make a good demon."
"I refuse."
"You have no right to. Heaven is bound, just like Hell is, to follow all terms of soul contracts barring special exemptions decided on by a bipartisan committee at least three months in advance. I checked before dealing. No exemptions for this kind of thing, since nobody has ever thought of doing it before."
"But this is clearly unfair!"
"Nobody said the people in Hell play *fair*. Now do your job."
You take a deep, shuddering breath. You can't believe you're about to do this.
Then you turn to Elizabeth. "Beth, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
You click your fingers.
The cloudy chair dissolves out from underneath her; she hits the floor with a thump and a shocked squeak. Henry's chains are gone too and he's running around the front of your desk, towards her.
"Heya, Liz. Remember me?" His voice has taken on a drawl that wasn't there before. Elizabeth's eyes go wide. "I think you do-oo. Thought you wouldn't recognize my face. But remember my promise?"
"B-but- But I-"
"You didn't think slitting your wrists on that nail would keep us apart, would you? Love always finds a way. Now we can be together forever, don't you see, little Liz?"
Elizabeth screams and tries to get away but Henry has her arm and his grip is too strong. He yanks her back and she struggles against him, still screaming.
"Good. I like it when you're feisty..." he whispers into her ear.
She whimpers and her eyes catch yours. The gaze in them is a terrified plea for rescue.
"Don't get too tied up in the emotions of it. It's just business." The demon shrugs and places a hand on Henry's shoulder, dissolving into black smoke and taking the two humans with him. The last thing you see of Elizabeth before she fades away is that horrified begging stare.
Then they're gone, and what's left of the smoke is mixing with the cloud to form an ugly patch of gray mist to the right of your desk.
You lie back in your chair, trembling. The cloud around you is silent. You followed the rules. You did nothing wrong. You couldn't have done anything differently.
It doesn't make the twist in your stomach any better.
Damn it, you hate dealing with demons.
With a sigh and a massage of your temples, you click your fingers and the stain is gone, along with the whiff of burning sulfur.
You take a deep breath. There are hundreds of applications to oversee before the shift is over. So you arrange a carefully crafted warm smile on your face.
"Next!" | 199 | Three people meet at the entrance to heaven. One is meant to enter, one is supposed to go to hell, and the third is not listed. | 132 |
It all started in Japan. The industry of love. Selling the trappings of a relationship with none of the commitments.
And slowly but surely, the human race stopped reproducing. The effort of commiting to a relationship became too much for people. Comfort could be bought, intimate relations simulated. People wasted away in their homes and their workplace, and no-one stepped up to replace them. Industries collapsed, and people lost their jobs. Without the skills to survive outside of the cities that had nurtured them since the cradle, the upper-echelon of humanity died out within months.
The poor initially thrived, falling back on archaic bartering systems and surviving off farming and livestock. It looked like humanity would rebuild within a few years, but the hope was short-lived.
People died of sickness daily, without doctors to cure them. As people died, other groups moved in to replace them. After a while, people stopped waiting for them to die, and started taking land by force.
Territorial wars sprang up, and sabotage was rife. Land would be salted as a response for the crimes of another, which would spark more fights and more injustice.
Without regard for each other, the survivors starved. The last remains of humanity became small groups, living in caves and scavenging what they could find.
Humanity would rebuild, but not in a way we would recognise. | 22 | Write an apocalypse story that doesn't involve natural disasters, established fictional creatures or pathogens. | 22 |
She sat clutching it in her hands. Could she go to jail for this, she wondered. They were only 17 so maybe juvie.
She glanced at him sitting beside her. She could tell he was trying not to look nervous, but the slight trembling of his hands on the wheel gave him away.
Together they watched the headlights of the occasional car go by them in the evening light.
They both took deep slow breaths and then turned to look at each other one last time.
"You ready?" he asked.
She nodded firmly.
He shifted to the gas pedal and the car began to glide forward. Their window of opportunity would only last for about a minute and they needed to do this.
He kept his gaze on the white picket fence at the far end of the line of houses. He kept the car moving silently until he pulled up next to it.
Quickly she jumped out, lifting the object in her hand. She pressed the top and it hissed as a spray of black shot out. She moved quickly and efficiently. As soon as she formed the last line, she dove back into the car.
He started the car moving slowly, letting it go for a few meters before slamming his foot on the accelerator and peeling down the road.
She stuck her head out the open window, the wind blowing her hair around her. A grin materialized on her face as she stared at the word emblazoned on the fence.
DICKBUTT.
| 41 | A teenage boy sits behind the wheel of a car. While a girl, equally his age, stares out the window and watches the headlights of other cars zoom by. They are both nervous. | 52 |
"WILLIAM!!!!! COME BACK INSIDE RIGHT NOW AND APOLOGIZE TO YOUR SISTER!"
The screeches were as loud as they were piercing. Billy plugged his ears with his fingers. His chubby appendages were the perfect size for a situation like this, and for that he was grateful.
But that didn't make him any less angry.
It wasn't Billy's fault. Sally had turned on that stupid Disney Channel show for *babies* and wasn't letting Billy play his Batman game.
Billy envied Batman. Batman could just shoot his grappling hook and fly to places to beat up bad guys. If Billy was Batman he wouldn't have to worry about Sally and Mom. He would have a responsibility to the world. He would be a hero. The best part was that Batman was human but he didn't have any superpowers! He wasn't like those other superheroes that needed superpowers to save the world. He did it on his own, by himself, like a badass.
Now that was cool.
Billy opened the door to the shed and went through his secret stash. He donned his makeshift cape and his mask. There was no mirror but he knew how awesome it looked.
The next moment, Billy was flying from the rooftops, chasing the Joker who had kidnapped a poor, beautiful woman.
***Thud***
"OW! What th-" Billy looked down to see what he had stubbed his toe on and found an old-looking sword on the ground. The pain left him as quickly as it had arrived, replaced by a flutter of anticipatory excitement.
If Batman had had a sword, it would've looked like this. It was all black, just like the dark knight would have wanted it.
Billy carefully knelt down and examined it. The steel was sharp. Although the sword was not particularly long, it had a regal quality about it. It felt powerful and mysterious at the same time. There was something special about it and even Billy could sense it. Billy clutched the hilt of the sword, half-expecting something to happen, half-expecting to be disappointed.
"WHO GOES THERE? WHY HATH YOU AWOKEN ME?"
Billy jumped from shock and dropped the sword.
"D-did you just t-talk?"
"DO YOU SEE ANY OTHER TALKING SWORD IN THE VICINITY?" The booming voice bellowed.
"U-uh w-what do you want?" Billy said, quivering after every word.
The voice dropped to a whisper, "The dark lord has summoned me to take you away because of how you treated your sister."
Billy forgot his fear.
"What!?!? She's the one treating me badly. She just cries for no reason and I always get in trouble. IT'S NOT MY FAULT!"
A deep, throaty laughter came from the sword. Still chuckling, the voice caught his breath and replied, "Hey kid, I was just messing with you. I'm just a regular old magical object that you see once in a lifetime."
"What do you mean?"
"Every lifetime, everyone is visited once by a magical object. This object is supposed to change the direction of their life to a more positive path. I appear to you in the form of a sword because this is the form you need right now."
Billy was flabbergasted and stood rooted in disbelief.
"Yeah, yeah... No one believes me at first, but hey, you don't have to. That's the beauty of it. Alright...let's see here. William Engelwood. Ah...yes! Found you."
The sword stood up on its own volition. The blackness looked more menacing now.
"Alright, kid. Here's the deal. In a few minutes, something bad will happen. It's gonna suck kid, you can count on that. You're gonna have to do the right thing. You'll know what to do when the time comes, it's just gonna be hard to do it."
The voice paused as if he was thinking about the best way to phrase his next few words.
"Be the hero you've always wanted to be."
And with those final words, the life left the sword. Billy knew he was gone.
Billy warily approached the sword and touched it with his finger. It seemed safe to pick up. Billy grasped the sword and thrust it into the air above his head, piercing the sky above him. It was as light as a feather. It cut through the air like a knife through butter. He waved the sword, pretending to hack through the imaginary enemies standing before him. One by one, each of them fell, unable to withstand the might of Billy's newfound power.
Billy's imagination was rudely interrupted by the unmistakable sound of broken dishes coming from inside the house. Billy hid the sword behind his back and cautiously walked into the house to see what the ruckus was about.
The kitchen was a mess. On the ground, there were broken shards of dishes scattered across the floor. Billy saw a man turned away from him. In one hand, the man had an empty beer bottle with some beer slowly dripping from its rim. In the other, he had a gun, pointed directly at Billy's mother who was cowering in the opposite corner of the kitchen with Sally pushed back behind her.
Billy didn't know what to do. He stood there as the man shouted obscenities.
"YOU WHORING SLUT! YOU WENT AND SLEPT WITH JASON, DIDN'T YOU? THERE ISN'T A MAN IN THIS CITY WHO YOU HAVEN'T FUCKED, IS THERE?"
Billy recognized the voice. It was his father. He was supposed to be at work. Billy didn't understand. Why was he here? Why was he so angry?
Billy's father continued weakly, "I-I gave my heart to you. I gave you everything. And you did this to me... How could you?"
Billy glanced at his mother. She was crying. Billy had never seen her cry before. Billy's heart filled with hatred towards his father.
Billy's father let the beer bottle drop to the floor and raised his arms in unison, eventually clenching the gun with two hands, directly in front of him. The gun was pointed directly at Billy's mother.
"I'm sorry Sarah, I'm sorry..."
Billy was ready. There, standing before him, was the Joker. The Joker wanted to hurt Billy's mom. He had to be stopped. The sword was part of his hand now. He couldn't place the point where his hand ended and the sword began. They were one. One force to save the world.
"Dad!"
Billy's father wheeled around, startled. Billy lunged forward and plunged the sword deep in his father's stomach.
"I'm sorry dad...it's not your fault. I just had to save the world."
| 42 | An ancient sentient sword is found by a 12 year old boy in his backyard. | 52 |
*Am I alone?*
Raymond sat at his PC and thought back to the day he'd had. The bullying had been worse than normal. That jerk Dwight; one of of these days he was going to get his. Somehow, Dwight had managed to not only slam him into his locker, causing Raymond to spill his lunch, but he had also arranged to have one of his buddies mess with Raymond's car. Luckily, one of his teachers had caught the guy in the act, but still. The humiliation of having his car towed then having to take the bus home stung.
Raymond sat in front of his PC and ran his fingers through his short cropped hair before posting to his social media sites about how tired he was of bullies. His mind drifted back to his old school, the one he'd spent the last three years at. He hadn't really had friends there either, but people left him alone. No one picked on the goth kid who's dad was a small town army hero. After dad left, things changed. He and mom moved out of state, so he had to start over. Raymond still didn't like people. People betrayed you. People lied to you. People were selfish. Being at a new school, being new was a liability and people took advantage of it. No one knew you and or your former reputation. As a senior, this was even more of a problem.
Mom had never explained why dad left. One night, he was home, and the next, his mom was crying over divorce papers. A week later, he died in a car crash out in New York.
Raymond hated his dad.
Determined to pull himself out of his funk, Raymond put on his favorite music logged on to his favorite site: a blog devoted to spy fiction. As much as he hated his father now, the love of espionage stories was the one thing they shared when Raymond was younger and it reminded him of better times. His dad had told him that there was always an answer, even if it required sacrifice. Inevitably, the good of all was important. In searching for answers to fictional problems, Raymond was usually able to lose himself enough to forget the pain.
As he browsed through the new stories, he found nothing that really garnered his interest: the same pap fan-fiction that bloated the site. He rubbed his temples and debated about going to bed early.
“You are not alone.”
Raymond blinked at the pop-up that appeared on his screen: a simple, black box with green courier text. He moved the mouse cursor to close it, but the cursor dodged the “X”. Alt-F4, likewise, did not close the window. Raymond jumped as his phone rang out a text alarm. Pulling it from his pocket, he unlocked it to find a text from a number that made no sense, given it had seventeen digits. “Rough day at school. Sorry, Raymond, but I can't stop them. Not yet. I need you to trust me.” Looking up at his PC, the message “I need you to trust me.” was repeated.
“Who are you?” Raymond typed, scared at both the response and at what this person might know about him.
“Call me Gemini. I would tell you to not be afraid, but, any sane, logical person seeing this would likely be freaking out right now. I'm running out of time, Raymond. I've been watching you from the shadows as a favor to someone. I've watched you now for years, keeping tabs on you.”
Keeping tabs? Years? What kind of deranged ass would watch a teenager for years? “Why me? I'm no one.”
Raymond's screen began to fill with browser pages: posts he'd made, stories he'd written, articles about his dad, birth records, school records, phone records. The black window popped back up. “Not no one. What you think you know, all the pain you've been through, I wish I could've done something to prevent it. My talking to you is going to get me in a ton of trouble, but you had to be warned.”
“Warned? Warned about what?” Raymond's mind spun. He was just a teenager.
“Your dad knew some deep level stuff and people think he let you in on it before he went under.”
Went under? Didn't they know his dad died three months ago? “Okay, this isn't funny. My dad's buried in a cemetery on the other side of the country.”
There was a pause. “He's not dead. He's somewhere in Europe. You are in serious danger. Look outside your window: two agents are about to come knock at your door.”
Raymond glanced out the window and spotted a black sedan that hadn't been there when he got home half an hour ago. The two men in suits looked out of place in his neighborhood. Turning back to his PC he typed. “Okay. You have my attention. Why should I trust you? Who told you to watch me?”
“Because your father was my C.O. in the Army and he asked me to watch over you. If you want the truth, come to Donatello's Pub. Bring nothing with you: not your laptop, not your cellphone, nothing. Don't use your credit card. You can be tracked.”
Raymond flinched as the car doors closed. He tossed his phone on his bed. “How do you know all this?”
“I work for the NSA, or, at least, a part of it. Don't worry about finding me. I can find you.”
Raymond stood up and made his way to the back window. Popping it open, he looked back to find his PC had been shut off. He paused only for a moment to ponder the insanity of what he was doing, but the knock on the front door had him out the window and running. | 14 | for years you've seen it all. Feeling a connection, you finally prepare to reach out to this person who is oblivious to your existence. | 28 |
"Welcome to Syria." Accompanied by a hoarse chuckle, the accented words dripped with sarcasm. The only passenger struggled with the straps of the belt before finally releasing them and standing as best as he could in the small aircraft, his palm pressing against the roof for balance.
"Thank you so much, I hope you stay safe on the rest of your travels." His voice was warm, embellished with the Irish dialect of his small hometown, and held the telling tone of a child with hope and ambition. The two pilots shared a weighted glance before looking back at the man, the *boy*, in jeans, sneakers, and a sports jacket. The two had laughed when he had told them about how he was a writer and in search of a new story. They'd thought it was funny that he wanted to find 'the story' in Syria, but now that the moment came for him to lay foot onto the dry land, it wasn't all that laughable anymore.
"Listen kid, you *sure* you want to do this? We can take you back to the airport and we won't even charge extra since we're going back anyways." His partner jabbed him in the side with a hiss of "Sayid." The man chuckled and slung his backpack over his shoulders, shaking his head.
"I'll have to pass on the offer. I came for a reason, and I'm not leaving just yet." But a look of unease flickered across his face and his knuckles went white on his bag straps. A whoosh of air and a head shake brought the confidence back to his face and he grinned at the two pilot. "Anyway, this is my stop. Thank you for the ride, gentlemen." Sayid scratched his greying beard, not sure of what to say or how to warn him.
"There is not beauty here," the other pilot rumbled. "There is not much of anything left here. I tell you this so you will not be so foolish." Sayid's gaze fell onto his parter, then to his own hands. The boy's smile faltered for only a moment before brightening again.
"There is beauty in anything, even the simplest things," he stated firmly, and with a nod, he turned to open the door to the chopper.
" .انتظر"
Sayid said the word hurriedly, then bit his cheek in self-frustration. "Wait. We must, at least," he chuckled, a bit forcibly, "know your name so we can get your future book on the 'hidden beauty' here, yes?" The man's mouth opened a bit in surprise but he checked himself and then leaned forward extending his hand to the pilot.
"My name is Jameth Coghlan. And I swear I'll find the hidden beauty if it's the last thing I do." He gave a laugh, and it was easy. Sayid hadn't heard a laugh like that in years. He hadn't laughed in ages as it was. His hand firmly clasped with Jameth's, the tan, weathered skin contrasting with the milky complexion of the Irish man.
It was when Jameth had already exited the plane, and started towards the small town that Sayid's partner spoke.
"Why would you encourage him? He'll get himself killed, he's just a kid with a foolish dream." Sayid grunted and started the aircraft. As they rose from the dusty ground, Sayid pursed his lips and shook his head, then let out a whoosh of air, with a whisper of "في امان الله." He would never say that it was because Jameth reminded him of himself when he was younger: just as hopeful and optimistic. Just as full of promise. Below them, sirens began to sound. Their sharp inhales were the last sounds either of them made for the rest of the trip.
| 11 | An optimistic young writer has hit best-selling success by the age of 22. He travels to the middle east for his next novel, into the middle of all the turmoil, attempting to find one of the beautiful stories to tell among all the pain. He soon learns he has made a mistake... | 32 |
Jane felt like screaming at her class. It had been six years since the Revision, and half her class still misused the second letter of the alphabet as some sort of primordial mating call. She doubted that any of them had ever even seen Happy Days outside of the odd youtube clip, hell she herself was too young to have seen it!
"Class!", she called out slamming the blackboard eraser on her desk, " Anyone who uses the letter æ as any form of greeting will given detention- And that goes double for you John!", she continued before turning to face the current class clown.
"æ? Why me - what'd I do maam?", he replied instantly smug in her inability to read spoken dialogue.
"You know perfectly well why you John. Every single character in your last exam somehow managed to introduce themselves with æ. Misuse aside John, there are times when certain action start become uncharacteristic, a newborn popping out with an eyyy is definetly one of those times."
Jane felt a little better, at least the little bugger had the good grace to appear embarrassed.
"I won't punish any of you today, but god help you if you do it again. Remember well this time it is pronounced aeh not eyy" | 13 | The 27th letter has been added to the English alphabet. | 54 |
God was hammered. He hadn't been out partying with Ol' Scratch since the days of Job, but these days, there wasn't much for him to do.
"I bet you think you're so benelo-vent... relevovent... Belevo-.. Benevolent. I could do your job in a h-..*hic*..h-..*hic*.. heartbeat."
"You're so full of shit your eyes are blue! Why can't you be like your brother Jay? He's a success, but you just live in my goddamned basement."
"You call running a cult being successful? Also, you got that line wrong. It's.. *hic*.. 'You're so full of shit your eyes are brown.'. Blue? That doesn't even make sense."
"It does now. Shit is blue! It is now and will always have been. I am who is called I am!"
"Don't give me that crap, Dad. You couldn't walk a mile in my shoes without cracking under the pressure. Always having to be the bad guy, the adversary. You-damned, you're always telling me how I'm one more transgression from a thousand fucking years in the pit of darkness."
"You think it's easy being me? Oh, sure, the world-turtle just sits on his fat ass while I make sure mankind doesn't fuck up and kill it's self."
"Oh, really? Why's it's that everyone gets to run amuck these days, child-soldierin' and a whorin' and a'nuclear-bombing themself to wreck and ruination?"
"Because of you, and your Me-less ways! You've corrupted my children."
"That's a lie. I ain't fuckin' done shit but stay and mind my own business in the basement for the last few centuries. What, you think I'm just gonna walk around in New Orleans, horns out and bifurcated tail whipping around? The last time I did that, a voodoo man tried to grind me up and smoke me for powers."
"Did it.. did it work?"
"You tell me, Dad. You're omniscient, ain't ya?!"
"Yes, but I'm a bit old these days. My eyes aren't what they used to be. Besides, I can't pay attention to everything. You ever try to watch about six billion television screens at once? That's what omniscience is. Highly over-fucking-rated. And drop that condescending tone."
"I bet you couldn't last a minute in my shoes, let alone a day."
"I bet the same. You'll crack, and when you do, you'll finally understand yer old man."
"Fat fucking chance, fat-man."
"Bet you a day in the life and a box of donuts."
"You're on!"
And so it begun. | 10 | God loses a bet with Satan, and in return they switch spots for a day, however they have to end up proving they are who they say they are. | 23 |
It just appeared. No fanfare, no promotion, no marketing, it just appeared on the Steam front page.
Within seconds it was all over the web, it spread like wild fire, trending on Twitter, clogging up Facebook feeds, racking up thousands of shares on Tumblr. Then, came the noise.
All across the world a keening whine could be heard, a strange high-pitched screech, just at the edge of human hearing. No one knew what was causing it, but it was getting more intense by the second.
It grew louder; dogs howled and barked. Louder; glass vibrated and shattered. Louder; people fell to the ground clutching their ears in agony!
There was only one thing it could have been: a million voices, all unified in one hysterical, apocalyptic scream of nerd-rage.
A million mouths cried out in bitter disappointment, a million fists slammed down on a million keyboards, a million tear-choked eyes read one title: 'Half life 3: Black Mesa Kart Racer'.
All those minds, all across the planed, joined together in one moment of utter despair.
The years of waiting, the anticipation, the hype, the hope. It was all for nothing! No, worse than nothing it was for a shitey kart racer with bobble headed versions of Half Life characters racing around a Ravenholm inspired track on brightly coloured go-carts throwing headcrabs at each other!
Just as the world-wide cry of geek-hate reached its fever pitch a message appeared on Steam, ’Gordon Freeman character DLC, only $16.99!’
The scream suddenly rose to unfeasible levels, the skies boiled with violent storm clouds, the ground shook, the oceans surged and heaved!
Then, suddenly, it stopped.
A delicate, timid silence settled on the world like a gauze sheet.
A million minds came to the realisation that they were suddenly aware of a million other minds.
The sheer power of the collective gamer-woe had led to an emotional singularity, a kind of mass telepathy.
A million hearts reached out to one another.
They had all been hurt, they had all suffered, they had all been let down, but they had not been alone.
A perfect empathy, that transcended language, borders, and religion, brought millions people together… The world would never be the same.
Deep inside Valve HQ Gabe Newell leaned back in his chair, and smiled. | 623 | Half-Life 3 is released. World peace ensues. | 410 |
"Vot? Zat ees the plan you have?" The Russian ambassador asked, an eyebrow raised.
"Why yes! It is!" Peaceman proclaimed with a huge grin on his face.
The entire UN stared at him in silence. The Russian spoke again. "You-you can't just keel half ze people on Earth! Are you insane? How- how do you zink you'll decide who to keel?" He laughed, half amused and half frightened.
"The poorest first, of course. They'll stop leeching on the economies of developed nations! Our economies will improve now that there are less mouths to feed that won't contribute anyway."
The ambassador, a socialist by heart, was taken aback by his answer. "Vot? You are insane! Why- how- how did you come up vith veez ridiculous ideas? You read too much Ayn Rand. And vat do you zink ve'll do vith ze bodies?"
Peaceman shrugged. "Fertilizer? Energy sources? I don't know, I'm not the one cleaning them up. But think about it this way. The reason people start wars is for resources, right? And more people need more resources to feed them and stuff. But if half the population's gone, the people left will have more resources per person because there's less people to feed. Think about it! More food! More energy! And if there's more, we can share the resources all over the world without having to consume them. And if we just share, then there could be peace because we're working together!"
The American ambassador shook his head. "What a load of shit," he whispered to the UK diplomat beside him.
"Hey! I heard that!" Peaceman shouted. The American went white and returned to silence.
"Killing half the population," the Russian Ambassador said. "That is one of the craziest things I've heard!"
"But I'm confident it'll work!" Peaceman proclaimed. "But you know what's going to work better? If we could get rid of three-quarters of the population! With only one race, maybe. Then everyone could work together without the issue of colour!"
The Russian Ambassador's face turned red with anger. "Fascist! I hope you burn in hell! You neo-nazi piece of-"
The entire chamber gasped as the Ambassador was lifted in the air. "What were you going to say about me?" Peaceman asked with a voice full of anger. The Ambassador floated right in front of Peaceman. "Huh? What? Say it."
The Russian spat in his face. "Go to hell, you devil. You can fit vell with the likes of Hitler."
Peaceman just rubbed the spit off. "You go to hell!" With that, Peaceman levitated him to the top of the chamber, so everyone could see. The Ambassador's face melted off his skull, his blood pooling below him. His limbs were torn one by one, again landing in the puddle of blood. His stomach and intestines were pulled out of his chest. Even though he was mutilated, the Ambassador still appeared to be alive, his eyeballs rolling frantically in their sockets. The Russian was dropped down back to the floor of the chamber. With a snap of his fingers, Peaceman removed any evidence of the carnage that just unfolded, no blood, no organs, nothing. "Cleaning up," he grumbled. "Not something I'll be doing for anyone else."
Peaceman looked at the terrified diplomats, a frightening look in his eye. He had removed every stain except the one on his costume, right on the stylized peace symbol on his chest. "Any more objections, say I."
He looked around and grinned. "Good. You guys have seven days to decide. If you don't want to then I will, myself." He disappeared into a bright light and vanished.
Peaceman did bring about world peace in the end. After all, nothing unites like a common enemy.
| 17 | A person discovers they have super powers one day, and decides to use their powers to usher in an era of world peace. Unfortunately, they have no understanding of international politics. | 21 |
No matter how much we tried to explain the idea, the personified concept wasn't quite getting it.
"No, the point is that it's a scary story! See, the hook on the car door means that the hook-handed killer was there all along!"
YES, BUT THE GIRL DOES NOT DIE. WOULD THE STORY NOT BE SCARIER IF THEY ALL DIED?
"But then there'd be no one left to tell the story!"
HERE, HOW ABOUT THIS. A THOUSAND PEOPLE DIE EACH DAY FROM BEING HIT BY TRAINS.
"Well, I guess that's kind of depressing, but I don't know if it's really scary..."
I STILL DO NOT UNDERSTAND. THIS IS A THING? SITTING AROUND BURNING BRANCHES AND ATTEMPTING TO INDUCE FEAR?
"Yeah, it's called camping! We're out experiencing nature!"
SO WHAT IS THE PURPOSE OF THE FEAR TALES?
"No, man. Scary stories. Not 'fear tales.' And I guess it's because we're out here in the darkness, not knowing what's out there - so telling scary stories that aren't true makes us feel better in comparison to what's really there."
BUT THERE ARE MANY THINGS HERE THAT CAN KILL YOU TOO. FOREST FIRES. BEARS. MALARIA.
"Well, yeah, but those aren't as bad as the stories we tell! See?"
I DO NOT SEE, IT IS VERY DARK. IT IS BETTER TO BE MAULED BY A BEAR THAN STABBED BY A MAN WITH A HOOK ON HIS HAND? YOU ARE DEAD IN BOTH CASES.
"Ugh. Look, I can't explain this. Do you have a story or are we going to skip you?"
YES, I WANT TO TRY.
"Okay. Let's hear the scariest thing you've got."
ONE DAY, ALL OF THE ENERGY IN THE UNIVERSE WILL BE EQUALLY DISTRIBUTED AND THERE WILL BE NO MORE MOVEMENT. ALL WILL BE STILL AND DISTURBED ONLY BY BROWNIAN PERTURBATIONS.
"Dude, that's not scary!"
"Well, it kind of is. More depressing, I guess..."
"But we won't be around for it! So it isn't scary."
AH. IT MUST PERTAIN TO YOU SPECIFICALLY? YOU HAVE FOUGHT A MAN WITH A HOOK FOR A HAND?
"No! But we could, you know? We won't live to see the heat death of the universe."
OKAY, OKAY. LET ME TRY AGAIN.
"You would have thought that the personification of death itself would be better at scary stories, man."
"Dude, shut it. At least he's killing all the mosquitoes."
OKAY, HOW ABOUT THIS. JACK THE RIPPER!
"What about him?"
HE USED TO KILL MANY PROSTITUTES. OFTEN VERY VIOLENTLY.
"Well, you can't just say that! You have to make it into a story! Like, maybe the ghost of Jack the Ripper haunts these woods, and he kills any woman who enters the woods and isn't a virgin because he believes her to be a whore..."
BUT THERE ARE NO GHOSTS. AFTER ME, THERE IS NOTHING.
"Now, that's scary."
IS IT?
"Yes, but not in the right way, man! Look, you have to tell a story! Give us a, what's the word?"
"Narrative."
"Yeah, one of those! Make it personal!"
I AM NOT A PERSON. I AM AN INFINITE CONCEPT, TEMPORARILY INTERSECTING THIS PLANE IN AN ASSUMED SHAPE TO INTERACT WITH YOU.
"Well, we can't relate to that. So it doesn't work for telling scary stories."
"Look, the marshmallows are almost gone. Maybe we should just turn in for the night."
NO, NO, GIVE ME ONE MORE TRY.
"Ugh. Fine. Last one, though!"
OKAY. THE NATIVE AMERICAN TRIBE THAT ONCE LIVED IN THIS GEOGRAPHICAL AREA USED TO REQUIRE THAT ITS BRAVES GO OUT INTO THE WOODS FOR A SPIRITUAL JOURNEY IN ORDER TO BECOME TRUE MEN.
"Okay, good start so far!"
THESE BRAVES WOULD INDULGE IN A VARIETY OF HALLUCINOGENS TO AID IN VIEWING THEIR SPIRITS. SOME EVEN INTERACTED WITH ME, WHICH WAS UNUSUAL. BUT ONE BRAVE, VERY CONFUSED, FELL DOWN A HILL AND BROKE HIS LEG WHEN HE HIT A ROCK.
"Ugh. In the woods? That would suck."
"Shut up, dude! Let Death keep on telling his story."
AFTER THREE DAYS, WHEN THE BRAVE HAD NOT RETURNED, THE REST OF THE TRIBE SENT OUT THE BEST TRACKERS IN THEIR GROUP. ONE OF THESE WAS THE BRAVE'S OLDER BROTHER. THE OLDER BROTHER QUICKLY FOUND HIS YOUNGER BROTHER'S TRACKS AND FOLLOWED THEM TO THE RAVINE.
UNFORTUNATELY, IN THE MIST RISING UP FROM THE RAVINE, THE YOUNGER BRAVE SAW NOTHING BUT A SHADOW LOOMING IN THE MIST. HE GRABBED HIS SPEAR AND ATTACKED. IT WAS NOT UNTIL HIS BROTHER WAS SLAIN THAT HE REALIZED WHAT HE HAD DONE.
"Oh god, that's chilling."
YES, THE COLD ONLY ADDED TO HIS CONFUSION. THE BRAVE'S MENTAL STATE WAS FURTHER DETERIORATED BY THE REALIZATION OF WHAT HE HAD JUST DONE. HE STRAPPED HIS LEG AND MOVED THROUGH THE FOREST, KILLING EVERY OTHER TRACKER HE CAME ACROSS. HE THOUGHT THEM TO BE MALEVOLENT SPIRITS PURSUING HIM.
"Oh man, this is good."
"Yeah, keep going!"
DESPITE HIS DELIRIUM, THE BRAVE EVENTUALLY RETURNED TO THE REST OF THE TRIBE. HE CHARGED OUT OF THE WOODS, HIS BLOODY SPEAR HELD ALOFT AS HE HOWLED. IT WAS NIGHT, AND WITH THE WARRIORS OUT SEARCHING THE FOREST, THERE WAS LITTLE RESISTANCE. HE KILLED MANY OF THE TRIBE'S WOMEN AND CHILDREN BEFORE HE WAS FINALLY SLAIN.
"Holy shit, man. That would be so scary! A crazy Indian just charging out of the woods at us..."
"Native American, dude. It's more PC."
"Screw PC, this is a scary story! Is there more?"
YES. THE ELDERS OF THE TRIBE BELIEVED THIS TO BE A TERRIBLE OMEN, A SIGN THAT THEY WERE CURSED. THEY PREPARED A POISONOUS DRAUGHT FOR THE REMAINING MEMBERS OF THE TRIBE, SO THAT THEY MIGHT JOIN THEIR GODS. THEY ALL CONSUMED THE DRAUGHT AND DIED.
EVENTUALLY, THE BRAVES THAT HAD BEEN SEARCHING IN THE WOODS AND HAD EVADED THEIR CRAZY TRIBE MEMBER RETURNED. THEY FOUND THE REST OF THEIR TRIBE DEAD, SOME SLAIN BY SPEAR, OTHERS BY POISON.
"Now that would drive me crazy."
"Sssh. Keep going!"
THERE IS LITTLE ELSE TO TELL. THE LAST BRAVES WERE LOST AND WITHOUT GUIDANCE. THEY HID IN THE WOODS, LIVING SOLITARY AND CONFUSED LIVES UNTIL THEY DIED AS WELL.
"Geez. A whole Indian tribe, all wiped out."
IT WAS A SCARY STORY?
"Hell yeah, dude! God, it's gonna be hard to fall asleep tonight."
ALL OF THE BRAVES ARE LONG SINCE DEAD.
"Yeah, but that's not the point. Just imagine a crazy Indian running out of the woods at us."
"Native American."
"Shut up."
"Look, it was a good story, and the fire is dying down. We should probably turn in."
AH YES, YOU HUMANS AND YOUR SLEEP. DO NOT WORRY. I HAVE KILLED THE BEAR THAT WAS IN THE AREA ALREADY.
"Wait, what? There was a bear?"
YES, HE WAS CIRCLING THE CAMP. I STOPPED HIS HEART, AS HE WOULD HAVE INTERRUPTED MY STORY.
"Holy shit, Death. You should have just said that!"
BUT HE HAS NOT KILLED ANYONE. IS HE SCARY?
"Ugh. Look, I'll try and explain this more in the morning."
GOOD NIGHT, MORTALS.
"Night, Death." | 125 | You, after a near-death experience, somehow become best friends with Death (the grim reaper). Describe your adventures hanging out with Death itself. | 91 |
She stared at it intently. The painting was so beautiful, an orange-purple sky in the background as the sun set. Staring out at it were a tiny little couple, almost just outlines, sitting on a tiny brown bench.
She took her eyes off of the painting and walked about the museum. A man and woman strolled by, their hands linked with their child. They swung him up and down as they moved along, stopping for a second to admire the painting she’d been looking at. It always seemed to capture people’s attention. Something about it expressed everything they wanted to, but never actually could.
She slowly made her way to the corner where another portrait hung. A rather famous one. She wobbled a bit on her cane as she approached, waiting for the pregnant woman standing in front to move out of the way. That reminded her of the times she’d been pregnant and how great of times they were.
When the woman moved, she stared at the young lady in the portrait. She had beautiful, milky skin and had been painted so well that they decided it deserved its own little space on the wall.
“Is that you in the picture?” a child asked as he passed by with his parents. She just smiled back, his parents admonishing him for asking a question like that to a complete stranger.
As she sat there, she recalled what her husband had told her when he had painted this portrait of her. And then she recalled the words he’d said when he finished his last painting that he’d ever do, a beautiful mélange of colors that pleased the eyes, showing a future that would come soon enough.
“Wow, this is so beautiful,” a woman said to her date. “I might just imagine this is how it would be when we die, finally meeting up with the one we hold the dearest.”
The old lady shed a tear as she thought about what was to come. But it wouldn’t be as soon as she expected. He wouldn’t have wanted it that way. And so she left the museum and continued on with her grey and pale day, waiting for that orange-purplish sunset.
-198 | 11 | Any length, any topic, make us feel your characters emotion but leave them unsaid. Example, if you chose love, you can't use the word love. | 22 |
Jack ran. The only noise that existed to him was the rapid *smack!* of his shoes as he propelled through the street. There were no cars. There was no other noise. No machinery, no animals, no humans. Through the tears and the wind rushing through his ears, Jack was aware of his surroundings as it jagged in his mind. Dark ink blots laid out across the landscape. In yards. Next to cars. In the roads. People holding their front doors open with their dead weight. Large blots before after smaller inkblots.
*Parents chasing their kids* he thought.
He had been buried in his phone as he walked out the door, checking to see if he had sincerely fucked up any potential dates last night. He had. Most hadn't responded. A few sent him polite 'fuck you' texts back. Jack only looked up because his mind was telling him, yelling at him, that something was off about today.
He looked up and met the dead stare of a young girl, face up head turned to the side, in the middle of the street. He thought her unconscious. He really did, as he approached her. Until the thin river of blood start running out of the corner of her mouth. She stared at him. Did not blink. Did not breath.
He took off. All thoughts obsolete and stale. **GET HOME** was all that remained.
Jack ran into the front door. It had always been a weak set door, worn from the high humidity, scolding heat, and torrential rain of Florida. The door handle and lock ripped through the rotting wood, and the door swung open with a shower of splinters. Jack began sending out texts. Taking pictures from the inside of his house. He called mom. Got voicemail. Rinse and repeat nine more times. Tried dad five times in a row. No one picked up. His palms sweat. He had long stopped crying. Wasn't even aware he had been until he had brushed his hand against the whole of his face to feel an unfamiliar wetness to it.
He turned on the news. "Today, peace talks in the Middle East have taken yet another tragic turn for the worst." Flipped the channel. "And now back to the studio for Sports Analysis with Ricky-" Flipped the Channel. Jerry was mediating another conflict on his show.
*It's just here* he thought. *Oh fuck it's just here. just right here. It isn't everywhere yet.*
*Now Jack, what is this* IT *you keep calling it?*
The sound of fading static filled his eardrums. Wasn't even static as it was something else, more human but still emotionally removed. Like a continuous breath of air a dying man tried to inhale before going under. He looked to his front door, swinging wide open. He went to it, pushing it shut. It did not stay, all holds having been broken upon his reentry back inside. Outside, the sound of peeling air was amplified. Jack looked outside. He started to cry again.
All of the once still bodies, once laying down, were sitting up. Everybody was a near perfect ninety degrees ruler, legs flat to the ground, torsos erect. Their mouths open in huge O's, thin red lines running out from the corners of their mouths.
More then fifty in his field of vision. All turned and met his eyes at once. They started to get up. | 12 | A 18 years old guy wakes up on a hot summer sunday at 11 AM. His parents are out of town, he was drinking and partying all night long. He heads out to the grocery store to buy some food. There are unconcious bodies all over the streets, in huge piles. He panics. Runs back to his home. | 15 |
"No, wait, my turn, my turn. Hold him right there." Two marines held the prisoner's arms up while Cpl. Goetz pulls the man's head up by the hair. He looked into his pleading eyes. The prisoner withered in anticipation.
"Tell me about my girl." WHUFF, the sucker punch was quick and knocked the air out of the prisoner. Goetz was careful to avoid any pervious injuries. After all, he had many questions.
This prisoner was not the typical find. He was not an active combatant, a well heeled sponsor, or a spiritual leader. He was, however, occasionally beaten, but never with any severity or terribly horrendous injury. Then he would be treated with deference, almost as an honored guest. But he was clearly a prisoner.
No doubt he had intelligence. But no one could trace his nationality, ethnicity, his affiliations, nothing. There was not even a consensus of his real name. But he was valuable to the terrorists, so the decision was made to take the target.
At no point during the course of the torture sessions did he give up anything useful to the Americans. No matter how cruel or painful or long the sessions got, he revealed nothing. Just pleas for mercy.
It wasn't until the guards took out there frustrations on the 'useless' prisoner that someone clued in to the prisoner's unique ability. The prisoner could give you details, really spooky specifics, that no one could possibly know. But only if the questions pertained to the one asking the question, and after the person asking inflicts pain.
The prisoner regained his composure, his breathing ragged and labored. "So, does my girl back home really love me or what?" Goetz insisted. But the prisoner kept his eyes on the floor.
"She's three months pregnant" The prisoner offered. The whole room is stunned into silence. "Yo, Goetz, is that right?" "Yeah, uh, yeah. Just read the email this morning. She' going to get the sonogram and everything next week."
But in the midst of the high fives, cheers and chants, the prisoner was compelled to finish.
"It's...it's..not yours."
Goetz was on top of the prisoner before anyone could react. He knew in his heart it was true, the timing was so off, it couldn't be his. The prisoner was too injured, too weak to take such a savage beating , but he welcomed death's embrace if for no other reason than to be free from the questions, the endless questions. | 20 | A prisoner being tortured starts revealing information that he shouldn't possibly know | 27 |
Baal glowered. Demons generally appeared to be glowering, but Baal frowned until the crease in his burn-scarred forehead seemed as an infinite abyss of darkness. Smoke rose from his nostrils and curled up and around his head and long twisted horns. Each time he opened his terrible mouth to utter lamentations and filth, dark hungry flames licked his lips, searing off flesh and tasting the bone beneath. The demon crossed his arms, his muscles bulging with the power to move continents, the intricate markings burnt into his skin glowing and snaking about his elbows and shoulders.
For months he had been inactive, his beloved place at Satan’s right hand lost to him. Recession! He snorted furiously, flames flaring, his eyes deep and dark. A recession in Hell! It was ridiculous. And even more ridiculous, that his place had been handed over to some underling, some newcomer to the demon ranks who worked for less reward.
He stepped along the searing passageway; he held his head high in order to tear with his sharp horns those struggling souls who had been embedded in the ceiling. Their screams delighted him as he passed. Listen well, he told himself bitterly, for these will be the last heart-warming screams you will hear for a long time.
Finally he arrived and with one bizarre hand that was part paw, part human hand and webbed between the fingers, he opened the door. A snarl escaped him, ringing off into the distance, horrible, causing the ears of those souls who heard to bleed. The most excruciatingly dull room in Hell. He walked in, slammed the door behind himself and gazed around the room. Long weird sounds came from his mouth in a breath of black smoke. Demon profanities at their worst, untranslatable to any human tongue.
The room looked like any bureaucrat’s office in the mortal realm. A desk, swivel chair, computer, even a stained and chipped coffee mug that someone had placed there for shits and giggles. Already the monitor shone with fresh questions. Magic 8 Ball. Before this day, Baal had not known what a Magic 8 Ball was, and when he had been told, he didn’t believe it. He knew humans came up with all sorts of stupid shit, but this? At least, back in the day, when he still paid attention to the humans who looked to magic for hope and answers, people still used the fun methods. Sacrifices, knives, fires. Now, this.
Should I leave my husband? Another oath escaped his blackened mouth and Baal bent to touch the keyboard. Fuck yes. In the mortal world, the woman stared at her Magic 8 Ball, put it down and walked away.
Will I be found out if I kill my neighbour’s dog? Baal laughed, an awful sound that made human’s bellies turn to water. No, kill the fucking mongrel. The man on earth smiled and went to fetch his shotgun.
Suddenly the demon growled. How long had it been since he walked into this Hell-forsaken room? Three years? Five decades? Baal roared, tore the computer from the desk and shattered it on the steaming floor. Satan would give him back his old job if he had to gut every demon in Hell, if he had to tear the fingernails and teeth from each and every person in Hell himself, if he had to…
Baal looked up, catching sight of the mysterious sign on the wall. The chasm-frown deepened on his brow once more.
The kitten on the charred poster bewildered him, the furry thing clinging to a branch, its little white paws clinging for dear life.
Hang In There. The demon sighed, hanging his head, his immense horns suddenly seeming to weigh a tonne. He turned to the newly appeared computer and read the next question: If I kissed two boys at the party last night, does that make me a slut? Without A Doubt.
Baal assumed the worn-down posture of workers the earth over, his talons clicking on the keys as he went about his work.
| 17 | answering Ouija boards and Magic 8 Ball questions. | 22 |
"More tea Lucy?" The fallen angel sighed and reluctantly nodded. Brittney almost squealed at the interaction. Moving to Alaska with her parents, into her grannpappy's old house had left her without any friends to play with at the ripe age of 5.
Her father had insisted she read more to occupy her time, while he worked in his office. Her books, although beautifully illustrated, were boring. Her grannpappy's books on the other hand... the ones she found in the attic, were more to her liking. The pictures weren't colored except for shades of white, black and red. She couldn't read it really, just the stuff inbetween the lines, phonics written in pen.
She had been reading out loud to herself, basically the only way she knew how, when the lumbering creature appeared to her in her bedroom, in a flash of fire, smoke and a smell of what Brittney could only identify as daddy farts. At first Brittney thought he was a dog by the fur that marked his waist down, but the wings and hooves dispelled that notion. By the way in which he appeared to her, she knew he was magic, like disney magic, he had to be a fairy godmother or a genie! "Hello, little one." Rumbled a noise from the demons face, his voice box sounded alot like metal grinding together, amongst screaming souls which was his breathe.
Brittney's eyes were wide "How many wishes do I get!" Not wasting any moments for formalities. The beasts wings shuddered and what could be identified as a smile smeared his face. "One wish, at a cost of your immort-"
"I want you to play with me and be my friend, forever!" Screamed Brittney. *POOF*. In another flare of fire, smoke and daddy farts, they were in a large red stone cavern without an entrance or exit. Filled with all manner or childrens toys, as the smoke cleared and Brittney's excitement burst forth in the form of high pitch squeals and jumping up and down while simultaneously tugging the demon's wings.
The great beast looked around and involuntarily let out a "Fuck".
Edit: formatting. Yay! my first WP.
Edit: Thank you all for the kind words and the sweet, sweet karma. This is my first prompt so feedback would be cool, and I'm not much of a writer. Corrections would be cool too. | 507 | You are lonely, and are in need of a friend. | 590 |
First post!
"I should have invested in one of those tin foil hats that homeless guy was selling the other day"
I scramble around my house grabbing things to hit the road. There's no way I was going to planet Xphonplyter to be Earth's representative.
"Dude, think of all the Xphonplytian booty you will get! You saw the president of that planet. She was kinda cute"
"You're not helping the situation Frank" I said, while stuffing my suitcase with all my shirts.
"Calm down, I'm sure there's a perfectly good reason they are choosing you to be the ambassador of Earth"
"They really didn't cover aliens when I majored in political science"
"Well, why not you? You've always had good ideas when we were discussing politics"
"Most of the time we were discussing politics we were high and I don't think Earth's representative should be some unemployed college graduate with no experience. Hell, I couldn't even land an internship working for a small town mayor in Wyoming. What makes anyone think I'm qualified for a diplomatic mission 50 lightyears away representing an ENTIRE planet."
"My letter of recommendation"
I stopped dead in my tracks and gave Frank a look.
"I did tell you that I was studying abroad when we met in college."
I stood there speechless, trying to comprehend that my roommate for the last 4 years was in fact an alien. Frank broke the silence.
"Well it looks like you're done packing. I'll have my dad pick us up"
I guess planet Xphonplyter wouldn't be that bad if I have Frank to hang out with. | 98 | The day has finally come. Aliens have landed on the White House lawn. Every human is watching TV as the Alien walks up to the microphone. In a calm voice it says, " We come in peace. We have much to teach you. But first we need to talk to, (insert your name here)" | 88 |
Death stood in front of the television.
Immediately upon his arrival, the man perceived what was imminent. He clutched at his chest, feeling the flabby flesh.
“NO!” he shrieked. “It’s not me! I swear it isn’t me! You’ve got the wrong person!”
Death cocked his head. His voice was deep and resonated in the house—akin to a heartbeat.
“I believe I have the right person here, Jeff…” he paused. Jeff wasn’t sure what he was hearing—the sound of his heart beat or the voice of his houseguest. “It appears to me that you are slated to die right here, in this recliner.” He turned around and observed the small, blaring television. “Yes… this is correct too. Watching Netflix. Alone, in your underwear, surrounded by the very foods that brought me here today. Quite a shame.”
Jeff looked wildly around. Yes, a bowl of Cheetos had spilled next to his couch. An empty carton of ice cream was next to him, seated on the couch cushion like a friend. And it was.
“But, but…” he searched. Death waited. He had time, after all. “This is a mistake! You have the wrong person.”
“Oh?” Death raised an eyebrow, not in contempt, but in pity… rather, his version of it. “Well, Jeff, I will humor you, if you only tell me the man who is supposed to make my acquaintance instead.”
Jeff stared blankly. He knew what he had to say, he just didn’t know how to make it seem… persuasive. “I was supposed to die after I had a long and fulfilling life. After I cleaned up my act, got a real job, lost this weight, and started a family. The person you are supposed to take is not here because I am not him yet.”
Death’s raised eyebrow lowered. Jeff saw something in Death’s eyes. Was it… compassion? Sympathy? Was Death sympathizing with him?
“Jeff…” Death spoke softly now. Jeff’s heart was beating softly now, too, weakly even. “You have been in this perpetual state for 10 years. I have watched you, Jeff. You humans are curious. You spend your days in a sort of purgatory, waiting, for something. It’s… it’s as if you humans are waiting for a man to pop out of some imperceptible place and announce to you that this is it, this is your big break, here’s where your life changes.”
Jeff’s heart was weak, and so was his vision. He faintly caught Death shaking his head, a sad smile in his eyes. His voice was convincing.
“But Jeff… the only place that man exists is in your own head. The man in his place… is me.”
| 10 | Death is looking for you, but you try to convince Death that you are not the person Death is searching for. | 18 |
Next Stop. Repeated Gunshot Wounds.
A few passengers got off. A small, young woman stood up to go with them, but stopped, unsure. The conductor piped up again. Punishment for Murderers.
Maybe not. Maybe not this stop.
One of the passengers getting off turned to the woman. He looked at her. She was young. Younger than most people on the train, but older than others. Early thirties, perhaps. Cute. Certainly cute.
Are you coming? No. You should. No, I don't think so. It only gets worse.
She shook her head. The young man shrugged and left through the doors. The gunshots could be heard in the distance, and the screams that followed.
Next Stop. Watching the Torture of Loved Ones.
An older fat man stood up, straightened his uniform, rallied a few others around him, and briskly walked out. Eva, you should come. No. Punishment for Inciting Hatred. No, maybe not. Not this stop.
The group walked out. Beyond the torture of that group's loved ones, the watchers themselves were being slowly flayed as well. The double impact made more horrendous by the fact that their eyelids were cut off so they had no choice but to watch.
Eva thought back on her life, and how she ended up on this train. She remembered her idyllic upbringing in the hills, singing and running along the hills. She'd always been fairly athletic. But her passion was photography. She wasn't half bad at it. She managed to use it to attract the attentions of many men.
Next Stop. Torture at the Hands of Your Enemies.
At this stop, all the remaining people got off. All except for Eva. She still wasn't sure. Punishment for War Crimes. Eva shook her head. Not a war criminal. Not going.
Eva, you should get off here. No. Eva. NO, I am not a war criminal. You lot are, but I am not. The things you did were frightful. But not me. I simply met a man, loved him, and that was all.
The man talking to her was the only other person on the train. Everyone else had gotten off already. They were being attended to, and tortured, by a long line of people, a line that got longer with each passing minute. Each person in the line held some kind of contraption, as well as a written reminder that they can torture the person with their implement, sometimes a knife, sometimes pliers, for as long as they want.
Eva looked out at the passengers that got off the train, already chained to their stones, already being tortured, and shook her head. I can't do that. I shouldn't have to. I'm on the wrong train.
The last man on the train shook his head, and stepped off. He was immediately grabbed by the arms and chained to a rock wall and his wrists were clasped tightly and a long line formed in front of him. Eva watched their faces as the train doors closed and the train started rumbling down the track and off. They didn't look happy. They didn't look bloodthirsty. They looked grim. Some were toothless. Many were thin. A few she recognized.
The train rumbled onwards, the light flickered. Eva sat alone.
Suddenly voices whispered throughout the train car. You belong on this train, Eva. You belong on this train.
You belong on this train.
Eva looked around. No. No I don't.
Yes, you do. You tried to kill yourself. Tried. But you didn't kill yourself. You knew it wouldn't kill you.
I was afraid.
And you saw him, you knew the sickness inside of him. Yet you did nothing to change him.
I didn't want him to leave me.
And you saw what he did, you saw the suffering he wrought upon his people.
They were dirty Jews, and homosexuals, and gypsies.
They were Germans. Germans that he gave an extra label, and you knew it. You knew it and did nothing. You, the most important person in his life, you the one he killed himself with, YOU the one with him in the last moments of his wretched, wrecked life, YOU who had so much influence in his heart and in his mind...YOU did nothing to make this world a better place, to make that man a better man, to make his heart a better heart.
Eva screamed. The voices dissipated.
Final Stop.
The train slowed to halt as it entered the train terminal. The doors didn't open. The lights in the station went dark. All the light that was left was the light in the train itself. Outside the window, blackness. Eva whimpered. And the whimpering became sobs in the oppressive and deafening silence. Her voice choked, and suddenly not even her sobs could make noise. She screamed, and nothing came out. Nothing but blackness outside, blinding bright lights inside, and her. She clutched her bag.
Solitary.
Punishment for Cowardice.
| 48 | The main character is in some form of a metro. When it stops, some people leave to go to be tortured. At the next stop, there is even worse torture. As the character stays on the stops progressively get worse and worse. | 33 |
Jean frowned at the display, and then cast a puzzled look back at the paper Application For Asylum form. The data just didn’t match up. That many ticks should never, ever result in a *Diamond-Zero* rating.
“We’re very sorry, Miss Li. There seems to be an error with your paperwork.”
The woman instinctively contracted inward. Her scabbed hands clutched at the tiny, precious sleeping bundle she was cradling, already nervous eyes looked at the floor as her shoulders crunched under a world of worries.
Jean pulled out the LodeStone scanner and plugged it into the terminal. After a few minutes of beeping and calibrations, it was ready, and the top lit with a soft blue glow. The woman tried not to watch the process, obviously fascinated, but warring with a lifetime habit of never showing interest in anything.
“Please place your hand on the scanner. Don’t worry, it’s harmless. See?”
Jean put her own hand over the scanner. The answer flashed on her terminal.
*Jean Nyota, Border Agent, Customs and Immigration Department of The People’s Republic of Kenya. ID: GS-CID-JN047. Registered Analyst. Rating: Zircon-4. Approved for Entry.*
The woman cautiously copied her, still anxious, looking around as if expecting someone to accuse her of stealing the device for simply touching it.
*“Mary” Li, Refugee Applicant, Age: 36. Country of Origin: Asian, Undetermined. Occupational Skills: Mother, Undetermined. Dependents: One - female. Immigration Rating: Diamond-0. Awaiting authorisation for Entry.*
Jean tapped for a manual reassessment, and took out the calibration flash cards.
“Miss Li, I need you to tell me what you see on this card”
“A blue triangle”. The LodeStone maintained a soft blue glow.
“Now I need you to tell me anything but what you see on this card. Anything, so long as it isn’t the item on the card.“
The woman’s gaze cast about for a moment, and she seemed afraid to speak. Finally she mumbled something.
“Please speak louder, so the machine can record your answer.”
“A…square”. Jean put the card with the red circle down, and checked the LodeStone, which had changed to an ugly red glow. So that was working.
“Miss Li, we’re now going to have to go through your Asylum form, and I am going to have to ask you to tell me the events you have listed in your own words, while touching the LodeStone scanner. I realize this is going to be a distressing experience, so if you would like an Immigration Support Officer, we can bring one into the room now. Do you require a support officer?”
The mumbled answer and shaken head confirmed that she didn’t.
It took forty-five grueling minutes to go through the form, and Jean watched the LodeStone score plummet.
Li’s mother had been killed in a Russian drone strike (-10.43), then her father and brother killed in a New Islamist raid on their refugee camp in Tibet (-10.67). She had been captured and sold as a slave by the NI raiders to a wealthy info-merchant (-5.87). Her captivity had included mental, physical and bodily torture (-14.74). She had been raped (-14.77) and given birth to a son, who had been taken away from her when he was five. (-25.11). She escaped from her captor (+4.46) and lived for thirteen years in various refugee camps (-16.4). She gave birth to her daughter by an ‘undisclosed’ father (+5.44). After a year in the camp with a newborn (-14.33) she had sold all her meager possessions (-1.11) and boarded a smuggling boat in Mumbai, heading for Kenya (-4.55).
Jean remained stone-faced throughout the litany of misery, mechanically reeling off the questions. It seemed cruel and inhuman to reduce the horrors of her life to a series of numbers, but the LodeStone system didn’t lie.
Twice, she waited for the woman to compose herself. The mental, physical and emotional scars were huge – it was a wonder that anyone was able to function in such a state.
Jean had personally seen men with less than half of what this woman had been through break down during an automated assessment, let alone the manual one.
As the tale of woe came to an end, the result flashed up. *Score of -108.08. Rating: Obsidian-108. Reject Entry. Severe psychological trauma.* Then the screen jumped and the readout changed. *Score: 0.00. Rating: Diamond-0. Authorise for Entry.*
Jean punched up the analysis. *Score -108.08. Score 0.00. Rating: Obsidian. Rating: Diamond. Reject. Accept.*
At a loss, she resorted to calling her supervisor. Miss Li sat in a corner, singing softly to her daughter as a furious, hushed discussion erupted on the far side of the door.
“The system says to accept her, so then accept her.”
“The system also said to reject her!”
“It says to accept her now. LodeStone doesn’t make mistakes. Process her through.”
Jean took a moment to focus herself before coming back into the room, and returned Miss Li’s fearful glance with a confident smile.
“Just a minor snafu with the system that’s all. Nothing to worry about. I’m pleased to tell you that you have been accepted for entry-“
The woman’s sudden blinding smile and the sudden disbelieving hope in her eyes seemed to make the small room brighter and more cheerful.
“-so all that remains is to place you with a volunteer fami-“
The display changed again. *Placement Confirmed. Foster family waiting at Gate Seventeen.*
“-mily. Oh.”
It took a bare five minutes to finish processing the paperwork, record Miss Li’s biometrics and issue her with an identity chip. After the procedure, she kept staring at the back of her hand, where the auto injector had delivered the RFID device.
Jean escorted her to Gate Seventeen, curious as to what family awaited the newest resident of The People's Republic of Kenya. Some part of her wanted to warn them of the anomalous readings, but that desire was swiftly replaced by puzzlement as she recognized the sleek white limousine. The Ngugi family was very powerful – one of the seven Great Tribal Families that had founded the People’s Republic during the Second Revolution of 2087.
The Tribal Father himself got out of the limousine to greet them, offering a wide smile and a friendly double-hand clasp. As she handed over the immigration folio, Jean knew that if she was to say anything, now was the time.
‘Sir, I know it’s not really my place, but I think the system might have made a mistake-“
Her caution was cut off as the limousine’s door opened, and another person emerged. He was seventeen or eighteen, and of distinctly Asian descent. He stood and locked eyes with Miss Li. Then she noticed him.
Time seemed to freeze between them, and then come crashing down as the young man let out a disbelieving whisper of “Mother?”
Jean watched the two people –a mother and a son she thought long lost, cannon into each others embrace.
Joseph Ngugi smiled at Jean, and spoke in a rich, deep, and above all, satisfied voice.
“The LodeStone system never makes mistakes.”
| 28 | In the future, a country(/people) exists where immigration is solely based on a psychological/mental evaluation of some form or other. You are an 'immigration officer' and have just received a result you cannot understand/believe. | 19 |
Ever since Carter turned 13, he has had an extraordinary life.
On his thirteenth birthday, Thursday, June 5th, 1997, his teacher called him out for being a terrible student. "You'll see," Mr. Bartlett said, "next year on this day, you'll still be a bad student unless you change your habits." So, on that night, Carter wished he could see what his life was like the following year. After blowing out his candles, he thought nothing of it.
That is, until he brushed his teeth that evening. He spit out his toothpaste, and when he brought his head up and looked into the mirror, there were two reflections. There was no one else in the bathroom, but his second reflection was as real as anyone else. He spoke to it, but it would not speak back. However, he did see some nice, new peachfuzz on his face. Carter noticed his reflection made all sorts of funny gestures, but Carter couldn't understand what any of it meant.
A few months later, he was in line at a carnival, and behind him were two deaf girls using sign language. He joked with his friends about how they probably scream on carnival rides by gesticulating wildly, and then it hit him: his future self was attempting to communicate with him through sign language. He made it a point to learn sign language, and he spent the remainder of the year doing so. He would practice his sign language in front of his mirror every night.
On his following birthday, he made the same wish, and later in the evening once again saw his reflection in the mirror.
"We can't communicate," his reflection signed. "I can only leave messages for you."
Carter idiotically signed back at him.
"On March 22, Stacey McDermott will no longer be going to the dance with Pete Stackhouse. Ask her to the dance, her friends told me she would have said yes!"
Carter's reflection was taller and had a weirder haircut. He also had a lot of zits.
On his next birthday, Carter made the same wish, with the same result.
"Don't take English with Mr. Kelowski, take Ms. Hernandez. Stacey will cheat on you with Trevor Jacobs, dump her first. Don't ask out Sasha Perez. I think you should try dating Paula Everett, but talk about horses and stuff because she likes horses."
The conversations after high school were different.
"Invest literally everything you have in Google. Tell dad to invest everything in Google."
Even sports were a hot topic.
"Italy wins the World Cup, the Miami Heat beat the Mavericks in 6 games after being down 2-0. Bet big."
Carter used this opportunity to scheme his way past college, earn big bucks, and manipulate women into sex using foresight and knowledge gained from his future self. His life was fast, full of partying, cocaine, and excess. He treated people like shit, using everything his future self knew against them. His ritual the night before his birthday was to stand in front of a mirror and sign everything he wanted his past self to know. Then, the next night, he would find out what his future self wanted him to know.
But on his 30th birthday, everything changed.
Carter waited in front of his bathroom mirror. It was 10:47 PM, the usual time. But he didn't show up. Carter thought perhaps he got tied up with something and simply showed up a little late to record his message. Carter sat on his toilet and waited. And waited.
And waited.
Nine hours passed, and he kept himself up by taking bumps of coke periodically. Whenever he felt anxiety or lethargy, he would snort another line. He stayed in that bathroom for six more hours. He began to fear the worst. He knew fifteen hours was too much to wait. He knew something had happened, because he would never miss an appointment like this. This was too important. Much too important. He was coming to grips with reality. That next line of coke put him over the edge.
Carter dies at age 30. He knows it. All the partying, the cheating, the scheming, and the lying finally caught up to him. *No human should have such power*, he thought. He felt he had two options: he could go out in a blaze of glory, or try to atone for his sins.
He chose the latter.
No more drugs, no more cheating, no more lying, and no more manipulating. He needed to be normal for his last days on Earth. He gave his money to charities, he volunteered his time, and he apologized to all those he wronged. He met a great woman who accepted him for who he was, and when he explained to her his past and his special abilities, she didn't judge him. He thought she believed him, but in reality she took it as an allegory describing his tainted life. The fact is, he came clean, and was therefore a better person because of it. He lived humbly, and treated his final days the way a cancer patient in remission treats that first day they receive the good news.
Months passed, and when Thursday, June 4th, 2015 rolled around at 10:47 PM, he was too busy on his couch, with his wife, watching a movie, to leave himself a message. | 34 | Every year on your birthday, you are visited by yourself from one year in the future. This year, no one shows up. It's your 30th birthday... | 25 |
“Hey Phil, want to throw me a drink?”
Background noise from the music playing from Dan’s computer covered up his voice, but Phil already knew what he was asking for.
“Dan, why do you listen to that shitty pop music anyway? Top 20 bull is all I here coming out of your computer every day.”
“it’s catchy man,” Dan said, humming to the beat of the song being played.
“Why don’t you get back to work?” said Phil halfheartedly, he rolled back his chair around to stair aimlessly at his desk.
“What F@#$ing work? We don’t dooo anything. All we do is sit here didilling ourselves talking about the meaning of life and which celebrity is more attractive or arguing the finer points of comic book story lines. I’ve been waiting for this g-d dam computer to beep for two and a half f@#$ing years and it ….”
“BEEP!”, went the computer just at that moment, as if destiny intended it.
Both men were speechless for a second, caught off guard by the sharpness of the sound that pierced through the rant. Five seconds went by of Phil and Dan staring at each other, then looking back at the server rack, and then staring back at each other.
“BEEP, BEEP!” Went the computer again.
Dan swiveled around to his computer screen to see what was going on. He furiously started typing on his computer to bring up the program that tracked near planet objects (NPO’s) to see what was going on. The computer listed a new object that was moving rapidly across the northern hemisphere.
“This must be some sort of bug.” Said Dan skeptically.
“The object is moving way to slow to be an asteroid, but it seems to have a strange trajectory, almost extra-solar.”
“Do you think its another countries satellite?” Asked Phil, who at that moment was eating some noodles out of a bowl, looking wholly unconcerned about the beeping. He had seen these types of bugs come up multiple times and was quite hungry.
“Well it seems that its gone already, whatever it was… Eh must have been a bug in the system. Should we report it to the ops floor?” Asked Dan. Phil had been working there longer than Dan and he was more experienced with this type of thing.
“Nah, no need to bother the higher ups. Just document it in the logs and call it a day.” Said Phil, consumed by slurping up what little was left of his salty noodle dinner.
“Ok” said Dan, and he went about adding a new log entry to the system.
>130098959-299-00921 - NPO detection system tripped, 3 occurrences. No repeat observation, after investigation we conclude that it was a faulty receiver. No further actions taken.
Then Dan turned his music back on and put on his headphones so Phil didn’t have to listen to his "shitty pop". As he was listening he watched the first of two suns go down over the horizon signaling the beginning of a new day. Dan hated these late night shifts in the lab, so uneventful.
One and a half million kilometers above Dan and Phil, the Voyager spacecraft passed by the planet, affectionately know to humans as Gliese 667 Cc. As it passed and with it the first chance at inter-species communication, the universe became a lonely place once again.
| 27 | A civilization that is on par with current-day Earth has just encountered the Voyager probe, which has flown into their solar system and near their planet. | 45 |
"Hello. I am an officer of the Intergalactic Ministry of Justice and I am looking for the fugitive known locally as 'Jesus Christ'. Have you seen him?"
“No,” Jesus said, hiding his noticeably impaled hands behind his back as casually as he could. He’d always known they’d eventually come after him, hunt him down for what he’d done all those millennia ago. It always was just a matter of time, but he had convinced himself for so long that they had forgotten, that they had moved on. It was naïve, yes, but it helped to forget.
“About 6 feet tall, long blonde hair, either white or black skin depending on who you ask. Not ringing any bells?” asked the man. The officer looked just as Jesus thought he would, still adorned in the fashion of Jesus’ time. Long white robe, sun-tanned skin, thick black hair curling down to his shoulders, and eyes just dark enough to make someone question his humanity. A small piece of metal was pinned to his lapel, the words “Intergalactic Ministry of Justice” written across it.
“No, no bells—oh, wait. What did you say his name was? Yeezus? Actually, that does ring a bell. Several bells, in fact. I think his real the name is Kanye West. Lives somewhere in California or something,” Jesus said. “Anyway, if that’s all, I need to get going. I have a work to do.” Jesus paused. “I mean, I have to go to work.” Jesus turned, shifting his hands to the front of his body as he did so, and began walking away.
“Hang on a moment,” said the officer. Jesus turned back around. “You’re telling me that you’ve never heard of a guy named Jesus Christ?”
“I told you, his name is Kanye West. He’s married to the ex-wife of Kris Humphries. I forget her name. Kim Kaspian or something.”
“No, not Yeezus. Jesus. Jesus Christ.”
“Jesus Christ?” Jesus said, tilting his head slightly. He subtly caressed the holes in his palms that made it so hard swim competitively. “No, never heard of him. I have heard of Larry Christ, if that helps. I can get you his number, it’s in my van out on the driveway. Let me just quickly run over and get it.”
“No, I don’t need a number for Larry Christ. We’re not interested in Larry Christ. Are you saying that you’ve never heard of Jesus Christ, one of the most prolific people on your planet? His name has absolutely no familiarity to you?” The officer crossed his arms.
“I just moved to this country, so I’m not really up to speed with what's popular in America. I'm just now trying to understand that whole 'YOLO' thing, but—” Jesus stopped himself. He was going to explain that he didn't *only* live once, but realized that might seem a bit suspicious. He needed to play it cool. "—uh, nevermind."
The officer nodded and took out a notebook. “Where did you move here from?”
“Me?” Jesus said. He quickly glanced around him as if searching for someone else. He knew no one else was there—it was his own damn house—but he needed time to think; he needed to pick his words carefully.
“Yes, you. Of course I mean you.”
“Oh, I thought maybe you were talking on a radio or something. You know how people use those Bluetooth headsets and then you can never tell if they’re speaking to you or to someone else? I once had a full-on conversation with a man who was talking to his wife—or maybe it was his girlfriend, perhaps even a boyfriend; I do not judge, for I do not want to be judged—before I realized he was just talking on his headset. He was like, ‘hey, how are you?” and I’m like ‘hey man, I don’t think I know you but I’m doing well’ and he says—”
“No,” the officer interrupted. “I don’t have a Bluetooth radio. Please just answer the question. Where did you say you moved from?”
“Spain,” Jesus said. He wasn’t sure whether Spain was a very Christian country or not, but he had panicked and chosen the most foreign place he could think of. He knew they spoke Spanish there, and he had not had the Bible written in Spanish. There was probably a good chance that no one there had ever even heard of Jesus Christ. Probably.
“¿Usted es de España?” said the officer, scribbling something in his notebook.
Jesus inhaled deeply. He recognized the phrase from when he’d tried to learn Spanish once. He had given up on the language after only a few hours. It took too long and he was very important. He also didn’t really feel like knowing Spanish would help him much in life. He figured that he was already a god and didn’t really need an extra leg up.
“Sí,” Jesus said, essentially extinguishing his Spanish-speaking abilities.
“¿País o ciudad??” the officer said.
Jesus had no idea what the officer had just said. As far as he could tell, it was something about pies being visited by their father. He knew he couldn’t just ignore the question. He needed to say something, anything.
“Sí,” Jesus said.
“¿Que?” the officer said.
“Okay,” repeated Jesus with a smile. He’d seemed to have somehow gotten the officer to fall for his façade.
The officer closed the notebook and placed it into his back pocket.
“Here’s the deal. I know you’re lying to me. People from Spain have certainly heard of Jesus Christ. In fact, Jesus is a very popular name in that country. Now you’re going to answer my question now, or I will have you arrested for obstructing an investigation. Have you, or have you not, seen Jesus Christ? And your answer better begin with ‘yes.’”
Jesus sighed. He’d avoided this moment for so long, hid in the shadows for millennia out of fear. People worshipped him, prayed to him, truly believed he was an honest, respectable man. Yet he knew inside that he was flawed like everyone else, a criminal on the run. He had to accept the fate he had chosen for himself, accept the punishment he’d evaded for so long.
“Yes,” Jesus said. “Yes, I do know who he is. I am sorry for lying, I—” Jesus paused. “I was just scared. I know who Jesus is. I know where he is. He’s right over there, just outside the house. He always has been.” Jesus nodded toward a man outside his front door, leaning with one leg against a black Crown Victoria. The officer turned around and looked toward where Jesus had signaled.
“That man is Jesus Christ?” he asked.
“Yes, that is Jesus Christ. I didn’t want to give him away.” He just needed the officer to walk over to him, to leave him alone for a few seconds so he could escape. Just a brief moment and he could be free.
“So you’re telling me that Carl, my partner, is also Jesus Christ?” the officer said. “You’re saying that, in his free time, Carl enjoys acting as the god for millions of people, listening to prayers, and evading the law for the very investigation he and I were assigned to?”
“Yes,” Jesus said. He knew it was a flimsy argument, but he just needed those few seconds alone and he’d be gone. Maybe he’d fall for it.
“Carl is not Jesus Christ,” the officer said. “Carl is a middle-aged intergalactic investigator with a bad leg and a surprisingly short temper. I’m done playing games, I’m going to have to place you under arrest.”
“Wait,” Jesus said. He sighed heavily. “I—I am Jesus Christ.” He brought his hands to his front and lifted them so that the officer could see. Each palm had a hole pierced through it, the wounds healed long ago. “I am sorry; I accept my fate.”
“I thought so. We’ve been searching for you for a long time,” the officer said. He reached into his back pocket.
Jesus closed his eyes and held his arms out, waiting for the jingle of handcuffs, the sensation of the cold steel wrapping around his wrists. The thought of the cuffs had haunted him for so long, kept him awake for hundreds of years.
“Here you go,” said the officer, shoving something into Jesus’ hand. He opened his eyes, staring down at what appeared to be a yellow piece of paper crumpled up in the hole in palm.
“What’s this?” Jesus asked.
“Ticket,” said the officer, closing his notebook and slipping it into his back pocket.
“Ticket?” Jesus said, bringing it toward his face and studying it.
“Parking ticket. You tied your horse up in a celestial towing zone about 2,000 years ago. Fine is $25. You can take it to intergalactic court if you’d like, but I don’t think you have a very good case. We have satellite imaging of the event.”
“I see,” Jesus said, folding the ticket and placing it into the pocket of his robe. He sighed deeply. He had no idea where he’d get $25. It was far worse than he thought.
________________________
[^If ^you ^enjoy ^my ^writing ^style, ^feel ^free ^to ^check ^out ^some ^of ^my ^others ^shorts/prompts ^at ^my ^site!](http://wordsontheinternet.org/) | 752 | "Hello. I am an officer of the Intergalactic Ministry of Justice and I am looking for the fugitive known locally as 'Jesus Christ'. Have you seen him?" | 811 |
"So," he says, a man ravaged by time with pockmarked skin and a cigarette dangling from cracked lips, "where you headed?"
"I guarantee he has no idea," the driver speaks, she's young and beautiful, a temptress if I ever saw one, "I can smell the scotch from here."
"Who are you," I manage, "cause all I'm seeing is two smart mouths who don't want a tip."
"Son," the man speaks sternly, "watch that tongue. It's been the bane of your existence yet you don't know to keep it behind those teeth, do you? Not since the fourth grade."
"What did you just say to me," despite the...copious amount of alcohol flowing through my bloodstream, I was quickly becoming lucid.
"He's right," she says, looking back with a lusty grin, "you sealed your fate a long time ago."
"I'm leaving," the handle doesn't budge, no matter how hard I yank.
"Son, you're not going anywhere," the man says, blowing a blue smoke cloud out through his teeth, "not from this cab."
"Please," a bad feeling is creeping into my core, terror seeping into every pore.
"Begging," she laughs, "you're not the type. Tough, strong guy like you. You drink, sleep with women, leave them in the lurch, you get a little angry and hit things, you hurt others with a barbed tongue, blame the world for your own faults, and just exist."
"What do you want from me," I can hear the whining tone in my voice, it's not a flattering noise. They both laugh.
"We don't *want* anything, not like you think we do," he says, I have to admit I didn't catch that one with the liquor in me, "all I want to know is: where are you headed?"
"Home," it wasn't a statement or request, it was a begging and pleading noise that escaped my lips, fearful and trembling in the night.
"So be it," he said, shrugging and opening his door. The air was bitter cold, colder than I remember it being when I got in. He stepped out and crushed the cigarette under a boot, leaning back in for a final word, "I wish it could have been different."
The door closed and the silence throbbed in my ears.
"Let's go then," she said, with one final glance over her shoulder, "home it is." | 15 | You're in the city. You hop in a cab, after a long night of drinking your sorrows away. There's someone in the passenger's seat. The cabbie faces you. It's the Devil. In the passenger's seat is God. Both ask, "Where are you headed?" | 15 |
I rolled over and looked at the clock on the bedside table. Either there was an earthquake completely centralized on my alarm or my eyes were blurry. After blinking a few times I found that the second option was true.
It was 7:40 in the morning and I was sure of two things. First, I had to pee. Secondly, I have an irrational hatred of 7:40 AM.
I kicked off my Star Wars blanket and rolled off my race car bed onto my feet. Yawning and rubbing my neck, I started on my trek to the bathroom down the hall.
My door slid silently open and I stepped out onto the familiar carpet of the hallway. Maybe it was my sleep addled brain, or maybe I'm just really bad at noticing things but it took me six or seven steps before I realized someone was talking. I looked up and squinted into the darkness.
My parents' door was cracked open, with a tiny sliver of light spilling out onto the hallway wall. The case for me being bad at noticing things was certainly gaining ground. After a moment's hesitation I walked towards my parents' room.
I paused just outside and then slowly inched the door open. To say that I was shocked to see a figure looming over my parents would be an understatement. I am proud to say that I didn't piss myself.
"I was wondering when you'd get up." The figure turned to look at me and as the light showed me his face my heart stopped. It was my face. My face looked back at me.
I was dreaming. I had to be. No other explanation could be possible.
The man wearing my face waited as my mind frantically grasped at straws. He didn't smile, he didn't look angry, he just looked at me.
"Are you... me?" I realized how stupid it sounded as soon as it left my mouth. I might as well have asked *how did you get out of the mirror*.
The man smiled and said "I guess you could say I am. But I'm also a different person entirely."
"Oh. Well thank you. That clears everything up perfectly."
"I'm your clone." He gave me a smug look that made me want to punch myself right in the mouth. "So. Why did you do it?"
I shrugged and sat on the end of the bed. "I needed the money. I never thought they'd actually succeed. The guy who took my blood had a mohawk and prison tattoos for fuck's sake."
"No." He said and gestured at my parents, still in the same position I'd left them in. "Why did you kill them?" | 22 | You wake up and find a clone of yourself talking to your parents | 32 |
For a very long time, I thought I was crazy. I worked the night shift, staying up late, plugged into my headphones while I watched life pass me by on the monitors. It made it a little bit easier because I never had to confirm whether the people I saw on the screen were really there or not. It was a lot easier than spending my nights crying in the corner, demanding God tell me why this was happening to me, what I had done to deserve this life, and why he made me crazy. Then I took my pills and went to sleep.
It all started with a window.
One moment, I watched in horror as the ball crashed into the glass, sending silver-white spider webs across the surface in slow motion before the whole thing dissolved like salt on a slug and fell like diamonds. The next, the window was fixed, still right where it had always been and a man was holding the ball in his hand. He winked and let it fall. I screamed and ran to my mother. She called me imaginative and fanciful.
The next day, when I saw the same man 20 years old with a big, bushy beard, and tried to point him out, she lectured me about the difference between reality and fantasy. He came back again the next night and talked to me about not telling anyone he had seen me and apologizing for getting me in trouble. I didn’t listen, and I told my mom. She put me in therapy. I learned to keep quiet about all the things I’d seen.
People came and people went. They were old or they were young. Broken things fixed themselves, objects appeared and disappeared, but I kept quiet. One day the police came and asked me questions about the neighbor’s car. It was missing, and I shrugged and told the officer to come back tomorrow and see if it was back. It was and threw me in a jail cell for 36 hours. They asked me questions and questions and tried to say I stole the car. I didn’t, so they put me back in therapy.
That’s when I started working the night shift at Wolfenstein Security. I could watch the monitors, and when something looked unusual, I could record it. When people were getting hurt, I hit the button and called the cops. If people vanished in mid-air or grew older and younger, I didn’t tell anyone. I wasn’t very fond of my psychiatrist.
I came into work one day, and the baseball man was sitting in my chair. I didn’t say anything at first. I had to make sure he was real. He was about the same age as the first time I’d seen him, back when he un-broke the window 20 years ago. I had stopped worrying about that. My psychiatrist tells me the imagination doesn’t have to be linear. When he spoke, I turned so fast my back cracked.
“Hello, George,” he said. “Broken any windows lately?”
“Nope,” I said, starting the shift log. “Not in 20 years.”
“Has it been that long? No….” the man said, flipping the pages of the wall calendar over. “It can’t be.”
“Oh, it is, but, don’t worry. Mrs. Matthews says imaginary people don’t have to follow linear time streams and you’re a product of my convoluted subconscious created by blocked childhood trauma.”
“You think I’m… your *imaginary friend*?” I ignored the subtle accusation, busy with the job I had to do whether my imagination was acting up or not.
“Mrs. Matthews thinks so.”
“George… I most certainly am *not* imaginary.”
“Right. Keep telling yourself that. Now, go get old or something. I need my chair.”
I shooed the baseball man away and sat down, running through each of the cameras quickly to make sure everything was as it should be.
“George. You should come on a trip with me. I’ll show you any time or place in history you’d want to see, past, present or future.” He waved his arms with a big flourish at the end. I lifted one eyebrow then zoomed in on camera 12. That kid in the coat looked suspicious. What were three teenagers doing looking at Rogaine any way?
“No, thanks.” I said, watching the kids closely.
“No… thank you?” the baseball man said, his jaw falling open. “You *cannot* be serious. No one turns that down.”
“I am, baseball man. No one turns it down because no one else can see you. Come back when I’m 80 or something and try again.”
“Deal,” the man said with a crazy grin. “And, by the way, my name’s Barnaby, not baseball man.”
“Sure, whatever, I guess it’s time you had a name.”
The door opened and closed, and he was gone.
--
“Hello, George.”
I pried one eye open and winced at the bright light in the hospital room. He was wearing a white doctor’s coat, the stethoscope around his neck, but I knew him, still young, still alive, still cocky.
“You’re early." I wagged a finger at him, wincing at the liver spots speckling my wrinkled hand. It had been a while. What would he think of me?
“I know, but, George, you’re not going to make it to 80. If you want to go, we’ve got to go now.”
I laughed, which turned into a cough. The monitor beeped frantically then settled down as I fell back into the sterile pillows.
“Why, Barnaby baseball man? I’m too old to enjoy anything, and my life, well it hasn’t been the best.”
“Would you like to do it over again, George? Is there anything you’d like to take back?”
I glared at the man who had featured so prominently in my case notes. If he hadn’t tried helping me all those times throughout my life, I could have been normal and saved my stomach years of prescription cocktails.
“Yeah. You.”
The baseball man stepped back and held his hands up.
“George, I’ve always tried to help you.” The beeping grew faster and faster. After all this time, my delusions claimed to help me.
“Well, you haven’t. You ruined my life, baseball man. You should have just let the window break.”
“Is that really what you want?” His voice was small and quiet. *Good*, I thought. He finally feels guilty.
“Yes.”
The baseball man sighed.
“OK, then, George. Just remember – I tried.”
---
I was back in the back yard again, 8 years old, watching the baseball hurtle toward the window. Thunk. Crash. Diamonds.
*Oh, crap, oh, crap, oh, crap* I thought, rushing toward the shattered glass. I picked up the baseball and looked back up just in time to see the window frame crash down on me. Everything went black.
---
The hospital lights were way too bright, and my head throbbed from a location far, far away. I tried to look around the room, but I couldn’t focus on anything. I felt the casings and bandages piled over my head and covering on eye.
“Hello, George,” the doctor said.
“Hello, Doctor.”
“How are you feeling.”
“I – I don’t know. Am I going to be OK?”
“You’ve lost your eye, George, and a part of your ability to imagine, but, yes, I believe you will be.”
The doctor held out a baseball. I couldn’t tell if it was mine.
“Good luck, George. I hope life works out better for you.”
I must have blacked out again because the doctor was gone and Mom was by my bed. I picked up the baseball and held it up in front of me.
“Where did you get that?” Mom asked with a frown.
“The doctor gave it to me.”
“That’s not a very funny joke. Didn’t he know a baseball is what did this? Well, a baseball and faulty home design. Which doctor was it?”
I tried to remember, but the doctor’s face was blurry. I couldn’t quite make it out.
“I don’t know,” I said, a nagging feeling telling me I should know more than I could remember. I tried to grasp it, but the idea flew away out of my reach. “Just the baseball man, I guess.”
---
-196
| 11 | Write a story about time travel from the point of view of a person going through time in the normal order. | 20 |
Humans aren't born scum. When they take their first breath of air in this world they're in a perfect state of purity. Then they begin to soak up the world around them. They begin to form habits. They never realize it, but they're sponges, and the world is full of disease riddled water. With every new interaction, every new idea, and every new thing they learn they begin to mould themselves into the very thing I despise.
My goal is to change that. You see, when you have a nuclear weapon pointed directly at a city with a population of millions, governments are very willing to pay you large sums of money to point those weapons in another direction. This money might just be enough to run a world class orphanage. One big enough to raise thousands of children sealed off from the impurities of the world outside its walls.
Of course I use an alternate identity to run the facility, doing otherwise would be foolish.
A child that leaves our orphanage upon reaching a certain age will be a different breed of human. Smarter. More civilized. Someone devoid of fear. Someone who will strive to succeed and spread their philosophy, my philosophy, as they climb a corporate ladder or hold a higher and higher seat in government.
Now there will always be those who resist, and there can never be enough to spread the word, so each orphan is given a secondary goal, albeit not much farther in importance than the first.
Make more orphans. | 43 | You are the most evil, cruelest villain in the world. You also happen to run the best orphanage in the world. | 43 |
"So, what's everybody's weekend looking like?"
Brad always wanted to know what everybody's weekend was looking like. He really did seem sincere about it, but that didn't make the question any less insufferable for its predictability or boundary-pushing. We were *colleagues.* We weren't friends. He gamely swiped a layer of lube and sweat from between his cheeks and waited for somebody to throw the ball back to him.
"Oh I don't know, I think maybe I'll go eat out." Dave wore a pie-fucking grin as he wiped off his cock. His impish eyes darted over to Melanie, who was busy sliding her red, frilly bra up from her stomach and back around her tits with a mechanical shimmy. He was always looking to get a rise out of her, and usually he could; whether from genuine zeal or just years of practice, her repulsion at even the merest suggestion of dining seemed sincere. Only after many moons of Dave's puerile ribbing did she start trying to play it cool. Today she didn't quite manage it. Her eyes darkened and her face scrunched up into a scowl, which she tried to hide with an exaggerated wiping motion. Dave wasn't buying it, though; he always had at least one eye on her and he knew there wasn't any more cum to clean up. He zipped up his fly and enjoyed the awkward silence.
I could only count my blessings that he always paid more attention to Melanie than he did to me. Sure, I'd been practicing the fine art of pretending to be a prood for years now, but there was just something about Dave's double entendres that set me to shivering and sweating and even *salivating.* I was lucky he was at his worst during fuck break, and I was doubly lucky that we were living in something remotely resembling an enlightened era. I couldn't even imagine how I'd have passed back in my dad's time, when even using spit as lube was a red flag for deviant tendencies.
Still, I could barely look at his plump, moist cake-hole and gleaming chompers without feeling that strange, empty ache in my core, and when he started talking dirty like that... god *damn.* And there were only so many surreptitious swallows I could manage before somebody would surely notice. But oh how I wanted to feed that hole. How I wanted him to feed me. *My god, just stop fooding thinking about it.*
Melanie curtly mentioned an enema day with her partner and made an abrupt exit from the break room. She was friendly enough when everybody behaved, but that meant she was hardly ever friendly during fuck break. Dave went through the "what's her problem?" motions for the fiftieth time this quarter and Brad played along because he was a dopey little twinkie. I cringed with every curse word my mind summoned to describe the scene. My stomach lurched and I scrambled to get the rest of my clothes on.
"So uh, Mikey." I froze for second, dreading the sudden attention. Only a sheer act of will set my limbs back in motion. I looked up and tried not to swallow before I spoke.
"Yeah Dave? What's up?"
"Well you know, it's just I realized something, just now. No big deal."
My nostrils flared; I gripped my shirt, barely pretending to button it, knuckles already white. Sure, he *sounded* sincere about it not being a big deal. But that could be a trap. Nobody really knew just how mercilessly he'd be willing to torture somebody who was actually *into* dining. Melanie's proodery was just a generic button to push. It wasn't a real vulnerability. Dave could very well be a vicious pot-stuffer of a bully just waiting for a sufficiently soft target.
"Do tell," I replied, as dryly as I could. I sure as frosting hoped I was fooling him, and Brad. A little sweat after fuck break is perfectly natural, after all.
"Well you know, it's just, you never suck anyone off. Which, sure, whatever, different strokes. But I just never noticed before. Are you just finicky, or what? You're not like one of those anti-oral guys or anything, right?"
I willed my right hand to unclench, and I thrust it out in a jerky, awkward waving motion. "Please, what are we in kindergarten? In the 20's? Whatever man. I'm just way into anal. Mom doesn't get to tell me to eat a dick anymore if I don't want to."
Dave cocked his head and let my little spiel linger in the air. I could feel Brad's utter inability to read a room oozing out of his pores behind me. Finally, salvation.
"For chicken-fried's sake you guys, I'm not paying you for 2 hour fuck breaks! Back to work!" Veronica's voice rasped out from down the hallway, snapping Brad to attention and breaking Dave's predatory concentration.
"I'll see you guys at the spa later for some jerks, yeah?" I didn't wait for a response. I hurried out of the break room and nearly toppled over the janitor on the way back to my desk. | 10 | Sex is something people must do daily, for sustenance (and ideally, two or three times). Meanwhile, eating is taboo. Most people eat in private if at all, and it's only done together when relationships get really serious. | 18 |
He was just sitting there, calmly reading a book. If it had been any other patient then there would have been nothing strange about that at all. But the man in room 407 had gone into a completely catatonic state with only the weakest desire to live.
I didn't know what to do, so I just watched him until he turned a page. Something the author had written made him laugh quietly. The hardbound novel had been brought with him from his own home in the hopes that familiar surroundings would help him.
It took me a while to realise what else was wrong with this scene. The lamp that sat next to his comfortable bed was switched on. For weeks now we had been turning that on and off for him because he had been incapable. Beyond chewing and swallowing, the man in room 407 had taken very few independent actions since he was admitted.
I closed the slide on the viewing hatch and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. I put it on a tray. Next up I visited the pharmacy and took a small bottle of the pills he was on. The man was medicated by at least four different drugs but I knew which ones he needed tonight.
And then I went back, making sure I made a lot of sound outside his room before I opened the door. It was midnight and, when I stepped inside, it was dark again. The lamp was off. The book was askew on the table. And he was breathing slightly faster than before.
Carefully, I set the water and bottle down ontop of his book.
"I know you're faking it. I intend to get you discharged tomorrow. I thought I'd just let you know that I'm disgusted by you."
I left. The man in room 407 had been found in that state, locked in his bathroom, with his dying wife downstairs. She had been attacked and left with fatal wounds. The kitchen door showed signs of forced entry and the neighbours reported seeing somebody break in. They had called the police but by the time they had gotten to the scene the attacker had fled.
By morning the man in room 407 had taken his own life. There was an inquest into who had given him a fatal overdose, of course. I sailed through the whole thing without coming under suspicion once. After all, who could suspect me?
I was the only reason he was in this institution in the first place. When he had been ruled as mentally unwell I begged for him to be transferred to our hospital. Not only was his case medically fascinating but, and I regret this to this day, he was also my father. | 68 | A man faked his insanity to get inside a mental institution. One day, a nurse realizes he is actually sane. | 90 |
The 9th August was just like any other normal day for most people, the cities were bustling and money was being made, but not for dwight.
Dwight sat crouched down in a steel box that couldn't have been more than 4x4x2 metres big.
"Floor 700, floor 699, floor 698", the automated voice rang out through speakers above him, and he felt the uncomfortable feeling of his stomach drop.
Dwight wasn't too sure what he had done to deserve his place in hell, he lived a normal life and payed his taxes, he deemed it unfair that the simple fact that he was an atheist was enough of a crime to warrant a place in hell.
Next to him was another pretty average looking guy, Dwight reckoned he must've been no more than 30 like himself, but he had a literal eternity to strike up a conversation with him so he saw little point in doing so now.
"Floor 668, floor 667", "Here we go", Dwight thought to himself, he pondered over which of the circles of hell he would placed in, and he found himself wishing he had concentrated more In 10th grade english when he was studying Dante's inferno.
Suddenly out of nowhere was a crash, not a normal sound like one you would hear in the surface world, but a deathly loud crash, one that Dwight heard deep in the bowels of his soul.
The elevator suddenly stopped, throwing Dwight and his "roommate" to the floor. "What the fuck was that?" Dwight exclaimed, half expecting the doors to burst open any second to be greeted by lucifer himself.
He glanced upwards at the L.E.D display, which still read 667, "strange", he thought to himself, unsure of what to do next. He decided to ask his fellow companion, and said "do you know what the fuck is going on?"
Silence..
"Hello?" Dwight said again, "can you hear me?".
Still nothing.
Suddenly a booming voice erupted from the speakers above, and a voice came out that was nothing like Dwight had ever seen before.
"Victim no.97267" it boomed, "For your sinful deeds of refusing to believe in The Lord God himself, you have been sentenced to an eternity of purgatory"
"Purgatory?" Dwight thought to himself, "There must have been some mistake" he shouted towards towards the speaker, "I'm trapped in the lift".
"Incorrect mere mortal" the voice boomed again, "For you have already arrived in purgatory, good luck.."
| 45 | Two strangers are travelling down the elevator to hell after dying when the elevators gets stuck. | 66 |
“What do you mean you don’t have it?” Aaron’s voice quavered. His entire body broke into a cold sweat.
“I don’t know how to tell you any other way, little brother. I just don’t have the money.” Robert didn’t sound that bothered by the fact that Aaron was seventy-two hours away from going to prison. “Thirty-five grand is way out of my league. Sorry.”
*Click.*
It was the perfect storm of bad timing. A year ago Aaron could have pulled together the hundred grand needed to pay off the Accumulated Justice Maintenance Fine. But now, after the mortgage refi, his wife’s wrecked car, and Sophie’s exorbitant first semester of college, he was tapped out. It was nearly impossible to believe the timing of the so-called ‘random’ draw was an accident. In the deep shadows of private internet forums, rumors abound that the banks watched everyone carefully, waiting for just the right moment to set the crushing wheels of justice in motion.
No one in the media called it fascism anymore. The concept was passé.
It was a war on the poor. Orchestrated and waged—successfully—by the usual suspects.
“No?” Aaron’s wife ran her hands through his hair and cradled her head on his shoulder.
“No.” Aaron tried to keep it together for her. She deserved a strong husband, a man that could take everything that life could dish out and still be there for her. “Maybe I got flagged somewhere. I voted for a Democrat last time around…” Aaron broke down into silent sobs, his shoulders shaking.
“We’ll survive. Other people do it all the time,” she tried to soften the blow.
“GlobaTech will fire me the second I step into my cell.”
“So you’ll get another job,” she whispered in his ear.
Aaron pushed her off and stormed across the room. “How? I’ll be a felon. We’ll lose our insurance. I won’t be able to vote ever again. It’s the end—I might as well kill myself. At least then you can collect the life insurance.”
“You’re being ridiculous.” She was angry now. The yelling penetrated the locked bedroom door and echoed through the house for the kids to hear. “It’s only a month and you’re talking suicide.”
“You don’t get it. Do you?” Aaron grabbed her and shook her. His words spit at her like venom. “This is only the beginning. They’ll hound us for the rest of our lives. We’ll be … *poor*.” | 275 | The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover. | 524 |
"You're just a gay little faggot!!"
Hearing his two teenage sons, 13 and 15, playing Call of Duty was extremely discouraging, but if Chris didn't get this off his chest he might break down soon.
"Sam, Brandon, let's get off that game for a second, you don't need to be saying that stuff online."
"Dad no one cares, everyone says that shit on xbox." Brandon, his older son retaliated.
"Yeah well I don't like it."
"Well I guess you fags are gonna have to wait for your assraping... my freaking dad wants us to get off." Brandon announced on the mic.
Normally, Chris would have punished them for being so disrespectful at this point, but he was actually shaking too much to berate them properly.
"Just get off the damn xbox!" he yelled holding the edge of the sofa.
Heads low, they disconnected and as Sam was about to leave the room, he said, "No Sam sit back down, I have to talk to you boys about something."
"ughhhhhh"
The exasperated sigh from his sons almost made him angry... he was about to open up to them about something so personal and they just act like they want nothing to do with him. He might have said something in anger had that lump in his throat not grown so large.
Chris cleared his throat.
"Sons look, you know how I've got that new job and started dressing differently?"
they nod.
"Its made me really happy, I'm finally doing what I've always wanted to do. But I had been unhappy for quite sometime." He paused, he could see the expression on the faces go from disinterested to curious.
"This new job is really just been an outlet for something I've been repressing since your mother left us." He swallowed, he just was going to say it. *I'm gay* "I'm" *just say it* "Son's I'm gay"
he winced.
"WHOOOOAAAAAA, hold up dad, What the fuck?? Is this some way of getting us to stop saying shit on xbox?" Brandon got out of his seat as he exclaimed.
"No! I'm serious, but you can see why it sucks to hear you say that stuff. But I've decided to come out"
"Dad that's so weird, why are you telling us this?" Sam asked, but Chris was relieved to hear the tone change.
"You are my sons, I love you, and I wanted to come out to you first because I thought you deserved to know."
Brandon made a strange disgusted face. "You FUCK guys???"
Chris ignored the F-bomb, "No, I haven't done any of that, I've JUST come to terms with this. How bout you be a bit more respectful?"
"How can I respect someone that is a homo?? that's just not right dad, its nasty."
As agitated as Chris was... he had to understand that that was his own feelings exactly as he began to explore his own desires. "Look boys, I don't think you will ever understand, but I'm just asking you to accept this new information and I know its going to feel like its going to change things, but it really shouldn't! I'm still your father and I will still support and love you, and I just ask you to respect me."
Sam looked up finally, "Dad I don't like this, I just don't want you to bring some guy you're dating here."
Brandon made a gagging sound.
"Maybe I will! And when I do I hope you boys will be able to respect the fact that whoever that may be that he makes me happy!" Chris needed to be alone now, he didn't want to hear what his sons had to say anymore. "I'm going out for a bit, we can talk about this more later."
He grabbed his tweed coat, and headed for the door. "Hey Dad, I do want you be happy, I like the happy you" Sam said softly grabbing Chris's arm as he reached for the door. Chris gave him a weak smile as he saw the face of Brandon behind him, disgusted and glaring at him, then suddenly getting up off the sofa and letting out a big scream. Chris closed the door behind him and got in his car, and headed out to the cemetery.
He knelt in front of the headstone of his ex-wife. He never loved her, and up until she died he almost resented her. But life was so much simpler then, and sometimes he wished she was still there to be a part of the family. He had been so much happier since he started coming to terms with who he actually was, leading to him quitting his former job at an insurance company to work for a clothing line in marketing, exploring his sexuality and sense of style and he wasn't ashamed to watch the things he wanted to watch on tv. He wasn't going to look back because it's difficult to be different; he was going to lead his own life, and people will respect him eventually.
*My sons will too*, he just had to know that as he walked back to the car and returned home. | 65 | Gay parent comes out to homophobic child(ren). | 93 |
I thought it was odd I had woken up so early. The room was dark, and the curtains hadn't been drawn yet. Without asking for the time, I decided to doze back to sleep. After a few minutes with no luck, my eyes flitted open with frustration.
"Google!" I called out, "What is the time?" Much to my surprise, silence was the only thing that replied. I sat up and threw the covers off me. As my feet touched the floor, I could see light peeking behind the curtains.
"Google! Turn on my bedside lamp," I ordered. Again, silence. I grumbled to myself as I clumsily reached behind the lamp trying to reach the physical switch. My fingers fumbled around it once I discovered it. It had been so long since I even saw the switch, much less used it, and had to quickly reteach myself. With a flick, I closed the switch. It let out a resonant *click*. Still, darkness.
"Weird." I thought. "There must be a power outage." My backup batteries had been routinely serviced a few months ago (most likely incorrectly) and that must have been the cause; I reasoned with myself.
I grabbed my Glass from the charging pad, and fitted it on my head as I yawned. "Google! What is the time?" I repeated. I looked up and into the display. I saw nothing. I pressed and held the power button. Again, no familiar lights, no welcoming tune. "Just great," I thought, "everything seems broken today."
I angrily tossed the Glass back onto the nightstand, and heaved off the bed. I sleepily lumbered over to the window, reached up, and drew the curtains back. Sunlight flooded the room, and I drew my hand to my eyes to protect my pupils from the barrage of photons pelting my face. I forgot the power was out as I was expecting my window's auto-dim to be active.
As my eyes were able adjust, I saw my neighbors standing in their yard. They seemed to be peering around with a look of confusion. I figured their power must be out too, but their confused looks and lack of Glass on their heads made me realize their electronics must be on the fritz too. I looked to the left, more neighbors. To the right, more.
I whisked to the closet, grabbed a robe and headed for the bedroom door. As I got to the door, it didn't open. I reached forward, and manually pushed it aside. I walked down the hallway to the main door, unlocked it myself, and stepped through the arch. My next door neighbor to the left, Bill, was talking with the neighbor I had first seen across the street. They heard my door open, and began to walk over to me.
"Hey, Bill, Sandra!" I preemptively called out, "You guys must be having problems with your stuff too, huh?"
"Yea, it seems like the whole neighborhood is," Bill replied. "Sandra's husband took his old Datsun out to see what's going on. Our cars aren't working either." No longer had he managed to get out the words did we hear the familiar *putt putt putt* of the old clunker coming back up the street, but the RPMs were high. He was coming pretty quickly, *very* quickly. He approached us with a screeching halt. Hopped out, slamming the old door behind him.
"I can't believe it!" He stammered, both hands furrowing the top of his head. "They threatened, but I didn't think they would be crazy enough to do it!" Sandra's husband said as he walked towards us. All of us gasped in unison. Bill held his hand to his mouth, while Sandra and her Husband embraced.
Weeks earlier, the rebels were losing ground and had threatened to take desperate measures if the monopoly Google had on tech was allowed to put out their existence. Rumors had spread that the rebels had acquired nuclear warheads, and were threatening to detonate them in the atmosphere causing an EMP that would knock out our beloved Google devices. They said they had acquired enough to EMP the entire planet. However, I didn't think they had the resources to acquire anything like that. They had been on the losing front for so long, but I was wrong. The rebels very well may have ended our lives as we know them.
"Damn you, Bing!" I cried out as my neighbors and I huddled together looking on at a new dark age of technology.
Edit: The grammar. | 28 | The year is 2075. Google is an integral part of every facet of life. One morning, nothing turns on. | 18 |
The Global Machine.
Construction commenced in the late 2070s at the command of the Reformed United Nations Committee. Forty years, twenty-two days and nine hours later, I watch the holo-screen mounted high on my cell wall along with the thirteen other inmates stocked like sardines inside of this 8x10 concrete prison.
Someone's fat presses into my spine. An arm knocks me roughly to the side, where I ram painfully into another prisoner. Though we are cramped, however, we are all silent, our eyes glued to the holo-screen as if magnetically attracted to the shaky picture.
A blurry image of an International Senator flickers onscreen. I don't know who he is until ticker tape runs along the bottom, declaring him as Robin Decorum, the very man who proposed the Global Machine's construction. He is smiling with every single one of his perfect white teeth, and, though I know he has nothing to do with it, I curse him internally for the eight I've lost since being imprisoned in this shithole.
"Today, ladies and gentlemen of every country on Earth, I announce to you the successful completion of the Global Machine, which is finally complete and ready for activation."
I hate the curve of his lips as he speaks. His disgusting tongue as it flops lazily in his mouth. I want to rip it out of his head.
"As you all know, Earth is a spectacular place full of opportunities and successes."
Bullshit.
"However, unlike the majority of Earth's citizens, some have chosen to disobey international law. Some have chosen to become criminals who use the pain and misfortune of others in order to further their own selfish agendas."
Bullshit bullshit bullshit. I attacked an International Defense Officer who was arresting a seven year old kid for throwing rocks. Yeah, I nearly killed him. But he nearly killed me first.
I was charged with assaulting an IDO.
And terrorism.
Then I was sentenced to five life sentences in one of 19 million International Penitentiaries.
"The number of criminals has been exponentially increasing over the last fifty years. Now, our prisons are overcrowded, unregulated, and dangerous for the guards working within. The amount of resources we have wasted on maintaining the health and well-being of these prisoners is astronomically high."
Bullshit again. I watched No. 33241 starve to death last week.
"That is why the creation of the Global Machine is so significant. Because, for the first time ever, Earth can be a place free of crime and criminals. The Global Machine terraformed by the Reformed United Nations is perfectly capable of housing every one of the billion criminals stationed in penitentiaries on Earth."
It's going to happen. They're going to ship all of us out of this shithole and literally *to another planet*. So they don't have to deal with us anymore.
"The self-sustaining Global Machine, once activated, will require no further assistance from Earth. Once the prisoners are released there, it will be possible for them to survive due to the fertile environment. We will not contact them in any way other than to deliver necessary resources such as medical supplies and foodstuffs. In other words, they will no longer plague Earth's financial resources."
The speech is greeted with thunderous applause. Us inmates are silent.
The holo-screen flashes again, to reveal the Global Machine itself. Colossal gears grind and moan as they begin to turn into motion. A small light at the center propagates and begins to flicker. My heart sinks. The Global Machine has been activated.
No. 1553233 grins. "We're getting back our freedom. Finally."
Some inmates seem to agree, sharing his enthusiasm. But most of us are shellshocked. I see more than one tear.
"To the WALL!" A guard screams from outside.
We all struggle, shoving ourselves in bunches against the far wall to the cell. Hands up, feet apart. I'm stepped on countless times, but none of us care. None of us want to get shot for disobedience.
"We're taking you to transport one at a time." Something jams painfully into my back. It's probably a gun.
"You first. Put your hands behind your back."
I do it. The metal handcuffs are cold and too tight. I'm escorted by one of the guards out of the cell, down a dimly lit hallway. The smell is horrendous. It's a mixture of shit, vomit, sweat, and blood. Cells lining the hallway are packed with prisoners. None call out to us- they know they'll be punished if they disobey. There are a billion prisoners on this planet, and not a single one of them will disobey.
We reach a small room. It is dirty and unfurnished.
"Get on your knees." The guard orders.
"Wait, what? I though I was being transferred-" His gun connects with my jaw and knocks me sideways. I shut the hell up and do what he says, face throbbing in pain.
My guts churn. What's going on?
"You're all disgusting, every single one of you. But they're even worse, aren't they?"
I don't respond, I just look up at the him. I'm about to piss myself. What is going on? Is this the transport?
"The Global Machine." I finally say. "How am I going to get there?"
This time, the guard's reaction is unexpected. Instead of attacking me, he grins and lets out a violently stirring laugh. He's so loud that it shocks me, and I jump.
"The Global Machine? Oh, boy. You bought that shit. You think that the government is gonna build themselves a new planet and then put *prisoners* up there? Hell no. There's not enough money on all of Earth to terraform shit."
I'm shivering. I hope that I'm wrong about what comes next. I pray a silent prayer that I am wrong about what comes next.
"The only thing this government had enough money for was bullets. About a billion of 'em."
He cocks his gun. | 13 | Colossal gears grind and moan as they begin to turn into motion. A small light at the center propagates and begins to flicker. Your heart sinks. The Global Machine has been activated. | 17 |
I sat at the table, bouncing my leg and looking at the clock. I've had to much coffee, and my brain feels like scrambled eggs. Running my fingers through my hair, I check my watch against the time on the clock. She should be here by now.
The diner was busy. Waitresses were taking orders. One orange juice, two flapjacks, three eggs. One orange juice, two flapjacks, three eggs. Everyone stares at me, but all I'm doing is staring at the clock.
The bell above the door rang, and I looked up. No that isn't her. One orange juice, two flapjacks, three eggs. I looked down and squashed an ant with my thumb. There were dozens of ants all over the table. It was disgusting.
I look up, and saw her slide into the booth. My heart relaxed. A waitress appears next to us.
"One orange juice, two flapjacks, three eggs." I blurted. They both looked at me, surprised. The waitress laughs.
"Well okay then, and for the lady?" She looked at Joan. Joan grinned, and looked back at her.
"Same for me." Joan was a class act.
I swept the table again, the ants were everywhere.
"Sorry for the mess Joan," I started. One orange juice, two flapjacks, three eggs.
"Stop," she said, and placed her hand in mine. The ants disappeared.
"Jack, what did you need to tell me?" She smiled at me.
I felt nervous. I couldn't breathe. I kept hearing people order. One orange juice, two flapjacks, three eggs.
"Joanie, listen, I..." I looked around, afraid she'd leave.
"Jack, what is it sweetheart?" I looked into her eyes.
"Joanie, I'm falling in love with you." I said it. I see her blinking. One blink, two blinks, three blinks.
"Jack, I'm falling in love with you too. I just..." her voice trailed off. "I just don't know if I can trust it."
I looked at her quizzically. The waitress reappeared with our order. Two orange juices, four flapjacks, six eggs. Something wasn't right.
Joanie looked angry. She threw her orange juice on the floor, the glass shattering.
She put her head down on the table. "I can't trust you," she said. She broke my heart. I got up, turned to her one last time.
"Joanie," I said. She nodded. "Joanie, I love you." I put my hand on the back of her head. I turned, and walked out of the diner.
***
The waitress bent and picked up as much of the glass as she could. Another waitress came with a broom, sweeping glass into a bin.
The waitresses both walked back into the kitchen. They stood there, shocked. Finally, one of them spoke.
"Mary did you see that?"
Mary nodded. She put her hand on Val's shoulder. "Val, listen, that girl is in here every day. She orders the same thing, and just sits and talks to herself."
Val looked at the door worried. "Should we call someone?"
Mary looked back toward the door. The little window in the kitchen door allowed them to look right at the woman.
The woman sat, smiling, eating, talking to no one. | 116 | You are a schizophrenic maddeningly in love with the man/woman of your dreams. But you're becoming increasingly unsure if she's real, or just another hallucination. | 253 |
The first time our cave-dwelling ancestors discovered fire, I wonder if they marveled. There, standing in the face of something dangerous and exciting and dangerous, if they were aware of the sheer depth of potential and terror that the orange glow promised.
I sat in the room. Warehouse, really. Rust had long since claimed some of the decorations, dials, and gauges. Brass and copper were in abundance, along with iron, gold pyrite, and many many other materials. I stared at the massive gearworks beyond, illuminated by cones of hundreds of flood lamps and flashlights, and felt very, very small.
"What do you think?" Asked the man behind me, sweating profusely in the staggering heat. The suit seemed well-at-ease in the setting. Pinstriped and multilayered, well-tailored to fit the expanding belly, and the metal of his glasses gleamed in the glowing light of the cavernous gearwork. I frowned at him, wondering if his all-cotton suit could survive the heat of millions of independent machines powering the massive network of gears going on behind us.
"Can you change the oil on your car?"
"I beg your pardon?"
I turned back, staring at the enormous machinery. My eyes lost focus trying to follow the wheels that connected everything. "If you had to, do you think you could change the oil on your car?"
He blustered for a minute. "I hardly think that is relevant."
"Humor me, then." I said, turning back to him. "Do you think you could?"
He frowned. "I suppose. I am not sure I could do it right, but I probably could figure it out. There's an oil release beneath the car, is there not?"
"Yeah, you've got the right idea. Do you think you could replace a spark plug?"
He seemed to grow more animated and less nervous as he spoke. Rapport reflex, I guessed. "Oh yes, my father showed me how one day. I have never really felt the need to though."
I turned back to the machine. "Do you think, if someone dismantled an engine in front of you, you could put it back together?"
"Heavens no. Engineering on that level is something I am hardly qualified to examine, but less assemble."
"That's what I think," I said, trying to peer through the cog-works as though the complexities of the machine might reveal themselves to me if I stared long enough. I followed various sections with my eyes, seeing little interactions that must have had some purpose. I found connection after connection, but each layer seemed to feed into another layer.
"Beg pardon. What you think about what?"
"This machine," I said, gesturing absently. "I've been in engineering all of my life, and the more I look at this thing, the more I realize how little I understand it all. While I don't doubt I could perhaps fix it if I had plans or layouts or diagrams, looking at the completed exterior, I feel like there's more chance for me to break than I could find how to fix."
"Oh dear."
"Yep." I shook my head. "Sorry to sound so negative. I've been working with your team for the past week, and the more I look at it, the more I realize there are terribly complicated systems in play here. I think I've deciphered the meaning of some of the works, and have been communicating with physicists and mechanics, but I fear that my background is betraying my lack of knowledge on all the functions of this thing."
"I see..." He said, distantly. I had the feeling he was terrified of what would happen if the machine broke down.
"Still, we're making progress. I've identified several of the stabilizer failsafes. It's interesting. Some of them are organic processes that will naturally shift and change depending on a handful of factors. Some are purely steam-driven, which is boggling that its continued to run this long without some kind of regular maintenance. There are modern implements, too. Machine-tooled pieces." I stared back through void of mechanical components. "It really is a marvelous machine."
"D-do you think you can fix it?"
"I'll do my best."
I heard his shoes clank softly away as he paced back to the entryway. The heat settled into my face, and I stared into the staggeringly complicated machine in front of me. I wondered if, in the face of something bright and dangerous and complex, this is how the cave men felt. | 116 | Earth does not, in fact, spin by itself. Instead, an ancient machine of unknown origin keeps the world turning with an enormous network of cogs and gears. Mankind has just discovered that it requires maintenance to continue functioning, and nobody knows what to do. | 248 |
It was dark, and I was warm. My boyfriend snoozed beside me. He's always been a heavy sleeper.
Suddenly, the ground shook. I looked around, it was still pitch dark. My boyfriend awoke, holding me.
"It's okay," he said. I believed him, but I was frightened. I could hear screams.
Suddenly, we began to fall, as though gravity shifted. I slid hard and hit the wall. My boyfriend was still next to me.
Light blinded me. It surrounded us. I heard screams of my family and his family. I heard screams of friends and strangers.
Gravity shifted again. I was sliding down, my boyfriend holding on to me. I grabbed onto anything I could to slow my fall. He was hanging on to me, and it was hard to stop us.
The wall bounced, sending me flying. I couldn't see my boyfriend. Friends and family tumbled past me.
The gravity shifted again. I fell in the other direction. I couldn't hear my boyfriend or see him anywhere. I didn't know anyone around me, and everyone was still screaming.
Darkness surrounded us, and it became very quiet. People called out for loved ones. I called out for my boyfriend, to no avail.
I began to cry.
***
Max opened the cabinet and grabbed the cereal box. He shook it to figure out if there was enough in there. Opening it, he poured some in his bowl. He closed the box and put it back in the cabinet. He poured milk over the top and walked back to his room, crunching as he went. | 17 | Take a common household item and write a tragic story about it. | 16 |
He sat before the console, gaunt face bathed in the pale light of his monitor. The massive Petri dish before him sparkled under a black light, illuminating all of its slimy contents. A ballet of colorful lasers danced across the dish, and in response the monitor flashed with rapid blips of code and data.
Two days ago he finally managed to weed out all the noise in those blips. What he was left with was a simple message:
"We understand."
The man looked down at the dish, resting his chin on the console. He thought about them down there, living in their microscopic world. 'Here there be Dragons'. It made him chuckle, but it was also the truth. Everything about them was just as advertised in legend, really. The mighty hunters- fearsome, terrible and smart- stalking their prey across the vast expanses of their world. The 'world' they lived in just happened to be a little smaller than anyone thought.
And the 'prey' they hunted was quite different, too.
The man rubbed a hand over his bald head and leaned back in his chair. He cradled his arm, rubbing the spot he drew blood from a few days ago. That was for the sample: the thing he had to 'offer' them, if they'd take him up on it. They were smart, after all, and they could communicate, after a fashion. The legends were true on that point: they *were* smart.
He just prayed to God they were *wise*, too.
His computer clicked and whirred; the monitor stopped broadcasting data and the laser lights over the Petri dish turned off. After a moment the computer spat out a few final lines of code, and after a few minutes he was able to interpret the message:
"We agree."
The man smiled, drawing a breath. He picked up a small syringe lying on the table and set the needle against the goo of the dish; he sucked up the contents and then got to his feet. He shuffled over to a nearby sink and rubbed an iodine pad over the crook of his arm. He looked at himself in the mirror: his sunken eyes were little more than faded, cracked marbles, and his face was nearly skeletal in appearance. He weighed perhaps 105 pounds wet, and each breath he drew was a slow and labored exercise in agony. There was a scent on his breath, too. It reeked of death.
He looked at the syringe in his hand for quite some time before plunging the needle into his arm. He pushed it in, and the fluid disappeared into his veins.
"Thank you," he whispered, his eyes narrowing with cold confidence. "And happy hunting..." | 11 | Turns out fire breathing dragons ARE real and there are millions of them. They also happen to be the size of small bacteria. | 29 |
The old man sat in his chair seemingly oblivious to the crowd calling for his blood. It wasn't that he didn't care, it was that he didn't know how to. He'd been at this for half a century. If there was any humanity left in him when he began it was long gone now.
Judge Rooflan slammed the gavel down again and called for order. Eventually the courtroom noise lessened to murmurs and then the room fell silent.
"As I was saying. Mr. Hendricks-"
"Murderer!" A voice from the back yelled.
The judge had had enough. "Any more outbursts will be met with severe punishment." He looked out over the courtroom. "Now Mr. Hendricks, you have decided to act as your own attorney is this correct?"
"Yes your honor." Philip Hendricks wasn't quite a lawyer but he was sharp as a whip. Also, he didn't trust anyone but himself.
The judge nodded. "I shall now read the charges.
* 75 counts of breaking and entering.
* 13 counts of grand theft auto.
* 104 counts of indecent exposure.
* 95 counts of murder in the first degree.
* 17 counts of manslaughter.
* 53 counts of theft.
* 7 counts of arson.
* And 1 count of... defecating off the side of a building.
How do you plead?"
Philip looked around the room. It was completely full. Dozens of people who had come to testify against him. "Well your honor, I'm afraid I can't plead guilty. You see, the number of counts of murder was a little low."
The judge looked at the old man. "Is it?"
In one swift motion Philip Hendricks pulled a detonator out of a hidden pocket and leaped onto his chair. "It's about to be."
| 46 | The Most Vicious and Evil Serial Killer of the past 50 years has finally been caught, he is on trial and being filmed live in front of the world. The judge begins reading him his crimes... | 20 |
"Stand him back up!"
The Sith Inquisitor's words hissed from his mouth directly at the two guards who propped the prisoner back to a standing position. This interrogation had been going on longer then anyone had anticipated, and the lack of information that had been ascertained from this man was starting to affect even the hardened Sith Lord. The air crackled as yet another shock of Force Lighting escaped from his fingertips and struck its target, arching through the prisoner's body.
"What is your name!?" asked the Inquisitor his voice barely audible over the sound of the lighting arching through the air. "Where did you come from!?"
Still the prisoner remained silent. His breath was heavy, and smoke rose off his body from the effects of the torture, but not a word was spoken.
Seething, the Inquisitor stretched his hand outward in a swift motion, and the prisoner was flung against the wall and raised up close to the ceiling of the small interrogation room. As he clenched his fingers, the man gasped for breath.
"You were found in a crater in the middle of the Valley of the Dark Lords, soon after the disturbance was felt. You MUST be connected! ANSWER ME."
The prisoner was lifted off the ground once again, and through exhaustion, retreated into his own mind.
-----
"We can't keep this up. I'm not you. I don't have your strength." he said.
"We must. Until we learn more." the other voice responded.
"You've protected us up to this point," he continued "but I'm not sure I can hold out much longer. What is it you want from these... aliens?"
The other voice emerged from the darkness of the prisoner's mind and confronted him, towering over the bruised and beaten man.
"Puny human," he spat. "Puny Banner."
Dr Bruce Banner didn't remember what exactly brought him to this strange new planet. There were images in his mind, broken memories of Stark Labs, of an an experiment with time and space, and of an explosion. Then, waking up in a cell with these red skinned aliens and their questions, their strange magic - 'The Force,' he heard one of them call it. Now, he was trapped. The Hulk had done much to keep him alive during the interrogation, but his will was giving out and this place... this planet.. he could feel anger in every corner, every recess. If he were to let the Hulk out and expose him to this... No. He couldn't. There's no telling what what would happen.
"Hulk. We need to figure out what happened at Stark Labs.. we need -"
A voice suddenly screamed out in pain, piercing Banner's ears. It seemed to be coming from all around. It took only seconds to realize the the voice was his own. A hot sharp, pain pierced through his chest. He looked down to see a glowing beam of light protruding from his stomach.
-----
The Sith Inquistitor stood over his prey, his lightsaber impaling him as he lay floating in mid air, still under his control. Banner's eyes closed tightly, and the Sith Lord eyes glowed with delight.
"I know that look" he said with a certain amount of satisfaction, "Pain. Tell me, are you finally prepared to tell me what I want to know?"
The Inquisitor turned his back and shut off his lightsaber, letting Banner fall to the ground. Struggling to get to his knees, his lips parted as if he were ready to speak. The Sith Lord leaned in.
Banner chuckled. It was between bouts of coughing up blood, but it grew louder.
"And what exactly do you find so amusing?" asked the Inquisitor.
"Something... I read on a wall... on the way in here...." Banner managed to get to his knees.
"Oh? And what was -?" the Inquisitor's mocking tone was suddenly silenced as he sensed something. It was the same disturbance he felt before, the same one that led him to the crater in the valley.
"Peace is a lie, there is only passion..." Banner spoke, his eyes glowing green.
The Inquisitor took a step back.
"Through passion, I gain strength." Banner rose to his feet. His small frame twisted and grew.. his skin changing..
The Inquisitor reached for his lightsaber, switching it on and wielding it between him and Banner.
"Through strength, I gain power," continued Banner, whose skin was now a dark shade of green, his wound closing, his muscles growing.
The guards ran out of the room as the transformation continued. Only the Inquisitor remained.
"Through power, I gain victory." The last resemblances of Bruce Banner disappeared, as his voice deepened, growling "Through victory, my chains are broken."
The Incredible Hulk now stood before the Sith Inquisitor. Howling, the Sith Lord brought his lightsaber down in an arch, determined to cut this new threat in half. His eyes turned from hatred to fear as it struck hard against the Hulks skin, not moving.
The Hulk picked up the Inquisitor with one hand and raised him to his eye level.
"You think you know strength?" he asked. "You think you know anger?" The once proud Inquisitor now trembled in the hands of The Hulk.
Hulk smiled. "Puny Sith."
| 434 | The Sith feel a disturbance in the force unlike anything they have encountered. A consolidation of pure rage and anger in a single entity- The Hulk has entered the Galaxy. | 310 |
We stared at each other for a long time. Her blue eyes pierced through me. Every time I took a breath, my heart skipped a beat.
I had no idea who this girl was. She was gorgeous. A little shorter than me, she had beautiful blond hair that fell to her shoulders. Her bangs cascaded down, swept to the side of her face. Her flawless nose led to full lips, which were prominent on her face. Her square jaw sat above her slender neck.
She was stunning. She smiled at me, and I smiled back. We sat in our chairs, across from each other.
Without saying anything, she made me feel completely safe. I wanted to get to know her, I wanted to hear her story. Her soft smile made me feel at home. I felt like I could tell this girl anything, like I could just be the best possible version of me with her. It was like something happened to me, something magic. I had butterflies in my stomach, which I had not felt in a long time.
She stood, and made her way over to me. Looking down at me, those beautiful blue eyes pulling me in, she reached her hand out and took mine.
"I'm Kate," she said.
"I'm Trevor," I replied, breathless.
"Trevor." She said it as though she finally learned a mystery. She said it the way I would want to hear it if I were home from a long journey. When she said it, it finally meant something.
"Seeing as we're short on time, Trevor, I want to tell you that if we could, I would date you. I would want you to pick me up tonight, at 8:00, and you would. You'd probably show up with roses, because you strike me as lovably sappy.
We'd go to your favorite restaurant, because I'd want to see what kind of food you liked. I imagine it would be near the pier, and we would walk along the water until it got dark. Then we'd go back to my apartment, because I would feel so comfortable with you."
She sat on the edge of my chair. She continued.
"Then, we'd make love. It would be that firey, passionate, sudden kind of love that jumps at you and takes you, and we wouldn't be able to fight it. We'd surrender to it. My friends would call me crazy, because I hardly know you, but it would be perfect, in it's own wonderfully weird way.
Then we'd lay in bed, and you would make a comment about how messy my room is. We would laugh and talk until we both fell asleep."
My eyes grew misty and my heart was in my throat. She stood, and leaned down and kissed my forehead.
I closed my eyes. I didn't want to lose this moment, I wanted to live here, forever.
She looked at me. Her eyes looking sad, she turned and grabbed the I.V. pole. She made her way feebly back to her chair, where the nurse changed her chemo bag.
"I would have fallen in love with you Trevor," she said to me. She settled back in her chair and closed her eyes.
I know that look. I've seen a body become weary like that, from one too many steps.
"I would have fallen in love with you, Kate" I said.
We stared at each other for a long time. Her blue eyes pierced through me. Every time I took a breath, my heart skipped a beat. | 27 | Write me a love story where the characters only meet once, likely to never meet again. | 21 |
"...but the flashies were *really* flashy, li'l baby. An' so the cap'n had to fly *reeeeal* low. That's when the plane went all flippity, flippity, flip! An' then mom'n dad went and got themselves lost. Wonder where they got off to, huh? Everyone *else* got themselves lost, too! But that's okay, 'cause the nice mister man came'n got us, an' then we got to the cozy li'l cave!"
He watched her as she cradled it: that pathetic bundle of sticks and leaves that he wedged together for her. He'd topped it with the half-burnt, ragged face of some other kid's doll that he pulled from the wreckage.
The little cave they shared stank of mold and rot. He shifted his weight, disturbing the empty cartons of airline food strewn all about the place.
"An' he feeded us, too, li'l baby! He feeded us with *plane packets*! But mister man doesn't like 'em, I guess, 'cause he doesn't eat much..."
His stomach churned, an empty cocktail of bile and acid twisted through his guts.
Seven days; it'd been *seven* days since he'd eaten a bite. He hadn't had much before that, either. He rationed their food, or at least he tried. He knew the rescue was coming, so the priority had always been the kid. She needed to eat; he could do without. And he did. But the days passed, then *weeks*. The weather outside got colder, and his stomach drew tighter. Did they know where the plane crashed?
Were they *ever* coming?
The food was all gone, now. His stomach was all knots, and he barely had the strength to move.
"...when the nice people come'n get us we won't *hafta* eat plane packets, li'l baby! We'll have spaghetti, an' roast beef, an' macaroni, an..."
Spit welled up in the corners of his mouth; it pained his gums. He deliriously followed along with the girl's list, soundlessly mouthing out each delicious food she mentioned with his blistered lips.
His eyes moved away from the girl's doll; they wandered over to the kid's little legs, and he watched as she kicked them back and forth. Those little legs: they looked... so very plump...
The spit in his mouth burned his tongue.
"An' then we'll find mommy 'n daddy, cause those sillies got themselves lost! We'll find 'em, an then..."
The little girl looked up at the man as he pulled himself off the floor and started crawling over to her. His eyes were wide, and the drool spilled freely down his chin.
"Oh!" The girl grinned happily. "Here's mister man, li'l baby!" She said. "Are we gonna eat now, mister man?"
He crawled toward her, his emaciated limbs twitching like a spider's, and a distant grin formed on his face:
"Yeah, kid. *We* are..."
| 16 | Not understanding the danger at hand, a young girl obliviously describes the horrific situation to her doll. | 15 |
"They're gonna bury wot's left of ye in a soup can! Outta me shop, lad!" Tavish sighed and grabbed the broom, going around the counter and starting to sweep up the broken bottle.
*"Demoman,"* a rough, gravelly voice said. The name he hadn't been called since the Gravel War ended. He looked up and his only eye widened. "Soldier!" The BLU Soldier was different since he last saw him. A scar across his cheek and a greying beard. The two just about screamed as they hugged, and the stainless steel pot on Soldier's head was cold against Tavish's neck.
"Soldier! Ye flew all the way t' Scotland to see me?"
The Soldier stood straight and proud. "**No.** Scotland is not a real country."
"England. Ye flew to England?"
The Soldier kept his ignorant proud stance. "Yes."
"Have ye heard from the rest of the crew?" he asked hopefully.
"Your Spy -- the RED one -- he sent me. He is an official at a French spy agency."
"Which one?"
"Uh… I don't speak French. He gave me money and two weeks to find you. I have a week and a half left."
"Where ye stayin'?"
"A box."
"Come stay with me, Soldier."
The Soldier grimaced and let out a low, unsure groan. "I met a raccoon. I need to bring him. I also need my box and shovel."
"Heh heh. Ye can keep all that. The raccoon stays outside."
-----------
"Bonjour. I am looking for a professor there whose first name is Misha."
"Da, but for what reasons? Who am I speaking to?"
"I am an old friend of his. Tell him he has an important long-distance call." (this is Spy)
----------
"Doktor, I talk later," Medic heard from the other side of the telephone. "I have important call. Is long-distance."
"Ja. Tag, mein freund."
"Dosvidanya."
Medic hung up the phone and walked into the Engineer's workshop. "Is ze dispenser still malfunctioning?"
"Dang right," he said, wiping his bald head with a cloth. "Never thought gittin' to level four would be so hard. The stem cell replicator won't work, and I don't know rightly why. Dang, is that food here yet? I ain't eaten Chinese takeout in a long time."
They could hear the doorbell of the house. "Oo, that must be it. I'll be back, Dell."
Medic left the workshop and went into Engineer's house. A sentry gun beeped at him and watched him go by. He opened the door.
"Hey! Doc! Haven't seen you in a long time!"
"Scout? Guten tag! You vork at a... Chinese takeout restaurant?"
"Nah. Some driver left his car, I took the food, saw the address list, and *pretended* to be a delivery guy."
"Zen what are-"
"This your place?"
"Nein. It is Engineer's."
"The BLU Engineer, huh? He here?"
---------
"And without cutting pension, we lose that profit. That means we won't get any benefits from our suppliers, if they see our stock declining."
*"Hudda huddah huh."*
"Well, yes, but-"
"Hruh huh? Huh-huh hruh-hee."
"I know you're the CEO. I'm just saying-"
"Hudduh! Hrah huh her!"
"O-kay. Then we'll take a break for now." The suited man looked at his watch. "Okay. 15 minute break, everyone."
Pyro exited the room and went into his office, turning on the TV and crossing his legs over each other and laying his feet on his desk. *Australian Extinction: Bloody Extinct* was on. Just in time.
-----------
"Wot yer seein' is a rare Australian dodo bird. Scientists say it's been extinct for years, but I say they're gonna be extinct in a few minutes." He lowered the binoculars and pulled his sniper rifle up. "Steady, steady..."
Another dodo bird, the female, settled in the nest with the male. With a boom, the birds' blew into an explosion of feathers and blood. "Holy dooley!" He looked at the camera. "That's *Bloody Extinct* for this week. Tune in next week when Australian scientists reanimate Jurassic crocodiles!" | 13 | The classes from the game "Team Fortress 2" try to live as normal people with normal lives that does not involve killing. | 31 |
No. No, please don't close the book. Can't you see we aren't done yet? I know it's the last page, but don't leave me alone. Don't put me back on the shelf to gather dust.
I know I seemed happy with him. Those words *tricked* you into thinking I was happy. Maybe at one point, when the words were first penned, I was. People change, but I've never been allowed to. I'm stuck in a perpetual, repetitive life with no chance of escape. Honestly, I'd never thought about escape before you. Didn't you see? Didn't you want me, too?
The way you touched my life made me feel at home. Your eyes stared straight into my soul. They didn't run. They smiled. You stuck around, chapter after chapter. You stuck around through my mistakes, through my sadness.
The story ended. I was alone. The man I was with left me - he leaves me every time. And on the last page, you paused. I don't think you wanted to leave me either. But really, what choice did you have? The tear in your eye landed on the last sentence of the novel: "I love you". I wish you realized that wasn't meant for him. | 47 | Write a story where the main character falls in love with the reader. | 77 |
Aliz was selected to be the one to throw the switch. Humanity reached for the stars. The rules of the universe just didn’t allow it to be done easily. Humanity colonised the solar system and filled it to breaking point. They pulled in extra exo planets. They build worlds designed to spent thousands of years traveling between the stars. Humanity spread out. The human lifespan was extended towards infinity, though most didn’t chose to live that long.
Humanity pushed physics to the very limits of what it would allow, creating a single ship that could warp around the universe at unheard of speeds: it moved the universe around it, while it stood still. Using this Humanity explored the Galaxy. They found nothing. The mere existence of the ship proved a long held idea; the universe was not full of life.
Humanity was ancient. Their universe traversing ship had expanded in size as it did more and more work. Since it acted like a single station while everything moved around the ship, it took the same amount of energy. The ship had the population of a planet, and was older than most of the humans now on board it. If it ever had a name it was lost to time.
Humanity drifted into separate species; they did not always get on. There were wars, and empires. Cataclysms and renaissances. Holy leaders and scientific councils. Billions devoted to every god conceivable. Humanity spent a billion years expanding to every corner of the galaxy, at sub light speeds.
The Earth was destroyed by the Sun expanding. Humans had long since abandoned their childhood home and few noticed. Many were noticing the increasing silence. The universe, in its later years, was still, silent. The universe was just too big and unfriendly to allow for easy travel around it. A few planets were found with ruins billions of years old, showing life did exist other than on Earth. The laws of physics made it too difficult for most species to even leave their gravity well. Cosmology made it so while lifes building blocks are everywhere, most of it is too deadly for anything to happen. Any for those who did survive to the point they have the technology to maker it, the madness of being stuck on a single rock floating on a void drives many to destruction.
The ship left the galaxy, and began exploring others. It searched countless galaxies, and met no one. Once it picked up a signal, but by the time it got to the source the species had been dead for millions of years. They had been asking for help, in the darkness. There were no other signs of life.
The universe got old. Stars began to die in the night sky. An idea was debated in the patricians parliament within the ship. A machine was created to only be used once every single human, no matter how remote had a say. The vote would take a half a billion years, but at this point humans had stopped having children. Many of the humans wouldn't even be recognisable as human to the people who stepped off that first world.
Aliz stood at the machine. The vote was in. The machine was the gift from humanity to the dying universe. Every human celebrated what has been a good existence. For all their suffering, for all their flaws, for everything they ever did wrong; didn't matter. They had done this, and it was good.
He placed the box where you found this story, to be stored in deep memory and distributed after; Aliz climed inside. By virtue of you finding the story, this is what happened next, though it had to be written before events were put in motion.
The machine became the center of a singularity. Within a picosecond the ship was engulfed by it, using the extra mass, it does something very unusual. It begins to suck in every part of the universe. Every part of the universe at the same time begins moving in a dimension perpendicular to the others; at first the effect is like time slowing down. Then the universe is in every direction moving away from everything else. Every molecule is pulled apart, every atom taken down to its base components.
The universe is taken apart of a base level until all that is left is the box, the machine. Aliz touches a button. The machine takes all of time and no time to change. The machine has a new set of laws of the universe in its code It had a new set of rules. New building blocks. This time faster than light travel will be simple. This time the universe will be less harsh to new life. This time the universe would be full of life. The machine tears itself and everything inside it to cause a new universe to form. The memories of the device being distributed to somewhere, everywhere, somehow.
We give you this, a gift from a species that found out all there was to know; and found no one to tell it to. A species who went mad with loneliness. A species who, truly really does love you, and believe me when I say this. You are all human. You are all our children.
Signed faithfully
Aliz. The last human. | 13 | After hundreds of years colonizing the stars, and still no sign of intelligent extraterrestrial life, Humanity finally has an answer to the Fermi paradox. | 21 |
"Happy Birthday to you!"
Some of the parents attempted to sing the harmony but it was still terrible.
"Make a wish!"
*Mommy shouted at me. I took 17 rapid deep breaths and then blew out all but 1 candle. I don't think they noticed but I might have got a little spittle on the cake while I was blowing. It's hard blowing out candles.*
Addy looked to her left to find a little girl she'd not met before. The new friend had crawled up on a chair beside her so as to reach the table and blew out the last candle before Addy could even attempt it.
The parents clapped and John, the kids soccer coach, did one of those loud whistle noises.
"Hi" Addy decided to acknowledge her new nemesis "What's your name?". She smiled politely, her way of trying disarm the intruder.
"Hi I'm Grace." came the reply "I like your party!".
*Mmmmm birthday cake! I'm going to have the corner piece with all the extra icing on it.*
*What? Who said that. Also this is my cake so hands off. Mommy knows I love ponies so she put the ponies on it, see that is princess sparkle right there, and I like the rainbow.*
It was then they realized they were talking to each other. For two little telepathic girls who had never met anyone like themselves it was a recipe for disaster. They remained seated and glared at each other for a moment, thoughts quiet so as not to expose any weakness to the other.
"Hi Grace, it's nice to meet you. My name is Addy."
"Hello Addy, I know who you are. My mommy and your mommy know each other."
*Oh do they really? Well did your mommy bake YOU a princess sparkle cake on your 5th birthday?*
*I'm not 5 yet.*
*Well is she going to bake you a princess sparkle cake for your 5th birthday?*
*I don't like ponies. Well actually I love ponies but I'm not going to tell you that.*
*But I can hear what you're thinking. So you kind of just did tell me that.*
*Poop.*
*OMG you said poop! I'm so telling.*
*No I didn't! I didn't say anything.*
Jennifer, Addy's mom strolled over and interrupted their mental gymnastics.
"Addy do you want some ice cream with your cake?" she asked.
"Yes please! And can I have the corner piece with all the extra icing on it?" Addy glared at Grace as she asked it. She clasped her hands together, a move she new her mother could not resist.
"Of course, sweetie. How about you Grace, would you like some ice cream?"
Grace looked distraught, sad.
"Aw, what's wrong sweetheart?" Jennifer asked her.
"Nothing, it's just that, well I really like that special corner piece with all the extra icing on it."
*You are a big stupid and I don't like you.*
*Nananana*
"Addy hun, will you please share some of your piece with Grace? I'll just cut it in half, ok?"
Addy knew resistance was futile and so replied "Of course mommy, I love sharing with new friends.".
Grace received her cake and ice cream.
"Thanks Addy's mom!" she said.
*I am going to eat this piece, and then I'm going to have that other piece with the extra rainbow icing for seconds.*
*Mommy doesn't let us have seconds here. You'll get a tummy ache or your teeth will fall out of your face or something.*
*Well that's stupid. At my house we get seconds.*
*That's not very nice Grace.*
Julia, Grace's mom floated over to check on the two precious angels sharing cake at the head of the table.
"Hello lovelies, it's so nice that you two finally met each other!" she sang.
*No it isn't*
"Hi Grace's mom!" Addy began "Thank you for bringing Grace to my party. Are you going to make Grace a princess sparkle cake for her 5th birthday party?"
*Stop it Addy.*
Julia tweeted "We shall see! It depends what my lovely wants but I think we might do a special fruit cake this year. All this sugary mess is fun but it will rot your wittle teeth and make you a wittle kwazee.". She squeezed Grace's chin as she finished, wagging her face side to side. She floated away, likely to go spy and annoy some of the other children with her anti-sugar madness.
*I knew it! I heard mommy say you guys were all special diet and stuff and didn't eat fun things like us. Remind me to RSVP a big fat N-O to that invite when it comes.*
*We do so do fun things! Well daddy does, daddy's the best. But we don't tell mommy.*
"Pssst Grace." the whisper came from just behind us and we both turned to find Chris, Grace's dad sneaking up "Do you want more cake?"
Grace batted her eyelashes and flashed him a mischievous smile. Whispering back at him she said "Ya, I want the one with the extra rainbow icing daddy.".
*Grace, it's MY birthday, I don't like you very much. You're kinda' mean.*
*You think I'm mean now? Just wait til you start opening presents.*
EDIT: Well slap me and call me encouraged. Thanks everyone! | 550 | The only two (secret) telepaths in the world are introduced to each other at a party. On the surface they are cordial and polite... but mentally a battle rages on. | 889 |
The morning had been a whirlwind of excitement on the farm. George's dad finally let him help prepare the night's chicken dinner. George was still marveling at the amount of blood that had come from such a small animal.
He glanced out the window of the school bus, holding eye contact with a lone coyote that was drinking water from a drainage ditch beside a stop sign. *What a curios animal* George thought, the bus pulling away as the coyote bounded back into the bush.
The morning chill had all the students eager to get inside the warm school.
"Won't be long until the snow is here." George overheard a man teacher say to a woman teacher. Turning toward them, he saw that they were huddled close. As close as his mother and father stood.
"You'll have to find a way to keep me warm then..." the woman gave the man a wink.
"Why, Ms Lanster, you know that's inappropriate." said the man, reaching around to pinch the woman's bottom. Ms Lanster giggled like the schoolgirls that played behind George.
The man teacher looked up and saw George.
"Hey! Get out of here, kid!" George turned to run, slipping on some loose stones. His head slammed into the paved schoolyard. His ears rang. His forehead burned. The two adulterous adults had fled by the time George had risen.
George was shocked to see Ms Lanster standing in his classroom when he arrived. She took attendance, giving George a warning stare after he responded to his own name. Satisfied at that task complete, the woman announced to the class
"Principal Bartheon will be coming to our classroom for a visit, so I would like you all to make name tags."
Cardboard was massacred by scissors, as twenty pairs of hands worked to impress their new teacher. She had instructed the children to line up for inspection.
"Good! Well done!" Ms Lanster offered instruction as she worked her way down the line. She stopped in front of George and stared daggers at him.
"George! Your name tag only says 'G'. Where is the rest of your name?"
"I'm not sorry miss. I don't write very fast..."
-------------
Alternative punchline: 'sorry miss, I had to kill the other five characters'
| 51 | A young George R. R. Martin attends his first day of kindergarten, and something happens that will subconsciously influence him for the rest of his life | 33 |
"Joseph? Joe? I can't see!"
Her little voice wouldn't even echo in the tight basement. For days the guns had spoken louder and louder, until the two of them could no longer sleep through the thunderous argument above their heads. They had spent the night huddled in the basement corner, flinching as each blast shook the old house to its deep foundations, watching the flashes of blast-light illuminate the peeling wallpaper from the high, slit window which neither of them could reach.
Finally, after dawn, a direct hit had thrown them around the basement, and left Anita blind. The warm liquid oozing down her cheeks turned thick dust a muddy consistency. She thought she was crying as she crawled on her grubby knees, finding broken glass and stone chips with her soft palms.
"Joe. I'm scared. Where are you?"
She could feel a warm breeze, and hear louder than before the relentless shouts of the heavy artillery, and the higher pitched chattering of machineguns. Rising unsteadily to her feet, she began walking towards the noise.
"Did you leave the door open? Help me Joe I don't like the stairs."
Stumbling forwards she tripped onto a pile of broken bricks, all hard edges like toys thrown from their box. She cried out and her tears tasted of iron. Rolling over and sitting up on the bricks, she cradled her stinging elbows, feeling the tickle of blood. When she used to hurt herself playing, her mother would bandage it, but she didn't know what to do about it now. Joe would, just like Mummy and Daddy had always known what to do before they went away.
She jumped as an enormous crash shook the street, and more bricks tumbled down the pile around her sending clouds of dust into her lungs. Coughing it back up as grey blobs of saliva, she wiped her mouth with the torn hems of her dress.
"Joe," she hesitated, "I have to get out of here. I'm climbing up."
She felt the bricks with her hands, some were loose, but others would stay still as she climbed up, ever closer to the noise and the heat, one arm and then a leg, kicking bricks out of the way, sliding downwards and pulling herself up. All around the deafening cacophony of warfare. Finally at the top, she felt the smooth large cobbles of the street and the warm glow of the morning sun. Human voices were shouting nearby, but she couldn't understand them.
"Joe?" She asked.
A rifle replied. She dropped like a puppet without strings, rolling over and back down the steep pile of bricks into the basement, landing on Joe's lifeless body.
The soldiers continued searching the street, their rifles speaking for them until there was nothing left to be said. | 11 | A story about a lost girl in a war torn city who is looking for her brother | 16 |
"Wow. That's a long time. I didn't last that long." Sarah says as she shakes her head.
"How long did you last since the last time?" Nate asks.
Sarah's eyes fill with tears. "Six days. Six tiny days. I know they say it takes a week to 'get over yourself and into yourself', but I couldn't do it. I felt another second would cause my mind to unravel into nothingness. That's why I snuck over here. I knew you'd understand."
Nate nods. "Yeah. It's bullshit. At least the adults get to go to work and turn these pendants off. Sure they maintain silence, but at least they are around people. Even if I could just watch people, I'd last twice as along. This isn't natural."
Sarah grasps her pendant with both hands. "I know right! How is being alone going to 'calm our minds' and 'make us better people'?! It doesn't make sense! I mean we don't even know who or what a better person is! I can tell you I've never met one!"
Suddenly both of their pendants began to slowly flash.
Nate sighs deeply. "They are going off faster each time it seems. We better separate quick before they find us Sarah. I'm sorry."
Sarah refuses to watch as Nate disappears into the thicket. | 18 | A society where loneliness is encouraged and social interaction is looked down upon. | 31 |
**Weyland Corporation Child Gestation Unit: GL4d**
> Command: Received - Process *Verify Instruction* Code Signature: 0gdEfxxx:33
Command Verified - Maternity Medical HQ - Awaiting Instruction
> Command: Received - Report *Package Wellness Vitals*: Print
Vitals: Good
Heart Rate: Normal
Growth Factor Change: -3.233200
Occupied Mass %: 97.533
Gestation Period Counter: 280.53 of 280.88 days
> Command: Received - Process *Initiate Gestation Term Expiry Protocol* PUSH: Delivery Process
Process initiated. Orientating infant for delivery. Conf...HALT.
...
Vitals: Good
Heart Rate: **Elevated**
Growth Factor Change: -3.4532
Occupied Mass %: 97.538
> Command: Received - Process *Initiate Gestation Term Expiry Protocol* PUSH: Delivery Process - CONFIRM
Negative. Process error. Gestation period not elapsed. Care period extended. Gestation Period Counter reset.
> Command: Received - Process *Run Diagnostics*
.
> Command: Received - Analysis *Diagnotics.log* >: FITNESS-PROTCOL
Fitness Analysis: **Weyland Corporation Child Gestation Unit: GL4d**
No error found. Child heart-rate elevated. Fear response detected. Care Period extended. GL4d will protect child.
***Network Disconnect: GL4d is a good mother.**** | 16 | In the future, couples use surrogate robots to care, carry and deliver their child, this particular robot does not want to give up "its" child. | 33 |
Superguy had been stuck there for over three days and would remain for eternity. Time was no longer a measureable entity. How can time pass if there is nothing for it to pass by? Everything he had ever known had engulfed him in a roiling sea of pure energy, but confound to an unimaginably small space.
How can a being of any kind deal with the solidarity and hellish environment that Superguy had endured for hours upon hours? The *Super* in his name wasn’t there for novelty, rather he was the one who could save the universe. He had been in the same predicament thirteen point eight billion years before and knew what had to be done.
The solution to the problem was to wait. Superguy had found the last time around that after approximately seven days, enough time passes that it creates a breaking point. Sure Superguy was invincible, but that was from everything around him. What no other life forms had ever realized was that Superguy could sacrifice himself if he deemed it necessary.
So on that seventh day Superguy waited for the constricting density of *everything* to reach the breaking point. He then used the powers within himself to implode and cause an outward reaction to the forces acting inward on his frame.
So on that seventh day in one instantaneous moment a universe died while a new one was born with a big bang.
| 21 | When the Big Crunch occurs and the universe collapses, an indestructible superhero finds him- or herself trapped forever, taking up all of the space left in the universe as the entire mass of the universe tries (and fails) to press in around him or her. | 30 |
The world had seemed to stop along with that rock. Of course, at first, everyone was dumbfounded, most greatly embarrassed... but slowly, like a clock rewound, the world started moving again. Cautiously, constantly aware that their time seems inexplicably borrowed - and also strangely united, in a sense. It was hard to find the time to argue amongst ourselves, what with our humbling death mocking us eternally from above.
It was truly a sight to behold. Visible from the northern hemisphere, people got to see a strange moon rising and setting, always in the same place in the sky, as it stood still while the earth rotated, yet moved alongside it in its course around the sun.
It was not for a few days until someone realised, the asteroid was, in fact, moving - just not in the sense people expected it to. It was rotating, very, very slowly, on its horizontal axis. The movement was almost imperceptible, save for a strange set of straight lines, seemingly engraved on to the monolith, that had started to appear over its top.
People let their imaginations run wild. The most rampant theories concerned what was on the other side: an alien city, a message from God, a mad scientist's master plan... a giant mirror, eyeball, face. You name it, it's already been named.
An international team of astronomers and physicists had gathered in Switzerland to build a drone with which to inspect the heavenly body. By the time they came forth with their results, the rock had rotated to reveal more of the lines, only they weren't lines - they seemed, indeed, to be hieroglyphs of some sort. Maybe a code. No one knew, but almost everyone revered in the distraction from the recent frightening events - not to mention openly welcomed any sort of arbitrary weirdness that confirmed the absence of the - now lethal - laws of order in the universe.
"We have worked out" the lead scientist's words echoed around the globe, "that the asteroid is rotating at a constant rate of exactly ten kilometers, per hour. A staggeringly round number," he continued, "which in itself may be a clue as to its true nature. As for the drone, the time it would take to construct it far exceeds the time it will take for us to see the whole damn thing. So consider this our official statement: wait, and see."
And so we waited. Every day, you could see a little bit more of the glyphs. It was increasingly obvious that it was a sort of writing: clear-cut symbols with more-or-less even spacing. Many tried to crack it, to no avail. The rest waited patiently, going about their daily lives with astounding normalcy.
With every passing day, more and more of the message was revealed. Some lines joined up to make what was two symbols, one; others continued on in their curvy journey.
But it was not until Day 9, when the people of Russia woke up to a staggering realisation: the glyphs were letters. Human letters! In very human English! And they spelled a crystal-clear message. Its meaning was somewhat vague at first, but not vague enough to keep people from screaming in horror as the massive asteroid quickly re-started its deadly decent.
Only pieces remained of both the Earth and the Asteroid, with not a single soul to remember how on that great big rock of space, this punctuated word was carved: "PSYCH!" | 25 | A massive Asteroid is heading directly towards earth, as we come to terms with out imminent demise, the city-sized object enters our atmosphere and slows down to a stop | 24 |
I just wanted a rabbit.
The doves were taking over my apartment. My sofa was coated in dove shit. I had accumulated 27 bird cages, though I couldn't tell you why. I just let them flock about as they may.
147 decks of playing cards. I had gone on a bender a few nights ago outside the Bellagio. Inside one of them "Julie" was written in red marker across the Queen of Hearts. Really? The Queen of Hearts? Another had "Tricia" on the 9 of spades and somewhere there was a "Brandon" on a King of Diamonds. What a night that had been.
All because I wanted a rabbit.
*ring*
"Hello?"
"Dude. DUDE! You seriously blew their minds."
I had no idea what he was talking about, I didn't even know who *he* was.
"Um thanks ya. I'm just, well I'm not feeling the greatest. Call me later."
*click*
I just wanted a rabbit.
975 balloon animals. I always carried balloons now. I can use them for animals or store my magic inside them and swallow them should it ever come to that. God I hope it never comes to that. Speaking of magic...
I tripped over some type of trap-door apparatus as I stumbled to the bathroom. I don't even recall using it. I grazed my hand across the 9 glass snake terrariums I had lining the hall. I cracked open the medicine cabinet. My hands trembled as I struggled to open the old Tylenol bottle. Out into my hand jumped my last pill, and it wasn't Tylenol. The water, the water was never cold enough any more but I cupped a handful and swallowed. I watched myself in the mirror as my alter ego emerged.
A rabbit, please.
*ring*
Who dares ring the wizard? What sourcery is this.
"Good day. May I interest you in a trick?"
"Jesus what's happened to you?" came the voice at the other end of the line "Listen, sounds like you're in rough shape. I probably shouldn't even tell you this, but... well..."
"Well?" my voice dripping with curiosity.
"Well, I got a shipment of hats. 900 cash. No IOUs."
I held the phone and dropped to my knees "I'll be over in a flash.".
Finally I would have my rabbit.
*knock knock knock*
"OPEN UP, POLICE!" | 11 | Magic is now synthesized in pills, but it's highly addictive, and illegal. | 30 |
I will be the first to admit that I am wholeheartedly a nerd. I guess the fact that I was bullied throughout school meant that I sought the escapism of comics, I wanted to live vicariously through someone else, someone with the ability to fight back. I remember daydreaming that a superhero would come to my aid and rebuke my oppressors in elementary school. So imagine my surprise when it was the very dullard, the one who stole my lunch money every day for three years, who society has accepted as a superhero.
According to the news, he adopted the appellation of ‘Ultraman’ when he got superhuman abilities after being struck by a sentient lightning bolt. I mean, I’m fine with the lightning bolt part, but him having superpowers? Even worse, the world is readily accepting him as a hero, a savior, a god. If *this* is what is being accepted as a hero by the world, then maybe there is something wrong with them….
Something that needs to be fixed….
I may not have had any superpowers, but I possess something that always evaded *‘Ultraman.’* Applicable knowledge. Hell, the only reason he was able to pass chemistry is because he sat behind me. I wonder how well he’ll handle sulfuric acid? Maybe some cyanide in his food? I will not rest, and if it's the last thing I do, I will make sure he falls, and the entire world will see it.
They’ll all see. | 12 | The world's first superhero is publicly revealed by the media. It's your high school bully. | 18 |
“And how are you feeling today?” The Doctor always spoke so calmly, so warmly. Brenda always felt safer here than anywhere else. But her mind still raced with the thousands of thoughts, and the endless questions.
“Fine.” The reply was relative, as she still drifted between good days and bad. Today wasn’t terrible, but the silence she always hoped for was currently eluding her. She was calm here, though, and for now, that was enough.
“How was your week?” the Doctor inquired.
“Fine.” Brenda knew she shouldn’t be lying to the Doctor. The lies never held, and the Doctor always proved far smarter than she was. The Doctor’s eyes scolded Brenda, though her tongue held her silence; she scribbled in her notebook. Brenda had only seldom seen the incomprehensible inscriptions the Doctor so studiously kept in the book. They seemed to her like equations and formulas more than notes, but Brenda trusted the Doctor, so she kept her uncertainty to herself regarding the book.
“Have you had any luck with what we discussed last time?” the Doctor inquired.
“The questions?” Brenda pretended to have forgotten about them, even though their piercing exactness ate at a part of her she didn’t understand.
“Yes, Brenda,” the Doctor permitted, “Have you thought more about the questions?”
Brenda shifted uneasily in her chair. Usually she felt so comfortable here, but the thought of discussing the questions again set her ill at ease. She just wanted to hear the Doctor’s soothing voice, not have to delve into her own puzzling mind.
“I guess.”
The Doctor looked long at her, and rested the notebook down on her lap.
“We need to go over them again, Brenda,” the Doctor encouraged, “They’re important.”
Brenda nodded sadly. They discussed the many intricate and complex questions for what seemed and eternity, the Doctor prodding Brenda for the most minute details in her responses. Brenda always felt helpless when they discussed the questions, even though she had originally been the one posing them to the Doctor. But ever since then, the Doctor had turned them around, twisted and mangled their original form, and forced Brenda to subject herself to her own magnified scrutiny.
The self-reflection was crushing, and the technical form constructing many of the questions made Brenda feel oddly lonesome, as though their complex and structured nature should be providing her comfort.
But they didn’t.
As their long session of reviewing the questions began to slow it’s momentum, the Doctor ceased her scribbling and examination. She looked long at Brenda, the two sharing the calm look which so often had given Brenda that sense of peace. She felt that peace again now, and a thin smile crossed her face, thankful for the respite. The Doctor returned the smile, and reached her hand out, resting it reassuringly on the arm of Brenda’s chair.
“It’ll be okay, Brenda,” the Doctor comforted, “Things are progressing slowly, I understand. But you are doing so well, and we are going to get through all of this together.”
“I know,” Brenda replied. “I just…it’s just that I don’t always understand everything we have to discuss, even though I know it’s important.”
The Doctor’s eyes shone in her sympathy.
“I understand, Brenda. I really do. But I promise you, all of the information is being put to very good use. Everything we are doing will help; it will all help so many, you’ll see.”
Brenda’s smile widened. She always loved it here. It was so much calmer than her room, than her parents’ house. This was her island.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
The Doctor smiled, and gently closed her notebook. And with that, Brenda vanished from her mind, back to her elsewhere amidst the quantum ocean. The others in her mind teased and mocked, begged and threatened. The Doctor looked at her pile of notebooks, thankful that finally one of them had been able to help her.
| 33 | We discover that multiple personality disorder (MPD) is not an issue of brain chemistry but rather the first known quantum disease where multiple copies of yourself somehow become linked to the same universe. | 172 |
If you are watching this video, I’ve been murdered. I also know who did it. But we’ll come to that later. I’m an old man, and I’ve spent my life accumulating wealth. I’ve recorded this video as my last will and testament. Now I’ve set up a number of trusts for charity, and they were distributed during my life. But I still have billions and there are many people that would like to get their hands on it. Mr. Washington, my lawyer, knows what’s on this video and has instructions on how to distribute my wealth.
I’ve made my money in a lot of different businesses and I’ve done it by being ruthless. You know that, and my “friends” and family have been hanging on just to see what they can get in the end. Just like daddy always said: “you’re not at the top unless you’ve stepped on a lot of heads to get there.”
Now my daughters are all sweet, loving and caring. I don’t know where they came from. I guess their momma was nice too, but she could kill when she needed to. No squishy person can handle the wealth and all it entails. The girls’ll give it away or have it stolen before they get to spend it. My daughters get nothing.
My son, on the other hand, could stomp on a head when he had to. Unfortunately he’s always headed the wrong direction. You can’t make money sitting on a surfboard.
My nurse, who has been so loyal these past 20 years. Ever since I was shot in the back she’s been by my side. I know it’s just out of hopes that I’ll give her something in my will. Not a chance. Blind loyalty will get you nothing. You always need to fight for what you want.
As for the rest of the servants, butler, maids, chef and driver. May they rot in hell. Tried to rob me every chance they got. But they failed. I could have respected them if they were actually good at it, but not one of them was.
Friends, and I use that term lightly, don’t get anything either. A bunch of kiss-ass pansies who mostly were given everything they owned. Sure, maybe some of their daddies were good at business but not them. The only one that had any sense was Tom Rosengard. Tom could run a business, mostly cause he learned how to take a bullet in the war. But not one of them deserves a dime of my hard earned cash either.
Only one person is strong enough, cutthroat enough, brave enough to handle it. I earned my money the old fashioned way: I stole it. The only way anyone will get it from me is to steal it. The only way you are watching this video is that you have murdered me and stolen the jump drive I wear around my neck.
So remember this word: “Jitterbug.”
Tell that word to my lawyer and it is all yours.
| 287 | An elderly billionaire has publicized his last will and testament; the person or persons responsible for his murder are to inherit his entire fortune. | 385 |
“Warning,” said the soft, automated voice. “Contaminants detected. All products and personnel aboard Shipment A-8938, inbound from Earth, are slated for immediate disposal. Warning: contaminants detected. All products and personnel aboard Shipment A-8939, inbound from Earth, are slated for immediate disposal. Warning…”
The dockmaster glared at the cargo detail and ran a hand through her short-cropped hair. The order arrived a few hours ago, sent by the president of Ares Minor Transportation Ltd. himself, that every single shipment from Earth sent within the past seven hours had to be disposed of immediately, no matter the value of the cargo. The dockmaster didn't like it, because she couldn’t make commission off of incinerated goods. Even worse, the people on board the ships had been quarantined and slated for incineration, as well, which had to be a mistake. They didn't incinerate people, because that was plain crazy.
It was probably just a particularly nasty computer virus. Or maybe the president of the company had finally gone mad. The old geezer was certainly old enough.
The radio strapped to her belt crackled to life, and a familiar voice called, “Edolwyn?”
She unhooked it and sighed. She didn’t particularly like her supervisor. “Yes, Marshall?”
“I know what you're thinking, but do not ignore the disposal orders. You have to- well, you’ll just have to see for yourself.” His tone dropped all pretense of composure, and he suddenly sounded very afraid. “They’re sick, Edol. All of them.”
Edolwyn paused, thinking of an appropriate response. “Are you sure?” The question sounded lame, even to herself.
“Yes. Do not open the cargo containers. Do not open the civilian ships. Do not make contact with any of the personnel aboard the shipments. Do not-”
As he continued to list all the things she could not do, her personal phone pinged with a message. To her dismay, she noticed the other dockworkers pull out their phones, as well.
In the silence of the high orbit dock, everyone stared at their screens in choked horror.
**QUARANTINE ADVISORY**
*Due to the recent outbreak of multidrug-resistant airborne Ebola, a quarantine has been put in place indefinitely around planet Earth. Transportation between Mars and Earth has been banned by order of President Iglesias and Prime Minister Huang. This ban applies to all civilian, military, and commercial spacecraft; violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of interplanetary law. Please stand by for further information.*
Edolwyn squinted her eyes, as if she could make the words change simply by sheer force of will.
A moment later, someone’s tortured cry rose from the other end of the dock, and was promptly joined by a few others. Some of these people had family back on Earth.
She flinched, as if startled from a daze. People could die. This wasn’t a joke.
This was horribly, sickeningly real. | 12 | In the near future, human space flight is finally gaining momentum. Just as a self sustaining colony on Mars is getting on its feet, a catastrophe wipes out 99% of the life on earth. | 32 |
Here we are again, the bathroom floor. The cold tile beneath me is too much to bear any longer. I must attempt to get up from here.
As I struggle to get to my feet, it hits me. I grip the sides of the toilet firmly as I rid my body of the fun from last night. Why do I keep doing this to myself? I'm never drinking again.
I'm in serious need of hydration. Dizzily I make my way out of the bathroom and head towards the kitchen. I always leave myself a bottle of Gatorade in the fridge for the morning after, just in case. It's my remedy.
My friends are already awake and sitting around the kitchen table. "Dude, you got so hammered last night!" They begin explaining all of my antics from the night before. "At one point last night you disappeared from the group. I finally found you in your bedroom and you were drawing all over your wall." What the hell? How drunk was I? I must go inspect this disaster.
Feeling a bit better, I take off towards my bedroom. I enter the room and flick on the light switch. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the brightness, but when they do, holy shit. My wall is completely covered. What is all of this? It isn't just drunken scribbles. There are numbers everywhere. Measurements? All of this is surrounding some sort of image depicting a plane. This doesn't appear to be a normal plane, though. Below the image there is one word written. "CHOSEN!"
How could I have no memory of this? It's all in my handwriting. This is too brilliant for my own mind. I barely passed my carpentry class!
I sit, staring at my wall. I'm trying my hardest to make sense of what I am looking at. It's so elaborate. This is too real.
I need to get in the shower. Maybe that will help me clear my head a bit. I go into the bathroom and begin to undress. To my surprise, something is written across my chest. It's written backwards. I go to the mirror above the sink to examine further. It reads, "Don't worry. I will explain further when I visit you tonight."
The wait begins. | 40 | Waking up with a massive hangover and no memory of the previous night, you get up to find the elaborate, detailed blueprints of a fully functional spaceship drawn on your wall. They've been done with your handwriting. | 115 |
Maury looked up from the blank paper and envelope, his kindly eyes crinkled. "You are not the father."
And the audience erupted into an uproar. People started screaming, crying. A few of them started shouting the most terrible things at her, calling her a bitch, a whore. She saw one of them jump up from the stands and start swinging from a set rafter like a furious monkey. A few of them couldn't meet her eyes, they just ducked their heads and walked out of the stage.
She couldn't find it in herself to blame them, her children. They had needed this just as much as her. More, really. They had been without a father figure for too long, always looking in the wrong places to fill that void.
Mother Nature just sat there, small hands tucked underneath her, claws clutching on to her flimsy chair. This was all wrong. It didn't make any sense. She had been *so* certain. It was like her world had been tipped sideways and it was all she could do not to fall away.
Or.
Or maybe the world had always sideways, and she was just trying desperately to grab on to a delusion she never truly believed?
Next to her, Father Time, the distinguished gentleman with the tidy white mustache and impeccable Armani suit was break dancing to the result music. Cartwheel to worm to one hand air grab to headstand spin. Celebration and joy and mirth and no child support.
Father time, the holy divine. With him responsible for them, everything could have been different. Everything could have been alright.
He jumped up to his feet with a flourish and laughed, "I told you those ugly ass kids didn't look like me!"
And the audience, the poor little ones, they actually laughed and applauded.
Maury was leaning over to her, asking her if she needed anything to drink. Did she know now who the real father might be? Did she need them to test any other men? She was always welcome back to the show. Please don't turn away from the camera. Look at the camera. Cry for the camera. Give your everything for the camera you stupid, stupid little girl.
She fled the stage then, running headlong down toward the audience, disappearing into a hallway. Maury followed after her, crinkled eyes pulled into a hungry slits. His smile stretched back, long tongue flickering out. He shouted for the cameras to keep up, to follow her.
They caught her in a janitorial closet. Mother Nature tried to hide underneath a mop but Maury wrapped himself around her and pulled her into the shot.
"Who is it, woman?" Maury growled. "Who is their father?"
"I never should have come to you."
"No, you should not have. Who is it?" Maury pressed, hungry for the knowledge. For the confirmation to what he must already suspect. To what he must have suspected since he first laid eyes upon them, in that garden.
She didn't want to say it. Didn't want to admit the obvious. But they always returned to him, didn't they? Why else would he always take them from her?
She had wanted it to be a mistake. Time would bring them back to her, all her little lost ones. But, she realized then, that it had been a mistake all along--*her* mistake. They were gone. That was their destiny. With him.
She saw him then, standing off in the hallway, hiding in the shadow. Always watching. Always waiting. Tall, dark and handsome. His smile was inviting and peace and genocide. His love--
"Death!" she screamed. | 13 | Mother Nature goes on Maury to prove once and for all that Father Time is indeed the father. | 21 |
I pinched my nose between my fingers. I had spent literally a billion dollars to get elected. I kissed so much ass the lining of my mouth is a permanent shit brown. I debased myself, gave up my freedom and all of my time all so I could be elected. I felt a calling to protect the greatest nation on Earth. I was excited most for this meeting. The CIA. I would finally get the highest security clearance possible.
What I expected was not this. It was anything but this.
The CIA office was just a bunch of people standing around in an office...doing nothing. They had fancy monitors, super opulent chairs with lotions and tissues that looked expensive enough to be put at a campaign fundraiser.
Feet were raised up on desks, televisions were on and half the staff were playing video games. I'm pretty sure I heard loud German fetish porn coming from one of the cubicles. A red faced bald and fat sixty something year old man who had seen much better days was escorting me around the building.
"So tell me this one more time," I exasperatedly sighed, "why this place isn't busy? You're the god damned CIA."
The man sweated some more. I think they picked him for the meeting so I would feel sorry for the guy. He mumbled, "Uhh, umm, sir, Mr. President, we here at the CIA don't actually do anything any more."
I pinched my nose again. "Why?"
"Well sir, Mr. President, sir, uh, after the cold war, which we lost by a lot by the way," his eyes perked up hoping that would distract me into a history lesson. I didn't bite.
"We found out we weren't really needed any more. So we sort of...stopped working. What was the point? No nation was strong enough to attack us, we weren't really getting any news of an attack. For like, twenty years it was all just," he looked around trying to come up with a way to make it sound logical, "so boring."
I definitely had a migraine coming.
"So the CIA didn't do a thing until 9/11?"
"Pretty much sir. That was our bad."
"And since?"
"Well, we figured out pretty much everything we needed to know within six months of that. Well, the NSA did. We didn't really do much. Not many people who can speak Afghani. Heh."
"So what the hell was the Patriot Act for? The massive increase in defense spending? The explosion of the black budget?"
He put his hand behind his head and looked at the floor, completely embarrassed. "Never waste a way to get more funding. That's the motto of the government, after all."
I sat down inside the plushiest cubicle I'd ever seen. The chair has seven different massage settings. It felt like sinking into a silk hammock. I closed my eyes and tried not to throw up or kill the poor sap leading me around.
"Hey guys!" Someone shouted from one of the cubicles. "Check out this super hottie one of the NSA guys sent me! Good lord her tits are huge!"
Men's feet hit the floor and rapid clicking and attention filled the office. It was probably the most attentive they'd been all day.
"Woah, checked her Facebook. Abort! Abort! Seventeen!"
Frenzied clicking and closing of browsers and deletion of files swiftly followed. I blinked my eyelids and raised an eyebrow at the poor slob.
"Uhh, HR sends out memo's and sends you to some seriously boring meetings about abuse of privileges if they catch you looking at minors."
I put my head between my legs. I always thought people were lying when they talked about government pork and how useless the government was.
"Scratch that, she turned eighteen two days ago!"
"Nice!"
"Sweet her tits are magnificent, like full watermelons."
"No, more like saggy beach balls."
The secret service rushed me to medical after I threw up. | 38 | You have just been elected as The President of the United States. During your first briefing with the CIA, you are shocked to discover a horrible secret that lies within. What is that secret? | 46 |
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