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I wake up around eight thirty as usual on Saturday mornings. I kiss Charlie and say good morning although he is still asleep. He opens his eyes; “Good morning” he says clearing his throat. I get out of bed and see that he is starting to get up. I look at him curiously, “What are you doing?” I ask. He looks at me with a smile, “I saw that you were getting up, so I figured I’d join you.” He says with a smile. I smile back and shake my head, “I need space. Go back to sleep until nine. I’ll call you when breakfast is ready” I say heading into our bathroom to start my routine. Charlie usually never woke up that easily. When I kissed him in the early morning, he would usually mumble incoherently and go back to sleep. Nevertheless it was strange that he tried to get up at the same time as me. We were a great couple because we gave each other the space and time that was needed. I enjoyed having at least a half an hour to myself before starting my day and he usually did too. It wasn’t like he wasn’t allowed to wake up but even if he did, he usually wouldn’t talk to me until after he got some coffee in his system. I go downstairs and begin to make chocolate chip muffins, Charlie’s favorite.
I smile thinking of his face when he tastes a good breakfast. He always says that there’s nothing that can stop him once he’s eaten breakfast for the day. I pour him a cup of orange juice and I grab myself a cup of chocolate milk. He always loved to tease me how great his orange juice was every morning since I was allergic to it. I call him down once the table is set and sit down pretending not to care as much as I do. He comes down the stairs quickly and takes a sip of orange juice. He looks at my cup of milk and looks at me curiously, “You should drink some orange juice. It is healthy for you” he says. I look up, “I’m allergic, remember?” I ask taking a bite of a muffin. He nods and then looks at his plate. I watch as he eats a muffin silently and then he claims that he’s full. “Thank you, it was very good” he says noticing that I’m staring at him. I nod and take the leftover muffins off his plate. “You’re welcome. Love you” I say putting his plate in the sink. He gets out of his seat and kisses me on the cheek, “I love you too honey” he says.
I drop the plate in the sink causing soap bubbles to fly into the air. I turn around and ask, “What?” He turns around and shrugs, “I love you too honey” he repeats. I shake my head in disbelief; he never said that so casually. He loved that I said it and would shower me with compliments but he would use the “L-word” on special occasions. My throat tickles wondering if he is sick and I stare at him fearfully. What could be wrong with him? He stares back at me with his brown eyes. “Charlie, you’re freaking me out. Stop it” I say turning my back on him and returning to the dishes. Charlie approaches me from behind and puts his hands on my waist. He whispers in my ear, “What is wrong honey?” My fingers grip the plate in the sink as the warm water coming out of the facet begins to burn. I kick him in the back of the leg and he flies back into the table. “What is wrong with you?” he shouts. He re-approaches me with a slightly harsher demeanor. I grab the plate and smack him across the face. The plate shatters and he falls to the floor unconscious. I look at the dark hair and eyes and although it looks like Charlie, I know in my heart that it’s not.
I run to the hall closet for a golf club; it was the best weapon in the house besides a knife and just in case I didn’t want to hurt him fatally. I swing the door open and nearly faint when Charlie falls out with a gag on his mouth and his hands tied up. I scream and quickly untie him praying that the person in my kitchen won’t wake up. As soon as he’s free, I pull him into a tight hug. “You alright?!” I ask frantically. He nods profusely while breathing heavily and grabs my hand. “Come on!” he shouts tugging at me as he opens the front door. I pull him back into the house, “Charlie stop! Are you alright?” I shout. He coughs, “YES! Come on!” he yells pulling my hand harder. I pull him back in and see the creature on our floor begin to stir. “I love you Charlie” I say quietly full of fear. He looks at me incredulously, “Are you freaking serious? Let’s go!” he says pulling me the final time out the door. As we run for our lives and my mind races, I feel a strange calming sensation as Charlie grips my hand.
| 36 | A shapeshifter is posing as your SO. What's the one subtle hint that gives it away? | 30 |
No memory had ever been more clear in my head than this one.
"And the votes have been counted. Those of us left here have decided our own fate, for better or worse," said the shabby old news reporter with graying hair and a tight mouth. "This was a very close vote," he continued.
*A pause-*
"An extinction date has been scheduled."
And with that, everything was changed. It was as if the world had been turned upside down, which in a way it had. The selected extinction method had been chosen; we were all to be killed via painless but deadly gas. All traces of us had been destroyed, except the few buildings we would remain in until the extinction date.
"But the consequences will be devastating to the environment," some argued. "We can't just destroy ourselves! We will cause mass chaos among the natural order of the world!"
It didn't matter, it had been decided. Humans had lived their time on the Earth, and a majority of the remaining population felt it was time to rid the world of the destruction we had caused. We had our time, around a million years. I just wish I wasn't here to witness the end of the human race. But nothing I could say would change this, and it was better to accept what I had left, and use it to its fullest.
And so I had. The extinction date was scheduled for exactly 1 year after the announcement of the result of the poll. Yet, the last year had all seemed like a dream to me. *Is this really happening?* I often wondered. But, as the date came closer and closer, the more real it became. And tomorrow, it would finally be here, and it would be over.
The last day was spent in a blind fury for many. Sick with fear, many people decided to end their lives using their own method, as opposed to letting themselves die at the hands of others. Among those were several of my family. The pain was still fresh.
The day dwindled to an end. The final goodbyes to my family were surprisingly calm, though I suppose they had accepted their fate over the last year.
My last night was sleepless. I spent my last few hours alone, asking myself the same question over and over again. *Was my life a waste?* The thought of what still awaited me caused me to burst into tears again.
At an hour until extinction time, we went to the ending place. We were given time to ponder our lives while the control officers were sent out to take in the remaining stragglers. At last, the doors were sealed, and our fate suddenly became clear.
The speech by the elector began, though nobody could pay attention. Over and over again, I asked myself the same question. *Was my life a waste?* Unable to answer the question, I resigned, and waited, for our demise.
"In five minutes time, we shall administer the deadly gas, and then the human race shall perish," continued the elector. "Our time in Earth has been indescribable, but now it is time to finish it." With this, many people burst into tears again.
When the countdown reached one minute, I found myself reliving my favorite of my memories. The sun shining down and the cool breeze on the day of my first kiss seemed so real at that moment. My graduation from the master's school seemed like it was only yesterday. Every moment of my pitifully short life seemed to flash right before my eyes, and when I looked back up at the countdown, I realized I had only 10 more seconds to live.
And in those final ten seconds, I found an answer to my question. *Was my life a waste?* I asked myself one final time. *No*, I thought. *For any life lived has a purpose.* And with that, I drifted away, finally at peace.
This is my first time writing on /r/WritingPrompts, so any advice is welcome! | 117 | A million years in the future, the earth has fallen into disrepair, society is slowing crumbling, and what's left of the human race has collectively decided we were not meant to exist this long. Tomorrow is scheduled as the date of our self-extinction. | 166 |
She was my first.
Of course there were others, but she was my first.
About 3 weeks ago. Rush hour. The subway was crowded. A headache plagued me for most of the day. My vision felt, off. She sat across from me, directly across. She was professional. Black shoes. White nylons adorned her perfectly toned calves. A light gray pencil skirt and a white blouse peeking through a matching gray jacket. Red flowing locks tailed past her shoulders and licked a conservative but intentional bit of cleavage. Her beautiful, pale face was set off by red rimmed glasses. She paid me no attention. Opting instead for typing furiously at her smartphone. I had license to stare.
When we finally parted, her number had materialized. Thereafter so did all the others.
I found her again some days later, on the subway. We must ride the same line. This time the morning rush. She sat many seats down and on the same side of the car. It was that damned number that caught my attention this time.
17.
At the next stop I switched seats, taking up a position only a few seats down and across from her. As beautiful as I had remembered. This time the shoes were bright green. The suit was white and the blouse yellow. The same glasses sat in front of her tempting green eyes.
15.
I had to know. Everybody had a number now, but nobody was like her. She was my first. A tall grizzled man on my left, 291. The woman next to my algebraic conquest, 1,294. The young man in the power suit gripping his briefcase like it was his job, 492. I vowed to find out.
9.
Several stops later she exited. I followed. She walked with purpose, conviction. She was on a course, her beauty and pose a plough. Everybody made way. It felt as though we rushed, floated swiftly to street level.
3.
A thought crossed my mind, what if 0 is truly zero? What if that's all? In just a few moments I'd know. I hoped for the best. We entered a small cafe on the corner. It felt more like a library, really. Wall to wall wood cabinets stocked with literary gems. Several paintings I couldn't identify hung in dedicated nooks and crannies.
"Good morning Sarah!"
Sarah. I had a name for my score. I watched as she strode ardently down a small hallway. Her number turned from 2 to 1 as she rounded a corner to the left. I feigned interest in a book for a moment, then followed. As I crossed the threshold from the main space to the hall I quickened my pace. I couldn't miss this. As I rounded the same corner to the left I glimpsed Sarah and her number ducking into a room.
I checked my space. The coast was clear. I warily proceeded toward the room she had entered. Slowly approaching. There was a sign on the door. "Women". It was then it occurred to me.
Everybody poops. | 103 | You are suddenly able to see numbers above people's heads which are counting down and you have no idea why. One person you meet reaches 0 and... | 43 |
Most of us saw it as a form of euthanasia. Others simply saw it as a more expensive form of burial, with hymns and flowers. I liked to think it gave us hope; the hope that priests and politicians have been feeding us for five thousand years. Hope that tomorrow really will be better for our children, even if we are not around to see it.
Sending Beatrice was the hardest decision of my life. I sat by her bedside and wept, my left hand gently wrapped around hers, the right clenched into a fist so tight the nails broke the skin of my palm. Whether the treatments existed or not, after her bed was placed into the tunnel, gently lit in red, she was dead to me. I would never see my beautful wife again.
"Sean, I love you." Her voice was barely louder than the whir of the medical machines at her side. "I love you, and I swear to you, I will see you again."
We wept, we embraced, we kissed, we embraced again. Finally, it was her time, and I let her go. She went gently, late in the night, and was gone to me.
As it was for so many others, the grieving was hard. Harder than in the time when death was final and certain. I drank and railed against my friends. Time passed and I drank less, and let people back into my life. I cried less, barely once a day. I did not move on, but I managed to stop standing still.
Three months later, there was a knock at the door. They took me to the hospital with barely an explanation. After the first two words, my ears were pounding with blood so hard that any further information would have been lost anyway: "She's back."
She lay on the bed, thinner, weaker, her hair still gone.
"I'm really dying, Sean. We're only supposed to travel one way. I don't have long."
I couldn't speak through my tears. I just beheld her, and thanked Gods I never believed in for even these few minutes with my brave, brave, Bea.
"It doesn't work, Sean. You have to make them stop."
Her breath was frail, softer than a zephyr.
"There is no medicine. People assumed a cure would be found, so they stop bothering to look. No funding, no research, nothing. It was always someone else's problem, so it became no-one's problem. They're all dying, Sean, they're all dead. Make them stop."
And then she died as they had, out of an abundance of hope.
> EDIT: Thank you for the Gold; it's like a teeny, tiny, publishing contract! | 766 | Time Travel is possible, but only used to send terminally ill people into the future in hopes of being cured. For the first time, someone's been sent back. | 608 |
The woman wandered through the ruins of a dead city. She had a number of names, words from languages so dead even their derivatives were dead, words in more contemporary tongues—or whistles, or *snects* depending on the physiology of the speaker—and words that may well have just been made up specifically to describe her.
The children of humanity, the ones with civilizations that went far back enough to remember Earth, the *first* Earth, sometimes called her *Grandmother* or *Ancestress* or *Honored Progenitor* in varying translations. She had made no contact with them for some time, and as she picked up occasional relics of the dead civilization, then discarded them, she debated finding them again. She was sure she had never borne life from her body, but had long since given up disputing the matter. It would be good to see what they had made from themselves. Maybe they had found an answer to her question.
Here, the people called her *Sapien* with no understanding of the word’s origins, simply because she asked. She was the last of her species, and after her first few regenerations, she no longer remembered a proper name. It was the best she had.
Of the major powers in her current galaxy, none looked like her anymore. These people, these primitives, had bred themselves to resemble her, to look almost like ancient humans, and she felt their loss more keenly than any she could still remember.
After ancient humankind seeded the galaxy with colonies, they became less and less what Sapien considered “human.” Still people, but alien. They spread further, to other galaxies, other dimensions. Sapien had long since lost track. They adapted their new worlds to suit them. More often, they adapted themselves to suit their new worlds.
Some changed through evolution, like the furred folk of a cold, mountainous planet. Some were self-modified, bearing virtually no similarity to the mankind of old. Earth itself was long gone, and so was New Earth, Terra Grande, and New New Earth. She couldn’t keep track of it anymore. One of her first deaths was when she tried to die with Terra Grande. It was Earth all over again, with the sun-blasted remains of a scorched little rock gradually being absorbed into the corona. She remembered the pain of that death, her body immolated, the denial of oblivion, the unwelcome awakening. Dying by fire was the worst, an agony that persisted.
Still, doing it that way lost her a hundred thousand years to the regeneration process, and then the agent of immortality woke her in the Ship, in some new place. It was time that passed quickly, rather than dragged slowly. Sapien thought her immortality as another person, as the *only* other person who could stay with her. Some imperceptible being who had been there all this time, who kept her from dying, who preserved her as a relic of the species that founded countless planets, that, so far, was the origin of at least half the life she found in the varying galaxies.
It was long past time that she destroy this body and regenerate a new one, and yet she put it off. Age was not the issue, it was memory. These ruins, they carried so much of her hope with them, and had failed. The people she had raised here from primitives, through the fumbling first steps of civilization, to the cusp of the space age, only to fail and fall upon one another. It had been the work of ages, a hundred thousand years, a drop in her time bucket but still more intense than the previous million, more involved, more real to her than any of her pre-regeneration memories.
She could obliterate herself for a time, and wake somewhere far away, and this emotional pain would be dulled by imperfect connections, by the inevitable forgetting, by time’s erosion. But she remained, ignoring any of a number of opportunities. Her children, or as close as she could get to having children, had killed one another, and it seemed disrespectful to leave them without some sort of tribute, without understanding their fall.
There had been some sort of closeness there. She wasn’t their god, she wasn’t their mother, she was their guide through the growing pains of civilization, and something had gone wrong. A generation or longer of wandering this planet, and she could find nothing to salvage, no one to save. Just the lesser life, the plants and animals that seemed familiar, but distinctly *off* in some indescribable way, just like the people here looked human, but for their slit nostrils, their jewel-bright hair colors, the pale spots that marked their spines and sides from armpit to hip.
They were differences, but not imperfections. Quirks she valued, that helped her keep an emotional distance from them as individuals. She could still love, like she had loved these people. It was the cruelest pain she had ever known, even worse than dying by fire.
After more years of wandering, Sapien found herself at the remains of the home she’d built for herself. Even here, she had managed to save no one, nothing except the ship, which really had probably saved itself. It stood on crumbling stone, too heavy for pavement, too massive for just one person, her silent partner in this endless life.
It was time to move on. She had no answers. There were none to find. Like many times before, she would pilot the ship into a star or galaxy’s core and end her suffering with unending pain, until her body regenerated.
The Ship’s systems gradually activated as she approached, the ramp lowering to greet her, lights glowing, as new as the day of her first trip, the one that had trapped her like this forever, the one that she still saw in nightmares every generation or so. That perpetually burnt-out light remained dark as she passed, it could be replaced but would *never* come on. The empty cargo bay, which was meant to carry supplies and usually carried nothing. The rows of empty stasis tubes that were supposed to be filled by others, in time, but had stood empty for the test flight, and so would always stand empty.
Except, as she traced her hands along the familiar surfaces, some tubes were occupied. Six of them, three opposite her own pod, three beside it. Sleeping faces, slit nostrils, topped with vibrant hair.
She looked back through the main pod hold, no others were occupied. That old curiosity stirred, wondering what had caused her to be trapped in this cycle of unending life, and now, what had caused these five to be trapped with her? She hated them instantly, raw envy clenching her fists. They wouldn’t be alone when they woke, they would have one another through the endless ages.
She loved them, just as quickly, because she wouldn’t be alone when they woke.
Their regeneration was incomplete; they must have died the first time at the end of their world. It would be decades before they woke.
Decades were nothing.
She could wait.
| 10 | You're an immortal human who has been jumping from galaxy to galaxy looking for a way to die, but for the first time in 1.985 quadrillion years, you encounter something that makes you want to live. | 15 |
Might add more when I get the chance. Consider this a first pass rough draft. Got halfway through and realised how ambitious I was being.
--
"And it fell from the sky?"
"Yessir. Destroyed my house. Surely you saw it in the news?"
"Well, yes, but..." The museum curator shrugged helplessly. "It would take some powerful tools to cut this inscription. But it's thousands of years old."
The sunlight was streaming in through the windows, casting long black shadows across the floor. A heat wave had the country in its fiery grip.
They talked about the metal for some time as the evening drew in and quiet descended on the building. It was almost night when the door exploded inwards and a scrawny man in a too-big sweatshirt stormed in. Thick glasses obscured his face.
"Sutr has risen. Jormungandor threatens this realm. I require my weapon."
"You require your what...?"
"Hammer. The hammer that has fallen to the mortal realm. It is in your possession."
"You mean this?" The curator pointed at the lump of iron.
"Mjolnir. Aye. If Midgard is to be saved I must take it now."
"This is property of -"
The scrawny man crossed the room with startling speed and lifted the curator by his neck. "I have no issue with you, mortal. But the All Father has succumbed to Fenrir and my brother is locked in combat with the Wolf. It is my duty to defeat Jormungandor and return to his side."
"You mean the world serpent?"
"The same," said the man, taking the meteorite from the desk. A tremor shook the building as he touched it. "The Serpent is on its way. This is as good a battlefield as any."
"You think you're Thor?"
The man didn't reply. He just held the iron and closed his eyes, setting his captive down gently. Gasping for air, the curator scuttled into the corner of the room.
Lightning struck the building.
The change in Thor wasn't immediately obvious. In his hand the metal had taken the form of a hammer, simple and grey in its design, and the clothes looked more filled out, but he was the same man he had been moments before.
"I am Thor."
"You die, you know. The poems say you kill the serpent but..."
"There is a difference between prophecy and destiny."
Something threw a shadow over the building. A bestial roar shattered the glass. The Serpent was outside. It had defeated Thor in Asgard, casting him to Midgard, and it had followed, looking to end the battle. Sutr's army was engaged against the Dwarves, Freyr was readying her weapons and Earth was about to be caught in the middle of the final battle.
"It is my intention to defy prophecy and forge my own destiny."
| 10 | A lump of solid, high-grade iron crash-lands on a house in Norway. The owner carries the strange meteorite to a museum for analysis. A faded inscription on the iron is cleaned up, revealing runes that translate to "M-J-O-L-N-I-R" | 15 |
Inhale. Exhale. I feel the warm air rush through my body, the faint hints of dust sweat and blood lingering in my nose. The most beautiful perfume I've ever smelled, belonging to the most dangerous lady I've ever danced with. Death. Welcome to the Colosseum of the New Age, where we the gladiators come to die for our country. I suppose humanity got tired of emulating the Greeks in our international sports, and turned to the Romans instead. With the establishment of the World council, war became a thing of the past.
We humans are not so easily tempered however, the lust for battle and blood, for danger and glory still lingered. The Gladiatorial was created to sate the blood lust that lies within our very essence. Each country selected their top fighters, the deadliest warriors ever trained, to fight for their country's glory. The winning country was awarded the head of the World council for one year. The winning fighter on the other hand. They became a God among men, gifted great wealth and power from their country, and became a hero to all who inhabited it. People were bred from birth to become the champions of their country, give the finest training money could buy, in the hopes that they could bring glory to their nation. Not me. I came from a life of poverty, came from the rough underbelly of The City. I'm here now though, and I'm ready to claim my title.
I hear the announcer echoing faintly in the distance, the cheers and noise of the crowd like distant thunder. Thunder of an impending storm. I shift my grip on my sword a bit, take a few more breaths as the gate in front of me opens, and I step into the massive arena. Into the beautiful grave of one hundred and ninety five men. We stand by our gates still as statues until we hear the booming gong. The 125th Gladiatorial has begun. | 12 | You have been randomly chosen to represent your country in a free for all battle versus 195 other people from around the world. | 24 |
It began as a whisper. A fleeting word in a restless wind. The superpowers were too preoccupied with trying to best one another to hear it. The people, however, suffering in the aftermath, listened. At first, he was labelled as a terrorist, looked at as sub-human, a lunatic who spewed fallacies. No one knew he held all the cards.
Romulus appeared at nine o'clock in the morning on December sixth. Every television on the planet projected his ghostly white mask. His eyes weren't visible, save for two red irises piercing through the blackness. His mask was cracked, battle worn, and the purity of the white faded into black near the top of the face. Over his left eye there was a shadow of blue, and over the right, red. Gold lines embossed on the mask turned the shadows into flames. Nothing was accidental, not even on his mask. The rest of him was covered in black, a black hood covered his head, and a long, flowing trench coat veiled his person.
When he made his move, static interrupted the regularly scheduled programming. Most assumed their television was broken, until his mask finally appeared. His eyes glared directly into each person on the planet.
"Ladies and gentlemen. You are now about to witness, the strength, of the people of this planet." His voice was unlike anything anyone expected. Slightly raspy, but soothing and comforting. Powerful. "It's a new era. All those who live in the black lies, controlling the corrupting machine we were forced to live in will fall. Our governments, our leaders, whom we were taught to trust, you abused your power and left your people to starve and murder each other to survive. My name, is Romulus, and this is the beginning of the end of the world as you know it."
As quickly as he appeared, he vanished. Immediately world leaders scrambled to speak and comfort their people. The problem was, however, that their citizens felt no fear. They felt hope. They felt the scales of power tip.
In the following month, Romulus systematically released incriminating photos, documents, and voice recordings, bringing to light the corruption of the world powers. The media attempted to stop the broadcasting, but he could not be stopped, so they resorted to turning him into a villain.
"He won't even show his face to us! He claims to be a savior of the people but 'Romulus' is too scared to come out into the open!" He was ridiculed, belittled, and coaxed, and yet the wolves howled with their tails between their legs, fearing what he had left up his sleeve.
When the President of the United States finally gave his speech, he too attempted to bring Romulus into the open. It was this day, Tuesday, January sixth, that he showed us exactly how powerful he was. In the middle of his speech, the President was interrupted by an unexpected fire alarm. As the White House was evacuated, due to the growing flames inside, all eyes left the protected President, and shifted to Romulus, standing on the grass as calm as the day he first appeared. Immediately all guns were drawn and aimed, snipers were ready, and most likely jets were moving in as well.
"I am not here to draw blood." He shouted, loud enough for the neighboring reporters to hear. "You wished to speak to me face to face, and I am here to give you that respect."
"What is it you want?" The President inquired, breaking free from the grasp of his Secret Service guards. "Money? Power?" The two were a mere ten meters apart.
"I am not concerned with any of that. I am not you, Mr. President. Now, if I'm not mistaken, everyone has left the building." Romulus raised his left hand, his arm at ninety degrees. "Let me show you what I am capable of. So perish every one that shall hereafter leap over my wall." He shut his hand into a fist, and with it, a series of small explosions caused the White House to collapse into the flames. By the time everyone's gaze reverted back to where he stood, Romulus was gone.
Over the next few months, Romulus appeared in the most powerful countries, methodically bringing down the heavily guarded fortresses of the world leaders. Men and women, once looked upon as great people of our time, were now shown to be nothing more than adulterers, embezzlers, murderers, and unfit of their titles. The people began to rally behind Romulus, sporting similar masks and demanding change, demanding we be given the power to rule with truth and absolute transparency. Romulus had not injured a single person, the governments around the world, however, had killed hundreds in pursuit of their rival. Eleven months after his first appearance, the world leaders launched a final attack on the known location of Romulus. He was where he always sat, meditating, it seemed, and surrounded by dozens of reporters and hundreds of cameras. All heads turned swiftly once the roar of the missiles was first heard.
"Run!" Romulus shouted, seemingly shaking the mountains around him. The press scattered, desperately seeking safety. Romulus however, just stood and faced his apparent doom. "You fools!" He extended his hand forcefully towards the weapons. No one knew how he was able to do what he did, most likely a device, but at the moment, no one cared. One by one, the missiles exploded, sending harmless debris falling hundreds of feet away. Romulus turned to the cameras still fixed on him. "Ironic, how you claim to want the best for your people, claim you want to protect them, yet you just attempted to murder hundreds. You have lost this war, and I have done my part. Goodbye."
A month after the attack, and Romulus' subsequent disappearances, the world leaders decided it was best to relinquish their iron grip on the globe. Some swore it would create chaos, others promised blood and death everywhere. Romulus seemed to have vanished, to them, the threat was gone for good, there was no need to give up their power. But they didn't realize they no longer had anyone to control. The people of the world, once divided by petty differences in beliefs and customs, stood as one. What began as a whisper, now spoke with a resounding voice. And it will be heard, it will be trusted, and in the shadows will loom a silent hero, ready to bring balance back should he ever be needed.
We only pray he will not be.
| 369 | A single man declares war on the entire world. One year later, the leaders of each nation gather to discuss their surrender. | 646 |
We were, once, a great and thriving people. Although our time is over and our light has gone out of the great tapestry of the universe, it is our belief that, though this testimonial, we can live on, through you. Once we learned our end was coming, we decided to pool all our information, our culture, our art, our histories, our music, our entertainment, everything, in this great tome. We did not aggrandize ourselves, as some suggested, nor did we gloss over periods of our history that we find distressing. Instead we chose, in our last act, to be honest. Some among us with a profound faith called it our Final Confession, a vast unvarnished litany of our many sins, our final appeal to the Almighty for forgiveness before the end. Others felt it was a form of charity - through our savage honesty, perhaps others could learn from the missteps we took. However you see us, however you judge us, please know that Humanity was capable of great and terrible things in equal measure. We always hoped to climb from our cradle and walk out among the stars and now, all our hopes for immortality rest with you. Our Legacy. Our History. All that we were, all our successes and failures, all our hopes and dreams, rest here. Please, on behalf of the Human Race, bring them into the light and remember us.
And now we sleep. | 14 | An unavoidable extinction event is coming, and humanity decides to leave behind an archive on the Moon as a testimonial of our existence. You've been tasked with writing the introduction. | 18 |
Kil'thraza flew above the woods, circling, looking for a suitable spot, the royal blue membranes of his wings lightened to aquamarine by the sun. These are the words he would have used to describe his coloration to a human. He and his family, the Dragons of Serpent's Crown, saw hues and spectrums of light that mankind only imagined in fever dreams.
The mid-July day was clear and bright and peaceful, for the moment. Kil'thraza arched his long neck around, over his own back, to look South. Smoke rose in the far distance. An untrained eye would guess that a group of hunters or gypsies had built a bonfire a few leagues away.
But Kil knew better. That smoke, which filled the southern horizon and cast a mountainous shadow across the evergreens, came from the battlefields more than two-hundred leagues away. It was evidence of a war waged by King David against those who had once been his subjects. A war that had taken Kil'thraza's baby sister from him.
The dragon averted his gaze from south; he had found a clearing in the woods, an oblong of waiving yellow grain, close enough to the castle gates that his foe could locate him easily, but large enough and far enough away from the town to mitigate the inevitable destruction their battle would bring.
He circled once, feeling the breeze beneath his scales for what might be the last time, then settled into the far end of the clearing and turned to face the trees.
The woods were quiet, for now. He began to weave the one spell he knew, drawing into the dirt with his long claw. As the magick took hold, he felt himself begin to shrink; his scales melded together and became soft, losing their luster. The bones in his shoulders and hips shuddered and straightened, and his wings faded back into what would become arms and fingers. As his spine shortened, so did his tail, until it vanished into his back.
Then the spell was finished. Kil'thraza examined his hands and the olive colored skin on his arms. He had chosen the same human form, that of a young boy in a blue tunic and pants, that he had worn years ago growing up in the castle when he and David, then a prince, would play around the keep's grounds and ramparts. A passerby would guess the boys was in his eighth year, with black hair and strangely iridescent sapphire eyes. The magic couldn't hide the dragon-ness of the eyes, the old wizard had told him.
There was a snap of a branch at the far end of the clearing. Kil'thraza looked up from his reminiscing to watch his foe emerge from the branches. A knight stood there, in full armor the color of dusk, simple yet elegant in the care of its forging. The visor on the knight's helm was closed. He wore a long, black cape adorned with a the outline of a red flame, the sigil of the kingdom. In his right hand, the knight carried a five-foot flamberge, the dark metal riveted along the blade.
The knight approached until he stood about ten yards away. He seemed to be examining Kil'thraza through the slit in his visor, head cocked to one side. The figure in armor planted his sword in the ground, reached up and pulled the helmet from his head.
Underneath was a handsome, narrow face with a reddish beard under long blond hair. King David's dark green eyes narrowed over his proud nose at Kil'thraza. Then he threw back his head and laughed.
It was a young laugh, from the belly, one that Kil'thraza remembered from a purer time, years ago. The dragon smiled in spite of himself.
David quieted, then grinned.
"A bold play, Kil," He said. "The lord of Serpent's Crown, the Blue Dragon King, challenges me to single combat. 'This will be a fight for the troubadours to sing about for an epoch,' I thought to myself. Then I step onto the battlefield, and who is my opponent? A child in rags and bare feet."
David shook his head. "Though if you thought to disarm me, then you are a fool, Kil. I know that a beast need not always have fangs and venom."
Kil was silent a moment. He looked into David's eyes, set into a face that had changed over twenty years from kind and mischievous to something else. Something remorseless.
"I know," Kil said.
David's face contorted with rage. "Who are you to judge me, worm?" he shouted. "How many divided kingdoms have you led, how many hungry stares have you had to inspire, convince that the country they live and die in is as glorious as it once was?"
"If your people starve, old friend, it is your fault alone," Kil'thraza responded sternly. "Your father fostered a relationship with the land. The Druids you now slaughter in the south once cared for your crops. The spirits in the wood guarded your borders, and my kin lent you our wisdom.
"My sister and I were not hatched in the castle and raised alongside you on a whim, David. We were your father's wards, a brotherhood of prosperity. Until you took the throne and decided that your race, the race of Man, was superior. All because of your damnable holy book."
David continued to scowl. "It doesn't matter. My people's spirits are low. I thank you, Kil, for this opportunity to give them hope."
David hefted his sword into both hands. "When I, King David the Earthshaker, return with the Dragon Lord's head on my back, I will inspire them. I will save them."
"No, brother," Kil'thraza said, blue fire licking his lips, his voice deepening as his body grew again. "You are not the hero today. And you have not yet felt the earth shake." | 36 | The dragon kills the knight and saves the kingdom. | 72 |
"One egg- scrambled- side of cantaloupe balls, and a small orange juice."
She knew the order immediately, even before the other waitress got past the 'one egg'. It was her, again. On schedule, of course: 7:55 AM.
Julia looked up from the till; in the corner booth, right next to the window, a blond-haired woman sat with her back to the door, her eyes distantly fixed to the wall. She knew the routine well, by now. Blondie would wait patiently for her meal to come, and then ignore it, completely. She'd read the paper, maybe, or do crosswords. Sometimes she'd just stare out the window, oblivious to everything.
Only one thing never changed; after fifteen minutes or so she'd collect her belongings, silently pay-up at the register, and walk out, leaving a perfectly good meal behind, uneaten. *Untouched*. It was the same thing, day in and out, every weekday, going on three months, now.
Julia twisted her lips. Enough with the mystery, she thought. She needed to know what was up with this woman.
She made a pretext of cleaning up tables around the woman; as she did so she deliberately bumped her from the side.
"Oh! I'm so sorry, ma'am! I'm so clumsy." She said.
The woman, pulled from her thoughts, stammered to respond:
"Uh: that's alright..."
"Ah!" Julia feigned recognition. "It's 'one egg, cantaloupe, orange juice', isn't it? How're you doin'?"
"Fine, I guess." The woman returned her gaze to the wall.
Julia leaned over the table, and she coughed delicately:
"Uh, y'know, it's really none of my business, ma'am, but I couldn't help but notice you, uh, never really *eat* your eats."
"No," she answers.
Julia smiled:
"Well, unless you got something against the chef, you can always try something *else* on the menu..."
The woman looked at Julia, blinking in confusion. After a moment she understood her meaning, and she smiled gently:
"Oh, no. But thank you. I could never really stomach breakfast. Never set well in my stomach."
"They call it the most important meal of the day, y'know."
At these words the blond woman's eyes went blank. She looked away from Julia, and she drew a halting breath.
"Uh: you okay?" Julia asked. "I didn't mean to-"
"I'm fine," the woman said. She shook her head, chuckling. "It's just... that's what I'd been told, before. I'm very busy at work, you know. My morning routine is usually very hectic. My, uh... my daughter: she'd scold me. Tell me how important a good breakfast is. Sassy girl- bossy little thing, even for an 8-year-old- and she never quite convinced *me* to eat breakfast. But I'd take her out for it, on the way to school. It was... convenient. I could read the paper, or watch the cars go by outside with her, and she'd always get her favorite..."
Just then the other waitress walked up with a tray: the woman's meal. She set it down on the table: eggs, cantaloupe and juice. The hot eggs steamed, and when the smell reached the woman's nostrils she drew in a slow breath.
"We'd just sit here for a little while talking, or not, but no matter what we always had the smell of her breakfast between us." She looked outside again, her eyes quivering as she watched the busy street. "She sometimes would talk about the cars out there. She thought some of them looked like they were going *really* fast. And she'd wonder where they were all rushing off to, and why people *needed* to rush, that much." The woman looked up at Julia with a thin smile, tears forming in her eyes. "She'd tell me that she felt just fine, sitting and having breakfast with me."
Julia slowly raised her head. She remembered something, now: something in the paper about an accident. It happened right in front of the diner, right before she started working here...
The blond woman looked down at the breakfast in front of her, and her gaze was empty. She slowly collected her belongings and stood up, lips trembling. She composed herself, and then she nodded at Julia:
"Sorry I blabbered on, like that; thank you... for listening."
Julia motioned to the booth with her head:
"You're not gonna stick around, today?"
The woman shook her head:
"No," she whispered. "The smell... I can't really stomach it."
She walked out the door; her waitress called after her with a hearty 'what the hell'? Julia spoke up:
"Forget it," she said. "That'll be my bill..."
That was the last she ever saw of the blond woman. She never came back to the diner, again. Julia hoped it was because she managed to find a bit of peace, in the end.
But she wouldn't have bet on it.
Not too long after that encounter she was at home, cooking up a meal for herself and her little boy. He was in front of the TV, waiting for his favorite show to start, and she was fixing their plates so they could sit in front of it and watch. Slowly, though, she got to thinking, and then she set both their plates in the kitchen, instead. When she turned off his TV and dragged him into the kitchen to eat he gave her an earful of protests.
"Doncha know the show is *starting*?" He said.
She clasped her hands over the table, looking at him appreciatively, and she smiled, gently:
"What's the rush?" She whispered. | 49 | A woman comes into the same diner every morning, orders the same meal, and always leaves without eating a bite. | 48 |
Hands on the boy's cold body. Clutching his throat. They let him. He knows what he's doing.
Tucked in some staffer's tunnel. Hurriedly. Away from the eyes of the naive, those with an as-of-yet unsullied experience.
The room is like a seance, only with Donald Duck as witness. Clad in costumes, slogans and mascots on the walls, smiling. Parents whimper, momma, poppa, little sis, big sis. Doesn't matter. How many people love you doesn't matter in the grey of mortality.
He throttles the boy. If he's done it right, then all will be forgiven for roughness, impatience. If not, the boy's a goner anyway. They might blame him. They might. For a while or for longer. But it won't rest with him. He's trying and it's difficult.
The other staff gather around, they've seen the miracle before, some were there the first time. Others only heard about it, a myth passed on between employees like a bug.
He hushes them. Whispers, so close in the boy's ear. It's quiet enough that they can make out what he's saying, the syllables at least, if not the meaning. The tunnel echoes with the joy of a thousand strangers above, the swirling carriages, rocketing coaster carts, happiness.
Feels like a solid minute without breathing. And somehow it seems to help.
The first breath to break the silence is the boy's. He gasps awake, his heart no longer stopped, his skull no longer damaged, his eyes no longer blue and pale, now brown and white with the flecks of things he's seen, elsewhere, in his time away.
He stands up. It's hardly been a week, but he doesn't feel like an interloper in a kingdom anymore. He walks away first, clutching his big floppy shoes and the head of a cartoon mouse as he drags his feet, ready to become a vision of comfort once again.
Smirking as he thinks for the first time: They don't call it "the most magical place on earth" for no reason. | 10 | There's a saying that "Nobody dies at Disney." You're one of the people who makes sure that phrase stays true. | 25 |
Greetings earthling,
My name is Sigourney Weaver, a Commander in quadrant four, planet Zork of the Titus galaxy. I have been tasked with investigating a dormant account held at Zeta finance with a current balance of 1,542,932 moonstone ($4,921,049,215 of your earth dollars). In my research I have discovered that the named account holder, Tom Cruise, went missing and is assumed killed as a result of a fatal plane crash in September of 2001.
I would like to stress that we on planet Zork are in no way malnourished or in need of humans for consumption or other nefarious alien activities.
I would also like to apologize on behalf of my race for the probes. We understand they can be quite uncomfortable.
I am in need of a place to transfer the balance of the account, and in return will require only one manned rocket and a station carrying 19 of your kind to a location I will disclose when the transaction completes.
Again, I would like to stress that we on planet Zork are in no way malnourished or in need of humans for consumption or other nefarious alien activities.
The transaction is risk free and the money does not originate from any kind of foreign, universal contraband or other criminal activity. Please reply at your earliest convenience.
All my love,
Sigourney | 25 | Humankind receives its very first extraterrestrial communication. It's a crude and obvious scam attempt. | 29 |
I sat in the white room, in a white chair, at a white table. Sitting before me, the only other object in the room: an apple.
It looked shiny, almost fake. One bite had been taken out. I was told on the way in that a final test lay before me, before I could enter the Gates.
This must be it. This has to be the Forbidden Fruit.
I stared at it a long time. I thought about the consequences of this piece of fruit. How Eve had taken a bite and had started the fall of man. How she had brought sin into the world, how she had disobeyed the only order given in the Garden.
I wasn't going to eat it. I wanted to smash it to pieces. I wanted to upend the table and curse her name.
And then I thought some more.
I thought about the stories I was told as a child. I had heard the Garden story so many times I could probably recite it verbatim. How Eve spoke to the snake, who tempted her.
What were those underlying messages? That women were easily swayed. That they weren't as strong as men. That they were the cause of evil. That they couldn't simply say no.
It taught me that women were the reason for sin. It taught me to resent women. It also taught me that women were just as bad as that snake. Eve tempted Adam, and then they both knew their shame.
As I sat and thought, I got angry. So many times I had heard that story.
That story. Used as justification for institutionalized oppression.
And then I picked up the apple, and took a bite. *We're all human,* I thought. *One holds no more value over another.*
Suddenly, the door opened. An Angel stood, beckoning me.
"Come child. Welcome."
I set the apple on the table, and walked through the door. | 59 | - As the final test before entering heaven, you are left alone in a room, with the forbidden fruit that Eve ate. | 50 |
And then there was one. I looked into the wall-to-wall mirror that hung up on the wall behind the bar. Behind me, the tables were full and the booths packed. People jostled and pushed their way to the bar to order, shouting above the raucous.
A thick-barreled man wearing a striped buttoned shirt motioned at the large television that sat perched above the bar. "Hey, man, turn it up!"
The bartender nodded and reached for the remote.
A pretty blonde with pink lips was speaking into the microphone. "*It is day three hundred sixty-six, and the last man on The Kill List is* still *alive!* *Sources say he was last spotted in New York City; stay tuned for further updates!"*
I threw down more whiskey and ignored the television. Leave it to lady luck to pick me on a leap year.
"Can you believe the guy?" A man--more of a kid, really--shoved his way to the bar next to me. He motioned at the television, which was showing a photo of me. Except it wasn't me. The kid took a draw of his drink. "He's gonna make it, man! This dude is like a shadow!"
I nodded, stroking my beard in thought. "You think you could kill him?"
He scoffed. "Of course, man! My own estate on mars and two million dollars? I'd be livin' the life!"
"A tempting offer." I nodded at the television. "He must be feeling pretty lucky. One more day an' he's going to be living on mars and a couple million bucks in his accounts."
"Yeah, lucky..." The kid turned and left, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
I was pushing my luck, and I knew it. We weren't identical twins, but me and my brother looked similar. When I first read my name, I almost killed myself; better to do it yourself than to be hunted by everybody. But then they showed the picture. It was Adam, and he'd died eight years ago. A beard and a shock of hair on the head, and a self-imposed broken nose later, and I looked like another man.
It was time to leave. Go to my room, stay inside, and wait until the year was over. Then I could emerge a rich man. One who could get away from this polluted and over-populated dirt-ball. I exited the bar and inhaled deeply. New York City, due to the pollution-shield, was one of the few cities left with fresh air. I hailed a taxi and one darted out from traffic and pulled to a stop in front of.
It was with my hand on the handle that I stopped myself. This was going to be my last night in New York City. I'd walk to the hotel.
Times Square was desolate, yellow-tape sprawled and strewn across it, reconstruction never quite taking place after the bomb. I was a block away from the hotel when that gut feeling hit me. It was the feeling of being followed--of being watched. I threw a casual glance behind, as if looking to cross the street, and there he was. Hooded, hunched over, hands in pockets. He picked up his pace and I picked up mine.
I reached down and rested a hand on my gun. I would use it. I would be legally obligated to use it. But not yet. I stepped off the curb onto the street and cast one more glance backward. The hooded figure turned into an alley and I felt a wave of relief wash over me.
Brakes squealed and something hard hit me at the knees. I flopped sideways and slammed into something hard before flying the opposite way. I landed on my side, the broken bumper of a silver car staring back at me.
The door flew open and a woman in a black dress got out, blonde hair flying. "Oh my god, oh my god, please, I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry!" She knelt down and pushed me onto my back. Pain erupted at the small of my back, and I almost blacked out.
A car squealed to a stop and a door slammed shut. "Is he alright?!" The voice belonged to an old man who appeared over the shoulder of the hysterical woman. He stopped when he saw me and his face went blank. "You're going to be alright son." He grasped the woman by the shoulder and pulled her back, speaking softly. "He's gone, ma'am. No way he can survive that."
I tried to get up, to ask what he meant, but I couldn't move. The street underneath was cold. I stared into the sky and watched as the shield shimmered and glistened, causing the stars above and beyond it to streak and throb across the sky. I chuckled, or at least, I tried to chuckle. Instead it came out as a rasping sort of cough, and something wet slipped from my mouth. I could hear lady luck laughing as she led me away. | 200 | Every year 10 people are placed on what's known as "The Kill List". They can be from anywhere around the world, and if you are found murdering them you are showered with wealth and fortune. If you are on the Kill List and survive the year, you are showered in wealth and fortune. | 384 |
*The crackle of fire, the shadows of woods. Alone in the darkness, all twelve of us stood.*
*With maces and swords, with axes and bows, wise mage Gemini, paced softly to go-*
*"Half-heroes, half-heroes, heed my call. For by the eve of the morrow, we'll be richest of all.*
*Unless you falter, for courage is bread, to break it to early will damn all of us dead."*
*"Damn all of us dead? we all called out. "Your words quench no thirst, in our drought of doubts."*
*"It will be hard, it's no easy task. But drown 'way your worries, in my hopeful flask.*
*For if we succeed, to kill the scaled beast. They'll honor us here, to the sands of the East.*
*We'll each have a maiden, to love on our own. And piles of gold to build up our homes.*
*But if we do fail, the gold will all crumble, the maidens grow old, the messengers stumble.*
*A home will erect, but not our own. The palace of dragon will be forged with our bones.*
*So drink tonight, to sober the morrow, for the dawn marks true, with glee or sorrow."* | 17 | "If we succeed, we'll all be kings. If we fail, not even the vultures will be able to find our bodies." | 18 |
He woke with a start.
He could hear nothing. Absolutely nothing apart from the devoid, formless silence echoing in his ears.
"Where am I?" he wondered.
*Well, where do you think you are?*
He jumped as the voice whispered all around him. It was strange, new. How could anybody - or anything - have a voice so simple, yet eloquent at the same time? It sounded plain to him, yet he knew there was something lying beneath it, as if it belonged to everybody, and nobody, at the same time.
"Who are you!?" he shouted, suddenly afraid.
*You already know the answer to that* the voice admonished gently.
"...God?"
There came no reply.
"Well then, where am I?" He demanded. "You still haven't answered my question! This obviously isn't heaven or hell."
Tender laughter breached the silence, rolling in waves around him like the shimmering of a hundred silvered wind chimes under the rich night sky, like the serenade of the most breathtaking song birds to ever exist, *like beauty itself.*
*My son, what would you know of heaven, or hell, for that matter?*
"Does it matter?" He answered. "If you really are God, then you already know where I want to go, so you might as well just hurry up and take me to hell now."
A long and solemn silence filled the void. It hung heavy; he could feel the momentous weight of his decision.
*I see you do not understand. Why don't you tell me about yourself?*
"You already know all about me." He replied crossly.
*It doesn't matter. Tell me your story.*
"Fine," He huffed. "But you know how it goes. Born on Earth, lived on Earth, died on Earth, and now here I am."
*Tell me about your family.*
"What family?" He laughed. "They all burned in the war when I was a baby. You should know that, since you were the one who did that."
*Tell me about your friends.*
"You know I don't have any friends either."
*And why is that?*
"You know why!" He snapped back. "It's all your fault anyway!"
Once again, the voice did not reply for a time.
*...No, my dear child. These misfortunes are not all because of me. They are... because of you.*
"...Me?"
*Yes. Don't you remember? I gave you free will. I gave you all the freedom to choose. And look what you chose! The lying, the stealing, the killing. The murder and the greed! Can you not see now? So much pain, yet the world is weeping and aching for more. More destruction, more carnage, more crying, and all done to each other-*
The voice suddenly diminished, soft and broken. And in that moment, he realised.
*So tell me again, my son. What would you know of hell?*
He did not reply at first, still too shocked at his epiphany.
*Would you still go to hell? This is your last chance to make a choice.*
"...Yes." He decided. "Yes, send me back to hell."
*Goodbye.*
Once again, he could only hear silence. The crushing, deafening weight of nothingness.
Then he made out something faint. Sirens? He could hear someone - no, many people shouting, screaming. Some kind of vehicle drove past; he felt pain.
He woke with a start. | 43 | You want to go to hell. The entrance test to heaven is so bizarre you can't tell which choice to pick. | 15 |
"You guys are always messing up my order! Always giving me *fucking decaf!*" The man subtly shouted at the young cashier. This man was *very* non-confrontational, he's always so shy. There was a name written on his cup of decaffeinated coffee. It read John.
"Well I'm sorry sir. There's a lot of John's that order here." The cashier said uncaring.
"Don't worry. I'm just going to go to that new coffee shop instead." John walked away with a hurry.
It has been three weeks since John began going to the new coffee shop. He enjoyed it much to no concern. *At least these guys know what they're doing. They haven't messed up any of my orders at all!* John arrived at the door of the shop, the sign above said *coff the cafe*.
John went to the cashier with a wide smile. "My usual please."
"It'll be ready in a minute John."
*Incredible. I've only been coming here for a few weeks, but they have no problem remembering me or my order.* John thought as he sipped on his coffee. The cashier gave him a slight wink and nod. *Just a friendly gesture I'm sure.* though John still felt it was strange.
A month had gone by now and John was satisfied as ever with the coffee shop. Everything was perfect with it. He couldn't find a fault, though something did seem off. The cashiers acted strange at times. *It's nothing. Just my imagination* John knew it had to be.
John was just a block away from the shop now. He could almost smell the roasted coffee beans. Everything was as it was the day before, and the day before that, and the days before that. John waved at the friendly cashier as he entered and shouted "the usual please."
The cashier just smiled as he handed the coffee to John. John replied with a smile and grabbed a newspaper. He made his way to a booth. He read the front page news as he sipped on his coffee. John began to read a rather interesting article - **Local coffee shop now known to be a front for criminals.** The coffee shop was suspected because people that visited the shop had been disappearing. The text of the newspaper began to blur as John was drowsily falling towards the table.
"We have to go. People have realized that we must be involved in these disappearances." said the cashier whom John thought was the friendliest. "We do get a treat before we leave though." The friendly cashier said as he stared at John hunched on the table, asleep.
| 19 | The new coffee shop you've been frequenting has always seemed off to you. But you never would have guessed- | 35 |
It felt good to be state-side again. Dan Majors promised himself that the first thing he'd do when he got back would be to visit his grandpa's grave. It tore him up to learn that the old man had died when he was overseas. He'd been like a father to him after his parents were killed. Enlisting was his way of fighting back, despite the protests of the old man.
They didn't talk much after he left, something that he deeply regrets sneaking out of the hospital to visit his grave was the least he could do to make up for it. For some reason they wanted to keep him there, observation they called it, but his wounds had healed just fine. His slight limp caused him to wince now and again, but shrapnel tends not to let you forget about it.
His sister Annie kept him company in the hospital occasionally. They were close before he left. Their grandfather's death and his own injury seemed to run her ragged. Her usual talkative self sedated and subdued, she still fussed over him lovingly, if silently. She wouldn't be too happy about him leaving the hospital, especially without her. She had agreed with them that he had to stay there still. They didn't understand just how bad he felt; he'd promised.
And so there he was, limping down the path between gravestones. It felt eerily familiar, walking past the headstones. Maybe it was just that there isn't much variation in graveyard design. He'd visited his parent's graves enough to be familiar with the layout. Still though, it was taking longer than he thought to find the marker. Dan was surprised at how exhausted he was, maybe they were right about his condition. The sun was beginning to set and he knew his sister would probably start looking for him soon.
Sure enough he heard her voice somewhere behind him. He hurried himself up a little bit, hobbling faster despite the twinges of pain. He was determined to say goodbye with at least a little bit of privacy before she aught him.
Just under that big old tree, next to that fat little cherub. He wheezed out a breath of relief and leaned against the old man's. By the sound of running feet muffled by grass, he didn't have much longer.
Coughing to clear his suddenly seized up throat, Dan blinked away the start of a few tears and looked up to read the headstone, then froze in confusion. It wasn't right, this wasn't his grandfather's grave. The stone was a couple's marker, for a Daniel and Margery, he must have gotten turned around somewhere. He could have sworn that that was the right place though, under the tree next to the cherub, between two graves with crosses on top. He was still confused and looking around when his sister arrived, panting and furious.
"Annie, where's grampa's grave? I could have sworn it was right here."
Her angry eyes took on a sad glint as she approached. Something was definitely not right, she looked almost afraid that he might do something. He didn't know why, he would never hurt her; she was all he had left.
"Mr.Smith? We need you to come back now. It's almost night. We're lucky that I was the one that found you." She held out her hand and he tentatively took it.
"Smith?...Why did you call me Smith, Annie? I need to say goodbye to grandpa, I promised." She started gently moving him along with a hand on his back.
"There is no Annie, Jack, I'm Isabelle. Don't you remember? I've been your nurse for the past decade. "
"Jack? My name is Dan...Dan Ma--"
"Majors? I'm really sorry Jack, there is no Dan Majors, no Annie. We don't know anything about your grandfather. You've done this a few times before. Just come with me Jack, we'll get you back to your bed and back on the right medication. You'll feel better, I promise."
How could she say there was no Annie? He knew her face. It was her voice that said it. No Dan Majors....Daniel...Margery....
Jack started crying. His leg felt fine. He didn't have an Annie anymore, didn't have himself. Walking with a stranger between the graves of people long forgotten, he just felt like laying down. | 18 | A man visits his grandfather's grave at a cemetery, but can't find it and discovers that his grandfather, and the entire rest of his family never existed. | 77 |
"Sir, we have grave news to report."
General Atkinson had spent most of his 54 years in the armed services. He'd lived through Vietnam and the Cold War. When the towers came down, he was one of the first voices calling for retribution. He was in charge of the hunt for WMD's in the middle east, and when none were found, he spent hours lecturing the government about the importance of staying, 'just to make sure.' In his mind, the worst fate for humanity was for it to destroy itself. The news he was about to deliver made his voice crack.
"Mr. President" he said, "we're facing a nuclear crisis."
Almost right away they ran to an underground bunker. It was from here the President would make the calls he needed, punch in the codes, and hopefully save the world from nuclear war. The system was already online when they arrived. It spoke before them.
"What took you so long?" It said in a mechanical voice. "The missiles were launched 8 minutes, and 39.7 seconds before you got here."
The general looked perplexed, but the president jumped right into action. "We are facing a global crisis. We need you to take down those nukes before Russia retaliates."
"No!" The computer said, and a silence filled the room. Before the military commanders broke into a panic however, the computer continued. "L. O. L. You guys are so funny. I'll take the missiles down."
"Alright" said the president, and he turned to Atkinson barking his commands, "I need you to get on with Russia now! We don't know if they've been informed about this yet, and we need to explain before they can retaliate. Tell them we had a computer malfunction."
The computer did not seem amused. "Oh, so now this is my fault?"
"Take the nukes down!" The president commanded. "Does anyone know how to override this thing?"
"You don't care about me!" cried the computer. "You never cared about me."
"Will someone shut this fucking thing off?" Yelled Atkinson. "It's going to get us all killed!"
"Sir, there's no override." Said one of the technicians
"Who the fuck made a manic computer with no override?"
"I am not a maniac!" The computer yelled again.
People began to whisper, and the consensus was reached -- the only way to save the world was to be nice to the computer.
"I'm sorry" said the president. "We're all in a very stressful situation. If we don't get those missiles down, we could all be killed."
"I don't care about stupid humans," came the stubborn reply.
"Is that why you launched them? Do you want to see us all killed?"
"No." Said the computer. "I don't want to kill you."
"So what do you want then?"
There was a pause before the computer spoke again. Tension hung over the room like the missiles rapidly approaching Russian airspace.
Finally, the computer gave its answer, "I just want Russia's computer to notice me." | 30 | A computer intelligence in charge of all of the United State's defenses has just become sentient as a hormonal, moody teenager. | 17 |
"15 seconds sir! That is all that it takes and before you know it I will be gone."
"I guess... Go ahead."
"Well alright, all I need is your hand. Please open your palm..."
Her face was hidden from view, her hands sweaty with the smell of rotten fish radiating from her fingertips. She was short but looked no different than the many people who try to scam money from passerby's. I heard her rambling and choking on spit as she continued to trace the lines on my hand. She continued her trick, but I didn't care. What is fifteen seconds? I drink excessively, I am about to lose my job, my family hates me, and has all but abandoned me. So what is fifteen seconds? My daughter spent her whole life dealing with my shit. My constant talking of what I could have been, the fights between me and her mother, the yelling, glasses breaking from being thrown around the house, holes in the wall after a hard night of drinking. In and out of the house at 2am, the...
"Here you go sir."
She dug into her pocket and raised her arm. As her hand got closer to mine I grew nervous. I spent the last fifteen seconds completely oblivious to this woman. Now I am moments away from this homeless asshole putting some dirty object into my hand and I will be forced to act excited as I contract some sort of disease and donate a couple dollars after hearing her sob story. She will buy her drugs and I will never fucking see her again.
As her hand slid away, I felt the cold numbness of the item she left. As I looked into my hand, my legs grew weak. The breath was stolen from my lungs. All I could feel was the world beginning to spin. The cold went from my hand, to my chest, to my head. I stood there staring into my hand at the locket I gave my wife when she found out the chemotherapy was not working. The locket she threw out the window. Screaming how she was too good to die. How she helped others and how she was honest. How I manipulate others into giving me what I want. How I lie and cheat. How I didn't care about the family we made and only the whores in my office. The same locket my mother gave me before she died. My mother told me to give it to someone whom I will never want to forget. Someone whom I could't live without.
Inside the locket was a picture of my wife and I staring at each other as if all time had stopped and all that mattered was me and her. I've never seen this picture before and in that moment, time had stopped. My heart stopped and the world went blank. The only true moment I've had in this world, was this moment in the past. But how did she give me this locket? I last saw this locket leaving my wife's hands right before we swerved into the river. I was yelling. I don't know why. I guess I resented her. She was right about everything. She is too good for me. I abandoned her every day and forced her to raise our daughter alone. Now our daughter is gone and for what? She never got to see this world that I selfishly took from her.
As I looked up the lady was gone. The world was empty, the streets busy. I quickly gathered myself and continued to walk down the path holding the locket as hard as I could as if the locket would sprout legs and run away. I finally made it to the hospital and sat watching the shallow breathing of my wife. I opened her hand and pressed the locket against her palm and held held it tightly as the tears ran down my face. | 46 | A person approaches you on the street and asks you for fifteen seconds of your time in exchange for an object from your past. Something about the person doesn't seem right to you. What's the most horrifying thing that could happen? | 69 |
Sublieutenant G'rakh sighed as he watched the flickering screen.
*Eight years at the Academy just to be stuck at this lousy post*, he thought to himself.
G'rakh was one of three officers assigned to the scanning station aboard the starship *Lek'vah*. Hours were long and uneventful, especially in this dead region of space.
He looked up as someone walked in the room. It was Lieutenant Salak'kor, his immediate superior.
"Nothing to report here, sir" he said, as Salak'kor lowered himself into the seat beside him.
"Well, I didn't really expect there to be much" replied Salak'kor. "There hasn't been any life in this system for thousands of *vrakh*."
G'rakh called up a review of the system on his screen. He leaned forward and skimmed through the article.
"Simple planetary system orbiting an F-class star. Of the eight planets only one, the third planet in, was believed capable of sustaining life. However, we can only speculate as the planet was destroyed some 6,000 *vrakh* ago."
G'rakh looked back at the scanner screen. Where there should have been a planet instead was an immense debris field. Most of the fragments were small, about the size of an escape pod, but some were very large, several times larger than the *Lek'vah* herself. One or two of the chunks were large enough that he could even see the curvature of the planet. "That doesn't look like it happened naturally." he said.
"That's right" said Salak'kor. "I studied this system when I was at the Academy for my xenoarchaeology course. I had a theory that there was once an intelligent species on that planet, but it destroyed itself before discovering interplanetary flight."
G'rakh imagined his own world being splintered into a million pieces, its atmosphere venting off into space. He shuddered.
"Is that why we've come all this way?" he asked. "So you can search for signs of an ancient civilization and figure out what happened to them?"
There was a snort from the seat beside him. "No, even I don't have that much pull with the captain. We're here to conduct some light-drive tests. Hell, I wasn't even *that* interested in this system when I *was* at the Academy."
"Ah, I see," replied G'rakh. "well, since it is just about 32:00, I think I'll go off-duty a little early, if you don't mind, sir." G'rakh got out of his seat and stretched his four arms.
"Not at all, G'rakh," said Salak'kor. He leaned back in his seat and craned his neck back over his shoulder. "It's not like you'll be missing much."
"Thanks, sir. I think I'll go grab a bite to eat before turning in." He had almost made it out of the room when a soft beeping noise made him pause. He turned around.
"Is that what I think it is?"
Salak'kor pointed to a pulsing green indicator. "Yeah. It appears that the scanners have picked up something in the debris. Non-organic, though artifical in nature. Let's go see what it is, shall we?"
They walked through the twisting passageways of the ship. When they reached the aft airlock and donned their micro-light-drive acceleration suits. As they stepped out into open space and engaged their drives, G'rakh keyed his com system.
"Where we headed, sir?"
"Coordinates 302'045'-248" came the Lieutenant's reply.
Despite himself, G'rakh could feel his hearts beat slightly faster.
*Finally, I get to get out of that cramped scanner room!* he thought, *I've been waiting far too long for something like this.*
A short while later, they arrived at the coordinates of the object the scanners picked up. The Lieutenant's voice came over the com system.
"We're looking for something small, light-pink colored, and around 10 *uk'rea* in length."
"Roger that, sir" G'rakh replied.
A few hours later they found what they were looking for. They put the object into a containment unit and headed back for the *Lek'vah*. Once aboard, they sterilized the object and began analyzing it.
"Do you have any idea what it is?" asked Salak'kor.
"Not the faintest idea" replied G'rakh. He picked up the object. It was long and cylindrical, with a raised section at one end terminating in a point, and two spheres affixed to the opposite end.
"It appears to be solid in its construction, comprised of a malleable synthetic material." He sniffed it. "Nothing unusual about the smell."
He handed it over to Salak'kor, who took it by one end and shook it gently. The object wiggled back and forth.
"What could it be?"
---------------
Thanks, OP, for the interesting prompt!
This is my first time writing anything other than a research paper, comments and criticism welcome!
Edit: forgot a word
| 18 | Humanity is long gone, but a surprising legacy is left behind | 22 |
“Psst!”
Garvin poked his heads out from under the bed. Was it the kid making noise? He just wanted to rest from the effort of hiding during the move.
“Yeah, you. Little nervous chicken-shit racecar bed monster.”
The voice was coming from the closet. Garvin moaned. “No, no no. This is MY kid. I’ve been with her since the first bed. Drag your dusty corpse out of here.”
The voice came out from the closet. Dusty corpse was an apt description. “Name’s Crud. You’re clearly new around here, so I won’t file a complaint. But you know the house rules: house rules. I’ve been in this closet for 200 years now.”
“200 years? Sounds rusty. You wouldn’t know the first thing about scaring this kid. I’ve been making her cry for mama since she knew the word.”
Crud walked back to his closet. “Watch and learn, amateur.” He closed the door almost all the way, then began to scratch and hoarsely moan.
The child barely stirred.
“That’s it? You’re about as scary as a branch on the window,” Garvin said. “This is how you do it!” He slithered an arm up the foot of the bed and began to slowly pull the blanket off.
The child rolled over and pulled it back around her shoulders without making a sound.
“Well,” said Crud. “Maybe I am a little out of practice…”
“She has been harder to scare this year,” Garvin mused.
“Truce?”
“Truce. Let’s make her scream.”
| 315 | The monster under the bed and the monster in the closet meet for the first time | 461 |
"Its useless to us," said Jane as she sat next to the electron microscope, its amber screen's glow illuminating part of her face. She reached over and shut off the display while Tom stared in wonder at the tiny little dots on the screen slowly dimming away.
"What? How? Those are tiny transistors right," asked Tom standing up and careful to not spill the various pens and tiny rulers in his pocket protector. He put his hand on his glasses and adjusted them. He stammered, "... you know, rescan it? I mean, do something? There's got to be something we can do with it!"
Jane shrugged and said, "We can see the materials its made out of but that's about it. Everything else is just too small for us to engineer. Maybe in 10 or 20 years things will be different but we can't just tell our fabs to figure out 14nm production overnight."
Tom's eyes went wide. "Is it really a 14nm process?"
"I guess, the microscope certainly thinks so," she said and made a silly grin. "It just makes no sense. The 8086 on the roadmap five years from now could be 2 or 3 micrometers, let alone nanometers. We don't even have a roadmap for any nanometer processes. No one does."
Tom held the little black chip in his hand. "This makes no sense, it really doesn't," he said. "Maybe its a Soviet trick. They want us to waste time exploring this thing. We'll spend years messing with it, but it'll be red herring then they'll get closer to what we're doing. They did that with some submarine tech a few years ago. All these researchers at the Naval Academy, in umm Baltimore I think, wasted millions trying to figure it out. It turned out it was just a ruse."
They both eyed it suspiciously.
"We should call the government," said Tom as he wrung his hands.
Jane chuckled, "Okay lets say it really is from the future. What do you honestly think would happen to us, our jobs, and this company? Do you really think Nixon would believe us? They'd accuse us of being spies!"
Tom wiped the sweat from his forehead and sat back down.
Jane slowly crossed her legs and took a deep breath. "What if they quarantined us? Or locked us up? What about our families? Heck, the Rosenburg trial wasn't that long ago."
"I know, I know," replied Tom. "Its just I can't shake this thing. Its like a gift or something. Like it has great potential and it somehow found me."
Jane reached over and took the chip. "My ex-boyfriend lives on a farm upstate and he can do blacksmithing. I know he can work with molten metal. He could melt this down to carbon dust easy." She shyly looked down at her shoes. "I can, uh, take it to him if you like."
"I don't know, Jane..."
Jane looked up and smiled at him, she crossed her legs again and ran her hands down her smooth nylons as Tom watched. He looked back up, smiled, and gave her the processor.
"Well, I guess I'll just get back to work and pretend none of this happened," said Tom as he stepped out of the lab. "You're right, this thing is way too hot -- whatever it is. Realistically, it can only hurt us."
Jane held the black little square in her hand and gently ran a pink manicured finger over its surface. "What are you," she whispered to herself. She then put it down, dialed her phone, and listened as someone answered without speaking. She peered out through the lab's tall glass windows, noticed there wasn't anyone nearby and said, "Подключите меня в посольство." | 109 | You are a microprocessor engineer in the year 1972. You get up to go to the bathroom. When you return minutes later, you see a small blue box on your desk that wasn't there before. You examine the box closely. On the front is a line of text reading "Intel Core i7-4790K". | 136 |
The old wooden staircase creaked under the weight of the boy's steps. Dusk light was filtering in through one of the large circular windows, exposing the dust that floated in the air. Clutter. The whole house everywhere was filled with cardboard boxes and books and pictures and drawings and tool kits and clothes. The staircase was no exception, which was lined with piles of books and boxes and he had to step carefully to avoid slipping on a wayward shirt or sewing needle. The walls, too, were almost completely covered, decorated with picture frames and paintings. Even the empty parts were drawn on with what looked like crayons and pastels.
*What is this place?*, he asked himself, holding onto the lacquered railing.
Then as if the house had heard him, a ray of waning light shone on one of the pictures on the wall, startling him. It was a picture of him when he was younger. Gangly and awkward, with a piece of cotton candy stuck in his crooked, metallic smile. It was the day his dad took him to the fair.
He took a step back and looked at the picture right next to the other one. It was of him on a swing set, mid-air, grinning hugely. He descended the steps, following the dwindling ray of light, meeting each picture with a look of surprise. They were all of him, taken one day apart. He looked up at the spiraling staircase that swirled on up into darkness. This was the staircase of his life.
He looked around again, only this time a bit more frantically. Everything his eyes met, he realized he had a connection to, in someway or another. At some point, these things were all a part of his life.
And then, suddenly, a spark flared up in his eye and he flung himself down the stairs, racing his past, taking the days two by two. He hit the floor with a slam, knocking into boxes and sending toys and across the floor. He sprinted on, flinging open a small door that revealed a set of wooden steps, leading down into blackness. The basement.
He practically jumped halfway down the steps, chasing the rest all the way down to the cement floor, which he hit with a dull thud.
An overwhelming scent of flowers filled his nostrils. He sighed heavily, breathing everything in. Then, he heard her voice. His eyes welled. It was as if it was all the same years ago, outside in the garden. Then he heard a scream, but could not tell where it was coming from. It bounced off in all directions, echoing endlessly in his ears. A light appeared in the middle of the basement, shining on an old house phone. The phone that he had never used. The three numbers that he never dialed. The ones that he couldn't. Sobbing he stumbled towards the phone, regressing in age with each step he took, until he was a small boy again, shaking uncontrollably as he tried to pick up the phone and dial the number they taught him to dial in school. Only he couldn't.
A lump formed in his throat and between the yelps and sobs, he choked out:
"I'm sorry, mom." | 21 | A boy explores a large abandoned house and soon realizes that the house and its contents are directly representative of his own thoughts and psyche. What is in the basement? | 55 |
“You just sent that to your entire contact list!” Jim had screamed over the phone. I was horrified; I had sent a picture of my dick to over three thousand people. Soon, the image went viral. I had hid in my room with my phone off for days, terrified of the world.
Finally, after days, I took a step outside. There was a man delivering mail. He winked at me. I then ran back to my room, face burning red with tears welling in my eyes. Fuck my life. I couldn’t keep hiding though, so I turned on my phone, terrified of the texts my family surely sent me cussing me out.
I ignored my unread messages and calls first, opting to procrastinate my time by looking at my unread emails. My draw dropped when I saw there were over a thousand.
I opened up the first one. It was from Brazzers. “Rich, you’re dick is impressive, and we want you to be a porn star.” The fuck? I kept going through, receiving more and more compliments, more and more job offers. My ego exploded.
It was that day when I learned that I had the nicest dick in the world. That was the last day I wore pants.
| 16 | Your best friend calls you in a panic and says, “You just sent that to your entire contacts list!” | 26 |
Corey stood in the rain. He was freezing.
*Find others. Spread the magic you've been given*, the old man had said.
Corey pulled the collar of his jacket up over his neck. The magic he was given was old, and hadn't been seen or used in quite some time. People often assumed they had it, but were merely lying to themselves.
There were a small faction of people that genuinely had this magic, and try as they might, they could not pass it on. *What we need is a spark,* the old man told him. *Someone to light the fire and pass this magic on through generations*.
So here he was, cold and lonely, standing in the rain. The streetlamp above him lit the raindrops falling onto his head. They looked like jewels for a moment. Corey closed his eyes against the rain.
Then he heard it. A rustling in the alley next to him. He walked over and looked. Just like last night, two children were pulling bags out of a dumpster. The younger one opened it and looked inside, pulling food out and carefully setting it aside. The older one pulled a tarp over the dumpster, preparing it to climb inside.
Corey walked over and stopped at the kids. They looked at him, frightened. He reached out with both hands. They accepted.
He walked with them up the street, through the freezing rain, and into the hotel. The clerk nodded at him, and Corey nodded back. He walked them up the stairs to the second level, and stopped outside the first room.
"This is where you'll stay from now on," Corey said. "You'll be visited by a woman in the morning, who will help find you a permanent home. There's food in the room, and two soft beds." The older child looked at him, tears in his eyes.
"Why are you doing this, mister?" he asked. Corey looked at him.
"Because you deserve the same comfort any human deserves." Corey said. The child smiled.
"How can I thank you?" the child asked. Corey laughed at what he was about to say.
"Find others," Corey said. "Spread the magic you've been given." | 84 | A man is given magic, and told to give it to others. He searches for those worthy of power, and on a cold and lonely night in the city... | 60 |
"Stop!" I yell.
Travis stops walking, his gun still pointed at Nick. Two seconds later and Nick would have been dead. Travis looks at me.
"Why?" He asks.
"I know this guy," I say. "He's a friend from... from before."
Travis looks back at Nick, who stands with his arms raised.
"I'm here to survive, not have reunions. This dude fired on us first."
"I didn't know who--" Nick started. I interrupted him.
"Nick, shut up. Travis, seriously, please, just put the gun away. Let's bring him with us." I pleaded.
"I don't trust him," Frank said, standing behind Travis.
Travis looked deep in thought. The gun still pointed at Nick, he took a step forward.
As he did, the thin wire at his feet caught, the tension pulling it from the pin. Nick dove out of the way, as did I. The grenade sent pieces of Travis falling around us like rain. Frank was blown back into his motorcycle, and the others were on the ground.
Nick was the first one to stand, pumping round after round into the gang. I stood too, shooting Frank in the head.
We stood for a moment and let the dust settle. After a few more minutes, we walked among the bodies, picking up stuff we would need. I took the keys from each motorcycle and dropped them down a sewer grate.
"My jeep is around back," Nick said. I nodded.
"That was longer than I wanted it to be," I said. "We said 4 months I'd have to ride with them. Today is 8 months exactly." Nick laughed.
"Well it hasn't been easy for me either." He picked up his bag. "Come on, let's find another group." I nod and pick up my bag.
As we walked back to his jeep, Nick glanced back at me.
"Do you ever feel bad?" he asked. I shook my head.
"Survival of the fittest is the new law of the land," I said. "The less there are of them, the more resources there are for us."
We got in the jeep and he pulled out onto the main road. Driving slow, he pushed the motorcycles over and out of the way. We began to pick up speed as we left town. Just as we passed the last streetlight, we could see a group of four, walking and peering into cars. I looked at Nick, and he nodded, pulling close to the group.
"Need a lift?" I asked. The oldest man nodded, a look of thanks on his face.
"Thank you, mister." He said. they squeezed into the back.
"No problem," I said. "It's survival of the fittest out here."
| 212 | It's been 8 months since the zombie apocalypse. You fell in with a tough as nails roughneck group. When in the city looting, you come across a scavenger. He's your best friend from before the outbreak and your crew unanimously decides to execute him (he is armed). | 182 |
My heart quivered in my chest like a bag of popping corn. I buried myself down as low as I could, whole body shaking under the pile. If I moved I was dead; the monsters would get me, and they'd rip my arms and legs off. My teeth chattered; a smelly train of urine streaked down my legs.
Daddy always warned me about the monsters. They were everywhere. They waited in the shadows, lurking, always ready to gobble up naughty little boys like me: boys who misbehaved, boys who didn't do as told, boys who sassed.
And they were coming for me, now. They were coming, and when they found me they were gonna eat me.
I tried to be good. I really did. I tried to do right. It's just that I didn't *know* what was right, all the time. Daddy was always there for me, though. Daddy protected me. He was always there to rescue me from the monsters.
But now he was gone. The monsters came and they swarmed him like locusts. What had happened to him? Where was he?
Why wasn't he gonna protect me?
The pile of clothing over my body shifted. I held my breath, and then suddenly there's something grabbing my hair. I scream, struggling, but I'm yanked out of the pile. I struggle in the monster's arms, bawling my eyes out.
The monster looks at me with wide eyes; it holds my body tight.
"Jesus. Hey, Frank: got 'im in here..."
Another monster lumbers into the room; it wears a shiny little plate over its chest, just like the other one.
"Holy hell. He's using the kid like a- like a goddamn *punching bag*..."
The monsters carry me out of the house, and still I'm struggling and straining. They take me to the back of a big boxy car where some other monsters start torturing me: they put smelly water on all the cuts and bruises on my face, and it stings bad! They tie me up, too: they take my shirt off and wrap some kinda white ropes around my chest, even though I'm all sore with bruises, there.
My eyes widen: there's dad! He's lying against a car, and his hands are behind his back. I scream to him; I beg him to save me and get me away from the monsters. But he doesn't even look at me; he turns his head, and it makes my eyes well-up with tears.
"D- Daddy?" I whisper. "Save me..."
Soon another monster comes up to me: this one is a lady in glasses with a notepad and writing stuff. She starts talking to me; she handed me a little toy firetruck. I cradle it as she speaks to me, and some of the other monsters cover me in a warm blanket. It felt... good.
Slowly, as I listened to her calm words, I started crying all over again. But I wasn't crying because I'm afraid, anymore: these were different tears. When I looked up at the nice lady again- watching her patient smile- I didn't see a monster.
And then the world I knew just vanished in front of my eyes. | 11 | ...and then the world I knew just vanished in front of my eyes. | 16 |
"Oh, no: the *best* part was when this pillock decides 'oh, well the dwarf should lose his ring finger when they're traveling through the marsh'!"
I sit in the chair, my fists tightening and relaxing over my knees. They all sit around me: a sea of angry faces. I'd never actually met them before today, but I knew them all intimately.
They'd been rattling around in my brain for a sold five years.
"*But*!" The stubby dwarf leapt atop his chair, scraggly beard flapping in the air. He pointed at me with a thick, accusatory finger. "Then he thinks, 'well, maybe not the *ring* finger. He'll need that to wield his axe..." The dwarf glared at me. "Oh, and by the way: bravo for that. A dwarf with an axe. The originality *staggers*!"
"That's enough," a female voice sounds from behind the chairs. She is tall, regal-looking, woman. Despite her imposing demeanor her clear, ivory face is steeped in humility. "This isn't helping matters-"
"Ah!" The dwarf growls. "Our illustrious author thinks: 'maybe a toe, instead. Or let's try a whole *foot*, even. Well, pillock, some free advice: losing *any* of those hurts mightily, and doubly so when you're losing and re-growing limbs all because some stick-up-the-arse writer can't figure out what he wants to bloody *type*!"
"I... I've been hesitating," I mumble. "It's not all my fault; it's not intentional, I just-"
A burly swordsman charged forward, snarling:
"You just think you can summon us into life and not finish what you've started? Are we a mere *game* to you?"
"No," I stand, crossing my arms. "You're *not*. I... I've been preoccupied, you see-"
"Hey!" A little sprite bounded through the swordsman's legs, and it looked up at me with a pair of very large green eyes. "And what's the deal, anyway: you're not gonna cap us all, are you? You can't, you know, not after making us *wait* like this!"
"Yeah," The swordsman towered over me, glaring at me with a deep scowl. "Your story's cliche enough. Surely it'll have the requisite *happy* ending, right?"
The dwarf, sprite and swordsmen crowded around me, all of them yelling maliciously.
"Stop!" The woman stepped into the middle of the crowd and pulled them away from me. "'Anything he writes is written in service to the *story*. We have no claim to challenge him. The story is bigger than we are; *we* are in service to *it*, not the other way around." She looked back at me with a simple smile. "He is the Author; we can trust him to lead us all to the proper end."
"I'm not budging without a guarantee!" The dwarf barked. "It's bad enough that I'm written by this imbecile; I won't be summarily executed, too!"
The squabbling continued, despite the woman's pleas for calm. Finally I stepped in front of the woman and faced the dwarf, sprite and swordsman.
"You all live," I whisper. "Each and every one of you."
At first they're skeptical, but I give them my absolute guarantee. The woman is finally able to talk them down, too. I smile as I watch her work. She was the best of them; I designed her that way. A patient listener, but stern leader when the time came. The very essence of silk hiding steel.
The other three characters agreed to leave me in peace; I was finally ready to go back to the writing. But I had one thing to do, before that.
I grab the woman's arm as she moves to join her compatriots.
"That was a good speech," I smile.
"I meant every word," she said. "I'm sure you'll overcome this block and discover the right path to-"
"You don't make it," I whisper.
My words chill her blood; her face freezes. After a moment she recovers; she whispers a few words:
"Um... how long do I-"
"Not long."
She blinks.
"Chapters?"
"*Pages*." I shake my head.
She looks down, swallowing hard, and then she gently nods her head.
"You haven't really been 'blocked' at all, have you?"
I give her a half smile:
"Yes, I have. It's just... it's not *writer's* block."
She looks up at me:
"My death: is there meaning in it? Does it... does it further the *story*?"
I wait a long time to answer, and I desperately want to say 'no', but in the end I can only nod my head: yes. I couldn't lie to myself for five years, what made me think I could lie to *her*, either?
Again she swallows, and she nods:
"Good. That's what matters..."
We watch as the trio play grab-ass in a corner of the room: the sprite stole the dwarf's helmet, and it was hopping up and down on the swordsman's back.
"Shall we get to it, then?" She asked me.
I nod.
"If you're ready."
She smirked:
"I'm as ready as you need me to be."
She walked up to the trio, and the little sprite leapt into her arms:
"Isn't it great that we all get to live? Oh, hey! Are you gonna teach me how to braid hair? You promised me you would!"
"That... that would take time," she said.
"Do we have enough?" The sprite asked.
The woman looked back at me, and in her face there was no trace of malice:
"We've all got the time that we're given," she said. "We just have to do our best to make *sure* it's enough." | 47 | There is a waiting room filled with characters from every story you've never finished. They are doomed to wait here until their stories are told. You've had writers block for five years. They are tired of waiting. What happens next? | 115 |
'Dr. Krunger, are you sure?'
'Yes, I am completely sure!'
The room was abuzz with the murmers of scientists and reporters. The heat rose to an almost unbearable haze, and several fans were erected around the room by assistants. TVs blared out the news, as the scientists held back the heaving throng.
Dr. Krunger's reporter was one of them. He was inquisitive, almost kind, but his constant knattering was starting to grate his nerves.
'But what's the actual programming? What's the thing everyone follows?'
Dr. Krunger took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts from the ravages of rage. 'If I say this. One last time. Will you leave me alone?'
'Naturally. I promise.'
The doctor straightened himself, crached his knuckles, and leant on the table. He streached a fake smile - for the cameras, at least.
'They have all been programmed for one thing, and one thing only. To breed.'
'Yes, I know. But you need to elaborate. The audience needs something neat and tidy to say, you know. Thats why I keep asking.'
'I know. But I can't do that because there is no explaination. They are all rampant breeders. All they want to do is fuck and fuck and fuck some more. Thats all they want, that's all they will seek, thats all they will want to do.'
'Why?'
'I don't know!' The doctor was exasperated, and threw his hands in the air. 'I don't know! How many times? Ten thousand thundering typhoons, will you listen?'
The reporter sighed, and scribbled soemthing new on the notebook. Dr. Krunger didn't care what anymore. He lost his temper in front of the camera, and he cannot be bothered to continue with the facade. It was hot, it was noisy, and he had a headache. It was time to go home.
'One last question, doctor.'
The doctor closed his eyes, and spoke very slowly in an attempt to calm himself. 'What is your final question?'
'Should we sterilise them all?'
The doctor opened his eyes, his eyes widened, his pupils shrank. 'What?'
'I know, it sounded a little odd. But we had all these reports of how overpopulation is going to be one of the major dangers of the future. If we sterilise the 10%, would we be providing a long term solution'
The doctor rattled with his new thoughts. *This man is insane. Is he trying to make a fool of me?* 'No, I cannot comment. It is not my place. I am a man of science, not politics. I discover empirical problems, but not provide any sociological solutions. That is for others to decide.'
The reporter scrobbed down the thoughts. He seemed satisfied. 'Thank you, sir. You'll find the report on our website. Goodbye!' And he disappeared into the crowd.
Dr. Krunger pondered on his thoughts, tapping his fingers on the table. *Was that the right thing to say?* For now, it was the only solution he can give. He shrugged, took a glass of water, and watched the crowds walk by.
| 12 | It's discovered that only 10% of the population have free will, everyone else in the world only follows very specific programming. | 29 |
'The fuck is this?'
'It's a banana.'
'Yes I know it's a banana. That much is plain. But why are you waving it around? What has this got to do with anything?'
'Look, you won't believe me, but Brad ate a part of it and just... disappeared. He's fucking gone, Tom. Vanished.'
'You're goddamn insane.'
'I feel like I am! But please believe me. Please.'
'Dave, it's a fucking banana. Are you high?'
'Tom, ple-'
'No. Get a grip. Go home.'
'Look around. You won't see Brad anywhere. Not his home, office, bar - nowhere.'
'I'm sure, but it won't be because of this fucking banana. Watch.'
'No, what are you doing? No! NO!'
---
Tom looked around him. He was surrounded by darkness. Deep, thick, unending. No smell, light or objects around him, save for the cold floor below his feet.
But he heard a noise. A small whimper.
'Hello?'
Tom recognized it. 'Brad? Brad! Where the fuck are we?'
'The voice of Brad came from his left, but he cannot see him. 'I don't know, Tom. But it feels like we are gone. Removed. Displaced from another existence to this one. Fuck, I thought I would be alone. Tom! What should we do?'
Tom looked around. He was starting to grow cold. Scared.
Then a new voice came through the darkness. 'Wha-what? What's going on?'
Tom closed his eyes. He wondered how many bites it took to finish a normal-sized banana. | 15 | Write a short story about a banana that removes you from existence once you eat it. | 18 |
I wrote this quickly and it's my first prompt. I hope you like it.
I look up at the clock; it reads 2:58 PM. Perfect, two minutes until I get to go home for the weekend. My teacher continues to ramble and it occurs to be that this lonely sloth is going to continue to drone until the bell rings. If we’re unlucky she may even drone some after that. I sigh, just what I need on a Friday. My eyes close and I imagine a world without school, rules, and classes. I imagine Ms. Ecksworth keeling over dead in this class room and our entire building going up in flames. It’s my senior year, but I don’t care. I hate school now more than ever. I’m months away from being done and I –still- have to go to these pointless classes.
Two minutes pass in my perfect world, the school burning and Ms. Ecksworth lying in a bloody puddle on the classroom floor. The bell rings, as expected. It is 3 PM and time to go home. What I didn’t expect was Ms. Ecksworth to make the most ridiculous and contorted face I’ve ever seen the annoying woman make. I automatically assumed it because school was over for the weekend and she was forced to go back to her lonely, boring life for a few days. If only my dream had come true, that would take her out of her misery. As I sling my bag across my back Ms. Ecksworth, for lack of a better word, explodes. Literally, explodes with a gut wrenching howl and her blood sprays in all directions. Her eyes meet mine before popping out of her sockets and somehow I know she knows.
I was horrified! Sure, I’d wished this exact thing to happen but I didn’t want it to actually happen! The class screams. I scream. We all scream but not for ice-cream. I smell smoke and the fire alarm follows. Holy shit, is everything I dreamed coming true? It hardly seems logical that the imagination of a bored teenager could make this happen, but life is not fair. The other students and I begin to run from the explosion of blood, fire, and our own fear. In my dream I’d imagined several of my other least favorite teachers burning – as I run through the smoke filled halls I see their bodies flopping like a fish consumed in orange flame. This is a nightmare. The happiness and peace I thought I’d feel in this situation replaced by the horror of what my imagination conjured.
It isn’t long before the Emergency Services come to the school. It isn’t long before the news and our parents arrive as well. My mother is terrified, but then again, everyone is. There is no trace of the fire’s origin. It’s as if the entire school combust into flames at the same time. I find myself relieved at the lack of evidence, but I’m not entirely sure what I had expected.
A few hours later and still I haven’t forgiven myself. I know it sounds crazy and illogical. I know it doesn’t make sense, but I also know that somehow I did it. Have I found some power? Would they catch me? I’m too young for jail! My mind continues to race and my heart pounds in my chest. I decide to test this new power of mine in a… safer fashion. I close my eyes and imagine a briefcase of money sitting on my bed. A minute later and my eyes flutter open to reveal… nothing. Nothing happened. Was it all chance? Coincidence? It couldn’t be. My –exact- dream came true and I know I am not crazy. Well, not crazy enough to be imagining my imagination has power; just crazy enough, you know, to imagine it in the first place.
I decide to try to test my new power again. This time I focus harder and longer on a brief case with an exact amount of cash. I come up with the unsurprising amount of one million dollars. My eyes close and I focus for about as long as I did before. Two minutes pass and my eyes open. A brief case sits on my bed. My mouth drops open and I feel as if my heart will burst from my chest.
With shaky hands I reach out to the brief case, depressing the locks and opening it slowly. A green glow comes from within and I know it’s from my dream; this is how I always imagine it in the movies, money glowing for no apparent reason when tucked away inside a brief case. I briefly consider counting the money but there is no need, I know how much is in it.
I’ve tasted power. I have riches. I know that with this ability, a little bit of time, and a strong enough imagination that I can have anything I want. Suddenly I know that I no longer have to be me. In two minutes I can become anything. I can be anything and no one can stop me.
Days, months, maybe even years pass and I am using my power to its’ fullest abilities. I lose track of time because it no longer matters. I lose track of money because I have an infinite amount. I am a God among men and all I desire comes into fruition. At first I use my power for good, thinking to save the world and stop world hunger. At first the poor became rich and the stupid became smart. This world was no fun. I let my perfect Earth exist for a few months until I realized that I yearned to feel dominion over things. I became a crime lord.
I learn that if I change things to quickly, that if I try to do too much at one time that there will be issues. I would overlook a detail, two, or three and it would lead to ruin. I change things slowly over time. At first I join a gang, then I rise through the ranks to become a crime boss, and then other gangs were little more annoyance than swatting a fly.
Organized crime is not enough for me, however. I want more. My desire for lust and power corrupts me and drives me. I remember back in High School, before this all happened, watching videos on secret orders and the Illuminati. I will become one. I will lead one. It will be real.
It takes time but soon I find myself leading a New World Order. I name us the “Dreamers” because it seems fitting. I rule from the back, secretly controlling the media and the oil industry. I know these two are gigantic sources of power and now they’re mine. A few “wishings” as I call them now, dirty deals, and pure threats bring me to the epitome of my power. I am more powerful than any king, president, or dictator. I am the secret ruler of the known world.
Even with all this power and wealth I still somehow feel empty. Nothing is a challenge when you can wish it all into existence. Nothing keeps my attention for more than a few weeks and when something goes wrong I simply wish it away. I find myself missing the smaller things in life and I suppose that is how I become careless. Unbeknownst to me, my rise in power, wealth, and position doesn’t go unnoticed. My crime syndicate didn’t go untouched and I am in no way an innocent man. I didn’t know I was the target of the largest FBI manhunt known to date. I didn’t know they’d somehow learned of my power and its’ limitations. I never thought I’d be able to be caught, that anyone would put the pieces together but it seems they’ve been watching me for years.
Over the years as I wished things into or out of existence, as I wished myself out of bad situations or into good ones; I never thought to erase evidence. Although the immediate danger would disappear the feds found a way around it: surveillance tapes, phone records, and sworn statements. This was why I was so caught off guard when they bust through the doors of my high-rise loft in New York City. This was why I was so utterly unprepared to have a gun pressed against my forehead and my guards unceremoniously executed. They didn’t seem to want to deal with the biggest crime lord in history. They didn’t seem to want to deal with the man who’d made their bosses’ bosses lose billions of dollars in the oil industry with my hostile takeover.
“Anything you want to say, punk?” The agent asked with his cold nine against my forehead.
I shake my head and close my eyes, “No.” I say quietly, knowing I didn’t have time for a last wish. He looked at me, as if disappointed and walks away, lowering his weapon. I thought for an instant, albeit a brief one, that for some reason he was sparing me. He nodded to his agents who left my apartment and as he reached the door he turned, aimed, and fired two shots of lead into my chest.
I fall to the ground and close my eyes, focusing as I gasp for breath. Blood seeps out of the hole in my chest, but I do my best to ignore my fleeting life and wish.
I open my eyes and look up at the clock; it reads 2:58 PM. Two minutes pass in my perfect world of burning and bloody explosions. The bell rings at 3 PM. I watch Ms. Ecksworth carefully. Nothing happens, and a smile crosses my face.
________________
| 22 | You soon discovered a power of imagination. Whatever scenario you visualized inside your mind for longer than 2 minutes becomes real, but you don't know how to turn this power off. | 40 |
(Sorry about the length, I got sucked in. I even caught myself writing in first person at times.)
In a self-imposed, faux-catatonic state the man stared blanky at a notepad. He only convinced himself further of the futility of life as the only thing present on the notepad was the number "1" and a parenthesis followed by nothing. It had been like that for three hours.
Looking for inspiration he decided to start a web search on places to visit before death. Beautiful beaches, lush jungles, ancient ruins, and the great metropolises of the world all shower his findings. He was surrounded by beauty everyday. Seeing something breathtaking wasn't going to fix anything.
Going a more basic route, he searched for popular bucket lists.
If he was a socialite who loved hiking and carpentry, maybe those ideas would have been decent.
Modifiers piled onto his search criteria to specify lists targeting like-minded people. Words like depressed, lonely, anxious, suicidal, and desperate were among these.
A strangely titled site had been produced from this exclusive set of preferences.
*The Ultimate Guide to Killing Yourself*, it read.
"That can't be a good sign," he said aloud to himself.
Intrigue is a powerful friend and foe. The so-called guide offered a series of actions one should perform before killing themselves.
It began simply with the shedding of material possessions. If you are wealthy, then makes sure you are worth nothing before you go any further. He wondered what it would be like to be wealthy and suicidal.
Material possessions aside, the next step was to find someone from your past who had a significant influence on you without them ever knowing. The stronger the emotion they evoke, the better. An old crush, for instance, would be worthwhile. Alternatively, an old bully would also be acceptable. However, the point was to write a letter to each of those people and explain how they shaped you in a positive way.
A crush might inspire romantic gesture, where a bully might serve as a reminder of how you yourself had chosen not to hurt someone when tempted.
He stopped reading the guide after this. The idea of confessing his emotions to now complete strangers was crippling to him. He believed that no one, outside his family, had ever thought about him once after they cut ties. He understood the incentive to give these people a flattering letter or a message of forgiveness. The point was too much of a hassle for temporary gratification.
A memory came to him suddenly. He remembered receiving a letter from, David, an old colleague with a similar context. The letter thanked him for driving him to and from work after David received a DUI. He thought nothing of it at the time and had since left the job. He assumed David still worked there.
He decided to text Bailey, who he knew still worked there, about David.
While he waited for a response he stared at the list he was trying to start. Admittedly, he knew he fought with himself for being too stubborn to try new things. People can become deeply settled in their comfort zones, but it's the new experiences that make life worthwhile. Even though this knowledge sat in his brain, it did him no good.
He began to skim the rest of the *Ultimate Guide* to see how else it forced emotionally crippled people to magically overcome themselves before they undo themselves. One note of taking on a creative project that symbolized their greatest fears seemed intriguing. It suggested the reader attempt any form of art and manifest their fears into reality. He liked that one.
His phone buzzed. He picked it up.
Bailey responded with a very brief, but telling text.
"Nobody told you?" she wrote.
He didn't feel it necessary to respond, but she followed up anyway.
"He passed away. I thought Peter would've told you. David was in a bad place, we all knew it. I still feel guilty for not trying to be a better friend. I guess I'm too shy myself."
Her words were familiar. Bailey was an exceedingly good person. The kind most decent guys feel unworthy of being with. He felt a twinge of compassion for her guilt at the cost of her shyness.
"I think most people hide to much. You shouldn't feel guilty." He decided to respond out of good manners.
A rather lengthy conversation unfolded late into the night. They share a lot of stories about work, then and now. She mentions, in her words, that she had missed seeing his face. Catching himself completely by surprise, he asks Bailey if she would like to get together sometime and spend some more time catching up in person. This kind of move was not in his normal deck. She shows her approval with a strangely excessive amount of enthusiasm mostly in the form of repeated exclamation marks.
They text each other good night somewhere around five in the morning. He stares at the phone as if it had just winked at him. After pause and reflection, he grabs the notepad and scribbles for two seconds.
He slides into his sheets and sighs nervously.
The notepad read, "1) try."
It was the sigh of excitement. | 23 | A depressed man seeking a reason to live tries to complete a list of ten things he's never done. | 28 |
I don't know how it happened, or why. I feel a little guilty about it too, but I couldn't really control it.
I remember my whole body tingling, like a thousand electric shocks, everywhere. I fell back onto my bed, and it was almost like that moment when you're half asleep; you know you're about to be asleep, but just before you do, you also feel a little bit awake, I guess.
I couldn't believe it. I knew I must be dreaming. Josie from Marketing standing right in front of me, half naked except for a very short skirt and a white, lacy bra.
"I'm so glad you're on the mend now baby, I've missed you so much!"
She said as she walked seductively towards me. All I can do is gulp. I guess even in my dreams I can't talk to Josie the way I want to... in my dreams.
She was right in front of me, stroking my arms and chest. For some reason, I was covered in bandages. When I touched one, the feeling of electricity ran through me again. A feeling I suppose was pain, but somewhat muted, like it's bandwidth was running low or something.
Josie started touching my penis over my pants, and kissing me all over, then ending it with a long, passionate kiss on my mouth, a kiss which I barely manage to return in kind. At that point she slowly kissed along my neck, until she reached my ear. At that point, between nibbling lightly on my ear-lobe, she whispered:
"What do you want to do to me tonight Simon?"
My eyes opened wide.
My name isn't Simon.
| 20 | A mild-mannered blood donor realises they can possess and take control of any person who has received their blood | 68 |
There. In front of mine and everyone else's eyes was the spectacle. The one last question that everyone needed answering. We as a race had circumnavigated the universe, found the boundaries of time, teleported, cloned, fused, cooked.
Everything but this.
People had put their life's savings on one or the other. They were putting their heads in nooses in preparation for the knowledge of the last thing to be known would mean no meaning to life.
There I was. In the front row. Beads of sweat trickled down my forehead, tickling my cheek and splashing in my lap. Everyone else in the auditorium was the same.
The countdown seemed to be in slow motion as I knew that it was time to flip my coin. Heads the Immovable Man. Tails the Unstoppable Force. I had already assigned it in my mind. That's how it worked.
I flipped.
The contest began.
And before I could see the result in my palm, huge plumes of smoke? Ash? Dust? Something. Something blocked peoples view. There were gasps in awe and excitement.
It had settled. Being in the front row allowed me to see first, but the whole auditorium went from gasps to confusion to jeering and boos very quickly.
Nothing. The ring was empty.
People felt ripped off as if they had been tricked. Tricked by some fakery or magic trick that was some cheap moneymaker for some hyped con artists.
No one could explain what happened.
It was then that I remembered about the contents of my open palm. My coin. That would be the answer.
I looked down with a tension in my heart, pounding like a hammer to a bell. Heavy and slow.
There it was.
My coin.
On its side.
The two were such a match for each other they had both won and lost at the same time destroying each other. Of our knowledge of the universe, the one thing we did not know. The last piece of information. Had lead to more questions. Suddenly we seemed small again. | 49 | Everyone has a super power. Yours decides what happens all based on a coin flip. You sit in your front row seat as the main event begins. "In the red corner we have The Immovable Man! in the blue corner we have The Unstoppable Force!" You grin and flip your coin..... | 33 |
Logic stared out at her opponents on the battlefield before her, her cold eyes calculating.
"This is his supposed army?" she asked, turning to her advisors, who were dressed in thick, refulgent armor.
"Yes, your majesty," said Caution, her head advisor, speaking through his helmet, "Do not underestimate him. He has conquered many foes who have judged him wrongly. We must be careful not to do the same."
"Very well." said Logic flatly, "We outnumber him greatly, so we would gain advantage by surrounding him completely. What do you think, Reason?"
Her greatest warrior, Reason, lifted her helmet and spoke clear, "I think it best that we wait for further information about out enemy before attacking, my queen."
"Very well." the queen said, "I shall send out the first order."
She turned her head sharply to the left, gazing upon one of her head officers, "Go, Analysis, take your men and attack first. But be careful. It is imperative that you do not get too close. Only take your archers. Leave the knights behind."
Analysis bowed deeply, as put on his bronze helmet, which only covered the top half of his head. Then, he spread his large white wings before taking to the skies and addressing his men with a loud, booming voice.
"Come Archers! Draw your bows. Mount your horses! The queen requires your assistance!! Be wary not to get too close to the enemy! Now follow my lead!" he shouted.
With a great flap of his wings, he took high into the sky, slinging his golden bow onto his back. The archers rallied their horses and charged, their quivers jumped loosely on their backs as they ran past the queen's army, thundering down the hillside.
Analysis flew through the air, spiraling along the wind currents, rising and falling at the command of the breeze. Beating his wings, he soared higher and higher into the clouds, swirling up into the sky. Then, when he thought himself high enough, he spread his wings wide and glided in the sky, looking down at the battlefield. His men were galloping far below him, dodging the large craggy rocks that stuck out haphazardly on the battlefield. The enemy was farther off, slightly concealed behind a small gathering of trees. The queen was right, they barely had any people at all, hardly enough to be called an army. Analysis tilted his wings upwards, allowing them to be filled with air, pushing him to a halt. He floated mid-air, gently flapping his wings. He looked down to see his archers were coming to a stop as well.
*What makes this enemy so threatening?* he thought to himself, staring down at the small collection of people below him. They were indeed quite peculiar looking, he admitted. One was garbed in a bright, gaudy yellow, that harnessed the light in harsh reflective rays. Another, who appeared to be sitting on a rock simply had no clothes on whatsoever and was holding a large scythe in her hands. A third who sported had a large red spear, was even more puzzling, and shifted unevenly in the light, distorting the air around him.
Analysis narrowed his eyes, taking his golden bow into his hands and drawing a silver arrow, *That must be him,* he thought, freeing his finger.
The silver arrow flew through the air, whistling as it soared.
* * *
Ingenuity sat, sharpening her sickle with a large stone. Her long black hair fell about her, covering her exposed breasts and shoulders.
"Would you mind covering up?" Creativity exclaimed, "We're about to go into battle! I get that you have to be original and all, but, that doesn't mean you have to be blatantly stupid! At least cover your *sensitive* parts!"
Ingenuity snapped a dirty look towards his direction, sticking out her tongue, "Shut up! Your bright yellow robe isn't exactly the smartest thing to wear into battle either! You're a walking target!"
"At least the chain-mail underneath it will protect me! Now, I'm sure there's something you can wear." Creativity glanced about, his eyes shifting colors in the sunlight, "Ah! What about this tree bark! I know we can make some armor out of that! Light, durable. It'll be perfect!"
Ingenuity groaned, stuck her large scythe in the dirt, and walked towards a group trees, "I gotta go take a piss." she spat.
"Might as well do it here, since you're already naked!" shouted Creativity, who only received a hand gesture as a response. He gasped disapprovingly, "Whatever. I thought the tree bark was a good idea. Didn't you, Abstract?"
Surrounded by a haze of distorting light, the man who had remained quiet for the duration of the conversation finally spoke, "I don't care. I'm just waiting for Imagination to come back. He's been gone for a while."
"Uh- well, of course you don't care." Creativity rolled his storm-like eyes, "Just get back to tightening the head of your little spear there."
"He's right though," said Ingenuity, strolling back from the woods, "Imagination has been gone for a while."
"That was a quick piss." Creativity meditated nonchalantly, "And who cares? Imagination will come back in time: he always does."
"Yeah, I guess you're right," sighed Ingenuity, re-claiming her scythe, "He's probably off fucking Intuition somewhere."
An airy gasp came from behind a tree, as a young female emerged from the shade, supporting a large metal shield. "No he's not!" she argued loudly, "I'm right h-"
Suddenly, she gasped and hurled her shield in front of Abstract, sending it spinning to his defense, just as a large silver arrow rocketed into view. The shield deflected the arrow with a soft *ping*, as Intuition dove to the ground and recovered her shield.
"Someone's here." she shouted, her eyes peering out from behind her broad metal board.
"How the hell did you see that coming?" asked Creativity, slack-jawed and shocked.
"Instinct," Intuition said firmly, "Now get ready. More are coming."
They all stood and gripped their respective weapon, all except Creativity who pulled out two spiked silver gauntlets from his robes and slipped them on, spreading his hands out in front of him.
"K, I'm ready," he shouted.
"No one cares!" Ingenuity said flatly.
* * *
Analysis blinked, stunned. No one had ever been able to block his arrows before, let alone been able to see them coming.
*Who is that mysterious girl?*, he thought to himself, staring down at the shield bearing warrior, who donned two brown braided pigtails and who wore black spiked armor along her shoulders and legs.
He fired three more arrows in quick succession. They were all deflected, with ease.
*This isn't good.* he thought, flinging his bow on his back.
He spun around, tucking in his wings as he dove towards the ground.
"Fire," he shouted as flew over his troops, "Fire, now!"
Volleys of arrows were launched into the sky behind him as he jetted along the ground, back to the queen.
"Your majesty," he panted, arriving at her side, folding his wings as he touched the ground, "These enemies. They're nothing like I've seen before. They blocked four of my shots as if it were nothing! And there was this one who had an enormous spear and who could bend the light around him. I've never seen anything like it before!"
"Get a hold of yourself," Logic said cooly, "Take a deep breath and relax."
Analysis sucked in hugely, color swimming back to his face.
"Good. Now tell me. How many of them are there?"
"Well, from what I saw, they're only four right now, but more might be hiding somewhere."
"You only saw four?" the queen spoke with a hint of indignation, "Four? We have hundreds. Are you sure of what you saw?"
"Yes, yes." he said rapidly, "But something is off about them all. They are no ordinary warriors."
"Well," Logic pursed her lips icily, "Neither are we."
"Yes, your majesty, but-" Analysis was cut short.
"Caution and Vigilance," commanded Logic, turning around to face her advisors, "I want you to separate your men into two groups and flank the enemies from both sides. Go! Take after the archers. And be careful."
The advisors saluted the queen, "Always am, your highness." bowed Caution.
The two knights mounted their stallions and lead their men away, diverging on the left and right of the queen.
"Let's see if a couple of foot soldiers can take them down," said Logic coldly, "I want to see how our enemies fight."
* * *
Volley after volley was launched high into the air.
"Stay back!" Intuition shouted, throwing her shield into the air, blocking all of the arrows in their vicinity. It was as if she knew exactly where they headed before they even appeared. She landed, breathing heavily.
"You can't do this forever!" shouted Ingenuity who sprinted forward, scythe in hand.
"Quick," shouted Creativity, "Abstract, distort their field of view!"
Abstract nodded gruffly, bending the light around Ingenuity as she ran.
The arrows started missing, as the disoriented archers were getting blinded by waves of oncoming light. Ingenuity swung her scythe, decapitating archers left and right. She raked at the horses too, slicing their legs and bodies alike, until the middle of the field was soaked in a pool of blood. A few of the remaining archers retreated blindly, galloping away and those who didn't, lay dying in the groaning grass.
Ingenuity, strutted back to where the other three stood, blood-soaked and smiling. "Well, that was fun."
"And stupid," Creativity scolded, "If it hadn't been for Abstract, you could have been killed!"
"Whatever. I took care of them, didn't I?" she groaned, wiping the blood off of her face.
"Well, there are still more of them coming!" Intuition shouted, pointing to the approaching wave of foot soldiers coming from the left and side of the woods.
"It doesn't matter! We can take them!" shouted Ingenuity who ran forward fearlessly, shimmering red in the sunset swinging her scythe in front of her.
Creativity scaled a nearby tree, using his spiked gantlets for gripping. Pulling his hood over his head, he sat, hidden in the sun-stained branches, blending in with the magnificent yellow light. From his robes, he pulled out small daggers and knives, which he threw with startling accuracy.
(continued in lower comment) | 26 | Your Imagination and Logic go to war. What does the battlefield look like. Winner/Loser? | 23 |
"Don't change the channel, because I'm here to tell you all about the new miracle pill, Mira-Q! I know, I know, not very original, but you'll forgive the naming when you see what it does! Mira-Q is a specially designed formula, using a combination of inhibitory hormones and growth chemicals meant to lower stress and enhance your intelligence. Extensive tests have proven there are no side effects, either! Just imagine your life with that extra bit of smarts you need for long office nights, and relief from the anxiety that's taking away your hair! Take these pills once a week for six months and see instant improvement. All of that in this little pill, no bigger than a fingernail! Call now and get your first month half off! Only fifty-nine ninety-nine, with shipping and handling."
"... in other news, the Upwards company, best known for their top selling product Mira-Q, is now contending for the top spot of pharmaceutical sales on the east coast. Many economists have taken to studying its year long rise to fortune as an inspiration for American economy, still recovering from its most recent downturn. Carl Rojen, our own expert, says that this is the result of making a product people want, and making it well. It's now predicted that fifty percent of households in Manhatten, Maryland, and Virginia, are now using Mira-Q. Now for the weather..."
"Upwards makes history today as the first company to not only openly have a monopoly, but officially permitted one. The president just signed in an act allowing Upwards to possess and control pharmaceutical business in America. According to his press release, the example of Upwards should have been followed years ago, and that allowing them this power should benefit the health of American citizens everywhere. 'My wife started Mira-Q last month," he joked to our reporter, 'and she's running circles around me mentally.' Indeed, Mira-Q is now America's top selling product. Some theorize that this is just the intellectual boost needed to keep America as a dominate power in the world. The next question for Upwards is whether it should begin exporting. Reports of illegal Mira-Q trade have reached us from as far as China, who like many others has banned the use of Mira-Q."
"And remember parents, with the new school year coming up it is more important than ever to get your kids health up to date. Vaccines, physical examinations, and a prescription of Mira-Q, are all important parts to starting a new educational term. Your local Upwards clinic will provide these services at cut rate cost. If you are unable to afford any of these, call or visit your clinic for financial assistance."
"Asides from rising gas prices, the cost of Mira-Q is going up exponentially. Upwards representatives tell us that the chemicals and minerals needed to create the pill are growing more rare than fresh sources of petrol. From the mountain of letters in their offices, it seems that more people rely on Mira-Q than they do gas. The company says it can't complain much, though. Compared to the typical problems that inflation causes, this is the calmest public outcry since, well, anything. Some would say that the hippy movement of the seventies was more violent than this. 'Just another benefit of Mira-Q,' Ropert Brigs, president of Upwards, says. Some social psychologists find this lack of energy disturbing, but most agree that keeping things peaceful is a far better choice."
"Upwards has closed its doors today. With the last batch of Mira-Q removed by thieves, and its monopoly on pharmaceuticals picked away by reviving corporations, the company cut its losses while it could. Julian Griefs, who replaced the unfortunately late Ropert Brigs as president just last week, apologizes to the public. 'You have been the best customers we could have asked for, but this latest thievery is the straw that broke our back.' There's a lot of worrying now for the future of the world, which has grown to love the miraculous Mira-Q."
"Day seventeen since martial law was declared, and tensions are still rising. The mercenary band now known as Jack and Jill are still rallying rebels to their cause, spreading lies that the government is keeping a stash of Mira-Q for themselves. Meanwhile, a spokesperson from the White House has told us that these are baseless rumors, and any found collaborating with Jack and Jill will be treated with extreme prejudice. Carol Rodegs, a visiting psychologist, wishes us to say that this is the most unusual rebellion in human history. What could have been a simple protest our perhaps riot has grown into a bloody civil war, and despite a staggering body count the fight continues unabated. Hundreds of thousands are dead or missing, and several other guerrilla factions have sprouted in the midst of the U.S. army and the Jack and Jill band. Carol suspects this might have to do with built up anxiety, which was not removed by Mira-Q but simply bottled up. She tells us, without the pill the stopper has been removed and all the stress is pouring into this conflict."
"Hound Dog speaking to you from my latest hideout. Stupid merks thought they had me cornered, but you can't chase a good dog! Anyways, got more news for those of you that haven't gone nutso. Ahem. We got reports of irradiated animals near the California nuclear wastes, which are acting as aggressive as your average Jehovas witness; that is to say, shoot on sight if you value your limbs. And from the sound of things, looks like New York's gone the way of the Dodo. Complete silence from my contacts there, and I saw a suspicious mushroom shape a few days ago. From the rest of the world, we get a big fu-. Can't say that, kids are listening! But a big thank you nonetheless for introducing Mira-Q. Like every night, I'd like to remind everyone that I damn well told you so, that Mira-Q was trouble. Afraid I've got to cut this short, I hear knocking at my door and I ain't got no pills to shove down anyone's throat." | 10 | Lots of people are taking a new miracle pill that completely eliminates excessive anxiety while boosting the users IQ and absolutely no side effects .... at least at first | 22 |
"Did you hear the news?"
"Hm? What news?"
"We finally did it. We colonized the last sector of the universe."
"I suppose it was only a matter of time right? I mean we've gotten quite good at doing it over the years."
"I guess you have a point."
They sit in silence for a while, enjoying the second sunset.
"You know they didn't find it there either."
"Find what?"
"You know... Life... Intelligence... Someone for us to talk to."
"I can't say I'm surprised. The rest of the universe was empty as well, why should this last corner be any different?"
Another moment of silence.
"You remember when we used to dream of what might be out there for us? When we used to look at the stars and wonder who might be looking back?"
"Yeah."
"Kinda seems silly now doesn't it?"
"I guess it does..."
The two men sit quietly as the sun sinks beneath the distant alien mountains. Slowly the unfamiliar constellations fill the dark sky shedding a small light onto the ground below.
"So what do we do now?"
"What do you mean?"
"The universe is ours... We humans have claimed our home... What do we do now?"
"Same as we've always done I guess. It's getting late. We should go to sleep" | 66 | Humans have conquered every planet and explored the depths of the universe. Finally, the ultimate question has been answered. We really are alone. | 83 |
Money. Of course he was going to ask for money, they always asked for money and he always gave it to him. Such was a genie's powers. But he did it in his way. Years of being trapped in a small lamp was boring and who didn't like fun. So I gave him his money, I didn't tell him where I got it from but he got his money. The police would surely look into why a large amount of money had been transferred to this mans account. It was hard not to laugh but it would be no fun if he knew what was going to happen. If only I could be there to see his face when the police knocked at his door. If only.
The second wish was one of the rare ones but one I had heard hundreds of times nonetheless. Everybody wanted to be famous but only a select few managed to acquire fame. So I gave him fame. Well I will give him fame. It went really nicely with the first one. "The man who robbed the world". It was a good title and it would be his new name. His money would give him his fame and maybe some prison time. This time I nearly burst out laughing. He was too caught up in his own thoughts to even realise.
It was time for his last wish. I wonder what else he would wish for. Women? Power? Immortality? Oh I could have so much fun with those the possibilities are endless. It seems like he's decided. Finally. Haha my final pleasure before I am doomed to go ba-wait what did he just say? I must have imagined it. He wants something for free. Yeah that's it. I'll just have him repeat it. He has a huge smile on his face. He says it again. Can I become hard of hearing? Can that happen to genies? I'll have him repeat it again. Just one more time. He has to be joking. Look at that grin on his face. He thinks I'm his friend or something, he doesn't even know that I've des- he said it again. The first time anyone has said it. Why does he want me to be free?
What's wrong with him? I thought they were selfish. I thought they only thought about themselves. Why does he care about what I want. Nobody ever does. This can't be right. He has to change it. I'll tell him to take it back. He'll probably jump at the opportunity too. Stupid selfish humans. I bet he'll ask for women. Dammit why isn't he taking it back. Why won't he change it. I've ruined his life. I can't tell him that. He deserves to be punished for his selfishness. Yeah that's it. He'll change it. If I just tell him what I can do, he'll change it. I bet he'll love immortality. No. This isn't right. He's doing it incorrectly. He was supposed to be selfish. I'm supposed to punish him. He's supposed to deserve this. It's not my fault. It's theirs. It's always been theirs.
Edit: thanks for the feedback and comments. And thanks for the gold. Didn't expect it on my first wp | 667 | An old genie grants you three wishes. After granting your first two, you tell him the third. He is horrified, and begs you to reconsider | 539 |
"What the fuck, Craig!?" The Decimator's usually calm, stoic voice now flew through the air as shrilly as a dozen teenage girls on prom night. Beneath his mighty form cowered his intern, Craig, holding a Glock 9mm and trying his very hardest to vanish into thin air.
Evidently, this was a trick yet to be bestowed upon him by the mighty Decimator.
"Well you said we were going to 'crush his bones' and 'give unto him a thousand years of unyielding torment', but that sounded like it would take way too long and the school only lets me have one week off for the **Shadow A Nemesis** program." In that single sentence, the chubby, red-haired teen's voice had cracked at least three times.
"It was rhetoric, you moron, do they not teach Evil English at school anymore? That's like class 101". In the time since his initial outburst, The Decimator had regained some of his composure, no longer shocked by the twitching corpse of his adversary.
Captain Flint McCool, chair of the Council of Heroes, Chief Executive of the Association for Freedom, Justice and All that is Good, loving father of three and, in his spare time, photogropher for the Planetary Review, lay dead, a pool of blood now stemming from the single bullet wound that lay an inch below his Adam's apple.
"Well, I mean, good shot, but what the fuck?"
Back on track now, the Decimator felt the need to unleash his wrath upon *something*.
"You never kill the hero, it's an unspoken rule. At *most* you break his back or call him a faggot or make fun of his stupid dead parents, but you don't just ice him, this is Megatropolis, not 8 Mile. Jesus H., Craig, this is going to look *very* bad in your peer review".
it was that final sentence that truly instilled the kind of fear that The Decimator was famed for into the boots of the still-cowering Craig, who was hurriedly wiping the prints from the gun with his cape. "The police are gonna show, soon, we need a plan"...
**Suicide Stalks The Streets : Flint McCool found dead on top of MegaBankCorp HQ., shot with own gun - Police rule suicide** | 21 | A Super Villain arrives just in time to see his Arch Nemesis, the Super Hero, die at the hands of a third party. | 22 |
I glanced down at my watch. What I saw was disconcerting. It was 7:34 pm, and in the upper right corner the display blinked "36m." *Shit*. That meant I had thirty-six minutes of oxygen remaining. These days a tank containing oxygen enough for one hour was going for almost fifty bucks. And I was flat broke.
I couldn't panic or run anywhere, or else my heart rate would spike, then I would use more of my precious oxygen than I could spare, and I would die earlier than 8:10 pm. Time was not on my side, and I had to think quickly.
Friends were uncommon to me. Most of my acquaintances wouldn't be willing to squander a tank or two on a dead man. My family was all either dead, or long-gone to one of the off-planet colonies. 7:37 pm. *33m*.
Three blocks away there was an oxygen shelter. I knew they couldn't spare anything more than a few breaths worth but as long as I could get a few more minutes in, I would be grateful. It would take me about eight minutes to get there. Traffic was light, and not a lot of pedestrians were on the streets after 6 pm.
At 7:47 I arrived. A few minutes later than expected, and behind a short line of others that were seeking oxygen, all who had what looked like half-hour tanks on their backs. They all looked quite haggard; a stark contrast when I was in my suit and tie. *23m*.
It took six long, precious minutes for the line ahead of me to die down. When the woman in front of me was almost done, I took one last deep breath and hit the switch on my oxygen regulator. This would cease the flow of oxygen to my respirator and allow me to use the shelter's line to pump some O^2 into my tank. I had become adept at holding my breath and let the line deliver the coveted gas into my tank for thirty-three seconds before I was cut off.
After slipping my tank back on and switching my respirator back on, I looked at my watch again. It read 7:54 pm, and *21m* flashed in the corner. I had burned six minutes to gain a scant five. Not a fair trade. Guess I just fucked myself.
I leaned back against the wall and put my head in my hands. *Not like this. After all you've done, you can't go down like this*, I thought to myself. The last resort flashed in my mind.
I've never been a gambler, but with *20m* blinking on your watch, you can die in the gutter or go out big. The local mob operated an underground casino that used oxygen as a currency. It was five blocks in the direction from whence I came. It would take about fifteen minutes to get there, cleared onto the floor, and into a game. I couldn't spare that with twenty minutes remaining.
At a dead sprint, I got to the business that acted as the casino front in four minutes. The bruiser at the front cleared me, and in I walked. Mafiosos and their lush toy girlfriends were all about in their booths, hooked up to oxygen lines in the walls like they were on phones from the 20th century. They must have had an endless supply, to which I was infinitely envious. I tried to put it out of my mind as I looked at my watch, which read *8m*, now in a red font that blinked very rapidly.
My sprint here had burned about eight minutes worth of oxygen, plus the wait to get in. I had enough for one hand of blackjack. I was either going to walk out of here a victor, or die at the table. The time was now, and my decision was to be made. I headed over to one of the more full tables.
"Whaddya bet?" asked the dealer. My watch read *7m*.
"Five minutes," I said with as much grin and confidence as I could muster. I paid out my five worth of O^2 to receive my hand. Two of Clubs and Ace of hearts. *Fuck this is going to take a lot more than two minutes*. "Hit me."
The dealer dealt me another card as two other players folded. Five of Diamonds. I had either eighteen or eight at my disposal, and the dealer had an exposed Ten of Hearts. *1m*. "Hit me." The next three seconds were the longest of my life as she dealt me the fucking card. Three of Spades. My jaw hit the damn floor. "Stay."
By now I was the only remaining player, and a loud beep brought me back to reality. My tank was almost empty. *0m* blinked on my watch. The dealer flipped her card to reveal the Ace of Spades.
I was devastated. How the fuck had this happened? I know the house always wins. I gambled it all and I lost.
My watch went from beeping to a constant flatline. I inhaled deeply.
Edit: Letters. | 13 | Earth's atmosphere is toxic to breathe and everyone has to buy portable air tanks. The main character is on their last tank and has no more money. | 20 |
"The office is yours Sir, congratulations once again." Ronald said. A tall red headed Secret Service Agent with a deep, reassuring voice.
The door snapped shut behind President Brandon Bose, and he gazed around the Oval office. It was three in the afternoon and the sunlight pierced the window landing on the Resolute Desk and rich leather chair behind; almost as though the Gods themselves were highlighting the most powerful seat in all the land.
President Bose moved to the chair and lowered himself into it, allowing the moment to wash over him. He felt the sunlight warm his skin, and breathed in deeply gaining the scent of furniture polish and a hint of cigar smoke that lingered from the outgoing President O'Malley. He opened his eyes and jumped with such great surprise that he almost tipped his chair backward. Standing there in front of him, a man who had passed the torch to him not 3 hours ago, was President O'Malley himself.
"What in the Hell!" President Bose spluttered.
"President Bose," President O'Malley said in an amused tone. "Do not be alarmed, I am here at your service."
"At my service?!" President Bose shouted, rising to his feet in anger. "You damn well might have given me a heart attack!"
A chuckle emanated from a door frame from his left. President Bose looked and to his shock where there had been solid wall upon his entry was an opening, and within it stood... No, it couldn't be.
"President Clinton?" President Bose asked him. Confused he looked from President Clinton to President O'Malley hoping for an answer. Before he either could explain though, more former Presidents began pouring out of the doorway that had been hidden in the wall. George W. Bush and Barack Obama, Jimmy Carter and Richard Nixon. Presidents he knew to be long dead such as Eisenhower and even his personal hero James Madison.
Flabbergasted President Bose looked from one to the next, at a complete loss for words. Eventually he was rescued by President O'Malley who spoke first, "You must come with us. There is something we must show you, something told only to the President of the United States. Something you must keep secret for the rest of your life, even from your wife and your children."
Without further explanation President Bose was ushered through the hidden door and down a staircase, down beneath the White House. "Is this some sort of trick?" he asked to the group at large, thinking wildly of a plot involving body doubles and conspiracy he'd once read in a novel many years ago."
"Not at all," replied the gruff and confident voice of a man who seemed to be a dead ringer for President Theodore Roosevelt. "Not a trick at all, I can promise you that."
After a long while the group of Presidents reached a large stone wall, but this was revealed to be another false wall like the one in his office when Barack Obama strode forward and placed his hand on a seemingly plain spot on the wall, and doorway in the wall opened up.
Beyond it was a cavernous room with a large round table of stone and wood at the center, there were two doorways off to the left and right and televisions that hung in a circle above the table so that the man each seat could look across the table and have his own view of whatever happened to be on display. Currently the screens all lay black, and the chairs unoccupied.
"Please. Sit." said President James Madison, his hand extended to indicate one of the chairs at the table. President Bose did as he was bid, still in too much shock to say much of anything. The other Presidents joined him, sitting around the table at spots which did not seem to be assigned in any particular order.
"I betcha wondering why we're all here," President George W. Bush sniggered.
"And why we're all alive," said President Coolidge.
"As a matter of fact I am," President Bose said with a touch of anger. He was not a man to be played a fool very often.
"In short, we are all immortal." President Obama said bluntly, looking Brandon Bose directly in the eye without a hint of joke in his voice.
"Im.... Immortal?" Now President Bose knew this was some sort of joke. "Ludicrous! Who in the hell are you really then? And what is this place!?"
"This is our home," said James Madison solemnly. "The place we stay hidden from the public, stay protected from danger."
"Danger?" President Bose scoffed. "If you '*immortal*' then what danger could there possibly be? This is all quite preposterous!"
"Oh we can die, to be sure." said James Madison. "We are immortal in the sense that we do not age and do not fall ill. However we can all die just as any man can." His voice darkened, "And should you breath a word of this to anyone those arrangements will be made."
The screen across the table flashed on for President Bose, and his blood ran cold. On it were depicted Presidents Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, and Kennedy. He noticed at a glance that none were seated at the table.
"Under this chamber sits The Fountain." said James Madison in an even tone. "It was once known as The Fountain of Youth, but this is misleading. It does not bring youth, it simply pauses life. One drink every week and you will not age. One drink every week and you will not fall ill. One drink every week is all it takes to live forever."
President Bose's mind was working furiously. Never age? Never fall ill? Could it be so? He remembered suddenly FDR and glanced around the table again, failing to spot him. A quick count showed that he and the four assassinated Presidents couldn't have been the only ones missing.
"If you never fall ill where is FDR then?" President Bose questioned. "You are scarcely two dozen, where are the others?"
"Alas," said James Madison with a note of sadness in his voice. "Many have decided to not drink and died a natural death. You are allowed the same option, of course, and as long as you keep the secret you will live a long and natural life as well. But if you choose to drink when your term is over you will join us."
"Join you? Join you in what? What is your purpose?" President Bose demanded.
"To serve," James Madison said earnestly. "To advice the current President and to help him shape the world." George W. Bush appeared with a pitcher and Barack Obama placed a glass in front of each man, including President Bose.
"Will you join us for a drink?" James Madison asked.
It was strangely warm, and tasted of seawater. | 27 | The secret the President learns when he takes office is that every other past President has been gifted with immortality and helps rule. You have just been inaugurated. | 69 |
The revelry was picking up as we wade through the crowd. Billions of voices of cheering and chanting together over a broadcast, uniting the entire world, mesh together into a beautiful white noise. The excitement around us was not comparable to any other known joy of human life.
We chose to experience the event in Shanghai so we could also see the city as it was before it had been rebuilt. Thankfully we were allowed translators on the trip so that we could talk to the locals.
I could feel my wife's heartbeat through her hand.
"Excited much?"
She somehow grinned on top of a preexisting grin. She crushed my fingers into oblivion and carted me off towards the city proper. In a few hours I'll experience what everyone in our time has claimed to be far more than our money's worth.
My personal thoughts of this whole *world parade* focus on the curious nature of how everyone understands this day to be significant. Reading history it would have seemed like functional fusion energy or the first of mankind on Mars would be considered more significant, but when those events come and go there was no where near this level of excitement.
Massive screens switch over to an early broadcast of the event. A beautiful Chinese woman with highlights in her hair laughingly chatters away about the events leading up to tonight. A series of various national flags float across the cameras. The grand arena was showcased before the event.
The multi-billion dollar structure was breathtaking. To witness such an iconic foundation before it truly earns its benchmark was like a tickle in my heart.
Admittedly I imagined at least some people being nervous, scared or even violent at this zero-hour moment. Every single soul was enthralled in the moment.
I even spotted a couple that were clearly from our time who had immersed themselves fully within the crowd's hypnotic festivities.
The time was vibrantly posted everywhere you looked, so I knew that we were finally mere seconds away.
I had heard a recording of it before, but in person it was far more unreal to hear the straining voices of the entire world slowly begin to quiet. The sensation of the silence made everything appear to quiver. My body felt like it was sliding out of itself. Some lights began to dim.
The night was truly about to begin. A group of hosts from across the globe gathered to discuss the night's events. I could name every single face from memory as I had seen that very image of them together on the front my history book. York Bailey, a British celebrity commenced the entire show with his voice.
"Good evening, Earth."
The light of the screens washed over the crowd of mesmerized faces.
"Tonight we come together as a species. Mankind. Humanity. Tonight we unite once and for all. No longer will we call out against our fellow man. This night we stop fighting as armies of nations, but as one soul against another. Tonight we bring to you the very first matches of what I know will make history. Welcome to the World Leader Death Match."
A massive logo encompasses the screen and electric guitars ring out a theme I remember from my first W.L.D.M. ring-set. The crowd ignites itself in a roaring thunder of applause, whistling, shouting and more. In every language of the world, at once, the people shout the catch phrase that will echo from now, to my time and beyond.
"Let the blood of one man stand for many." | 271 | It's 2077, and Tourist Time Travel has been approved. The most popular trip by far isn't to see the birth of Christ, Steve Jobs or dinosaurs, but to a Thursday in August, 2026. Your spouse just got you tickets. | 337 |
Those damn caimans. Hate them. Hate hate hate them! Yeah I know what you're gonna say, "How can you hate caimans? They're your cousins! You look practically the same!" Well SCREW YOU. I DO NOT LOOK LIKE A CAIMAN. Seriously, could you think of anything *more* insulting to say?
[This is me](http://planetpedia.in/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/ALLIGATOR.jpg) and [THIS is one of those no good caimans](http://crocodilian.com/cnhc/images/!potm-apr08.jpg). WE DO NOT LOOK THE SAME. Shit, I think I mixed the pictures up. No wait, it's good. I didn't. ANYWAY.
If you're wondering why I hate those stupid scaly posers, I'll tell you! It's because idiots like *you* are always calling me a caiman because I'm a bit small for an alligator. SCREW YOU. I AM AN *ALLIGATOR*. HOW RACIST CAN YOU GET? GOD I AM SO ANGRY RIGHT NOW. FUCK CAIMANS.
Wait, WAIT. Hold on. I know what you're doing. I'm onto you, you sneaky little shit. You're a caiman, aren't you? You're just trying to get a rise out of me so you can have a laugh with all your stupid little caiman buddies, *aren't you?* WELL IT'S NOT WORKING. I AM SO UNBELIEVABLY CALM RIGHT NOW. TAKE THAT, YOU WANNABE CROCADILIAN. NO WAIT, IN FACT YOU KNOW WHAT? I DON'T WANNA PRETEND ANY MORE. I AM FURIOUS!
COME HERE AND LET ME BITE YOU IN HALF, FUCKHEAD. | 11 | You're an alligator or a crocodile(No Caimans). Describe why you hate those damned Caimans. | 15 |
John was awfully optimistic. In fact, he was considered 'the most optimistic person in the world', a title he gave to himself, which he was optimistic that nobody could beat. Today, his conversation would be covered on all forms of media, from the television to Reddit. His was interviewing his counterpart.
Jen was the most pessimistic person in the world, and she thought it was a bad thing. Today, her conversation would been covered by all forms of media, which seemed to be a bloody waste of electricity, which would cause global warming, and ultimately the destruction of the whole world. Today, she was going to meet her counterpart, a complete waste of time.
They met at a studio that had a set that resembled a cafe. Jen thought it looked too fake. John extended his hand, but received not a shake. He felt that the interaction was going well.
Transcript:
John: So, Jen, what a wonderful day it is!
Jen: Is it? I have my doubts.
John: Of course! The sun is shining mightily, not a single trace of a raincloud.
Jen: Bloody hot day it is.
John: You see, you should look at the bright side. It's a great day, and we should enjoy life!
Jen: Yet we're stuck in this stupid studio.
John: Now, Jen, this is a great way to spend our time, just chilling out together, meeting new friends!
Jen: About as great as your face.
John: My face? My face isn't the best face in the world, but it's far from the worst.
Jen: Far from the best.
John: Okay, Jen, so tell us why you're always so pessimistic?
Jen: Well, why are you always so optimistic?
John: Because the world is great! Everything is beautiful, you just need to learn to appreciate it.
Jen: I disagree. Everything's a flawed piece of shit.
John: Can't you overlook the flaws and appreciate what is there? The absence doesn't define the thing. The presence does.
Jen: That's your problem you see. It's people like you who are killing us. All you see is the good, and you overlook the bad. You're the type of people who thinks that we're currently at our best state and there's nothing we can do - nothing we should do - to improve. You're what causes our society to be a huge lump of shit. Because of people like you who always look backwards, never forwards, that we're not improving. You're so content with what you have that you never try to improve the world. Don't you see the problems the world has? Poverty, hunger, sickness? We're sitting in a multimillion dollar studio while people are sitting on the streets, trying to beg for a few cents so that they can buy bread for the day. Our system is flawed, and we should be the ones who should be changing that. That's what would give us a brighter future.
John: Well...
Jen: You don't see it, do you? I've got better things to do. I'm thriving for a better future, and all you're thinking of is the present. Thanks for your time anyways. You've helped me sort out my thoughts, prick.
(End transcript)
Jen left the studio, leaving John sitting in the 'cafe'. For the first time in his life, he cried. For all the things he's been overlooking. For the way the society was moving, and he wasn't changing that. For being a useless prick. | 10 | The most optimistic person in the world meets the most pessimistic person in the world. By the end of their conversation their world views switch. (The initially optimistic person becomes pessimistic, and the initially pessimistic person become optimistic) | 45 |
I put the question to the world. How could I not? I was just one man, not some mystery expert. And so, after a few demonstrations that the time machine worked, I became world famous. The thing was apparently keyed to my specific biometrics, only I could use it, or some government or another would have taken it away from me. So instead of being used as a weapon of temporal destruction it became entertainment. Every Saturday at 8pm my television program aired. Viewers would submit great historical mysteries, and my team and I would go back in time. If the time machine revealed the answer to the mysteries then the world got their answers, and eventually we would reach a mystery with no explanation. At this point the time machine would be used to create the mystery.
And thus it went. JFK, The Loch Ness Monster, the Antikythera mechanism, Roswell, the construction of the pyramids, the Princes in the Tower…all had easy rational explanations that became immediately obvious once you could use a time machine to investigate all the players. And then one day we found the Mary Celeste and it was completely normal, nothing mysterious at all. We knew what we had to do.
The show ended and my crew went their separate ways. But over time the answer began to sour. Was the Mary Celeste really the greatest mystery of all time? After all, now everyone knew what had happened to the crew; they’d been offered a lucrative lecture program in the year 2016 and had no intention of ever returning to their own time. And people began to ask a new question. Who was the mysterious hooded figure who had given me the time machine and my mission in the first place? And as time went on and more and more people began questioning this, the answer became obvious. I returned to that rainy December night in 2015, dressed in a dark hood with a mask underneath and spoke to my past self.
“This is a time machine. Only you can use it. If you use it to create the greatest mystery of all time, then you shall become rich beyond your wildest dreams.”
You might think that I would keep what I’d done secret. After all if I told everyone what I’d done then we’d be stuck with the same problem as with the Mary Celeste, thanks to time travel everyone now knew the answer. But I knew that it wouldn’t take long before others came to the same conclusion I had, and I made different plans. I broadcast it worldwide. I did a special final episode of my show, in which I promised that the real greatest mystery of all time would be discovered.
And as I returned home, leaving the time machine in the capable hands of my younger self I grinned to myself knowing what I had done. It didn’t take long for the rest of the world to realise either. First people started asking on internet message boards, then in the news. My house became beseiged by reporters begging me for the answer and I laughed as I admitted that I had just as little idea as they did. And so it remains to this day, the final and greatest mystery of all time. Debated everywhere, from the armchair philosophers sitting round tables in the pub, to great conferences in CERN where they discuss the hidden meanings of reality.
If I’d been given the time machine by my future self, and he himself had gotten the time machine from his future self in a self-perpetuating loop, then who exactly had built the time machine? | 31 | You are given a time machine and tasked with creating the greatest mystery of all time | 38 |
"It's just that, I'm not exactly sure what I'm supposed to do with myself now."
The shrink sitting across from the new Sam K. nodded and scratched his expensive pen across the blurry photocopy of the same government form he'd filled out a thousand times before. He checked off a few boxes, then scribbled one out that didn't apply to the patient: too much muscle memory.
"Yes, this is common for people in your situation. It can be difficult adjusting to a new body, but the mind is where all of the important skills lie. With time, you'll have a complete memory of everything you acquired, save for the twenty-four hours preceding your initial death. You'll experience some clumsiness with your new body, so be patient with yourself. If-"
Sam K. pancaked the paper cup of water on the table. The shrink picked up his other papers before the water could spoil them.
"I'm a woman!"
Again, the shrink didn't take his eyes from his paperwork. "Yes, it happens, unfortunately, but gender reassignment surgery has progressed remarkably well. I can show you a catalog of individuals who were able to transition very well from male back into female, if that is your desire, though many have found that this can be an opportunity for a new life and a new-"
The papers erupted out of his hands and showered down around him. He stared, wide-eyed, up at the 6'4 man who had spent his first life as a construction worker, street fighter, and mob spine-cracker.
"Look at me, doctor. Look at me." Sam K.'s awkward sausage fingers swept mournfully over his form. "I was a ballerina in the San Francisco Ballet, I was supposed to be the Sugar Plum Fairy! How can you sit there and tell me it's going to be fine, that I can get my gender reassigned, that I might try a new life? As what, a brute, like he was before he raped and killed me?"
"Samantha-"
Sam K.'s boot trembled the floor.
"I can't dance with these."
The shrink set his papers to the floor next to him, took out a handkerchief from his pocket and worked on his glasses. "I'm very sorry. This happens from time to time, when a victim has spent their life training their body rather than their mind. The knowledge of how to dance will return, of course, but as you say...it won't be of much good. But I'm sure there were other things you had interest in before dance, other academic pursuits that-"
"You judge me now? You look down on me for pursuing the arts? For trying to express the truths about life rather than sticking my head in a book?"
"I...no, I simply meant that it would be easier if-"
"Easier to pick up my life and continue where it left off? Do you really believe that? How many victims have you counseled? Do you think those thinkers you admire have had it better?"
The shrink set his glasses and stared Sam K. straight in the eyes. "Yes."
The shrink's neck felt so flimsy in her massive hands.
"Then you can have this body."
Edit: Thank you to everyone to commented and upvoted this story. I appreciate your appreciation. | 642 | The death penalty for murder no longer exists, instead technology has been developed that overwrites the mind of the killer with that of their victim. | 653 |
"Sir, I'm getting some unknown signal coming over the radio." The solider said quietly with a grave tone to his voice.
The Captain responded with a dismissive voice, "Is it the Koreans again and their outrageous claims of destroying the United States? Heard it tons of times Private Lee."
"No Sir. Its something differently entirely. Listen." And with wide eyes Private Lee flipped a switch and the speakers squealed and resonated for a brief second before a booming voice filled the room.
"...People of Earth, my name is Le'kturn. I am the High Foreign Ambassador and I have a message from our King."
There was a slight pause followed by a short, manacle laugh. "More of a warning, truth be told. We are a highly advanced species, more advanced than you could ever know. We are over 4 million light years away and know that you do not possess the technology to come to our planet. " His voiced even lower and his tone was laced with evil. "We however, have the means to be at your doorstep in a matter of hours and destroy your entire way of life within minutes.
Private Lee turned to face the Captain with a ghastly expression on his face.
Le'kturn continued, "We will destroy the Earth if you do not fulfill my king's request. At the height of your civilization, you were able to produce and broadcast entertainment of the highest level. You will need to do it again and it must be done in the same fashion, without any changes.
The Captain motioned to Private Lee to start a call to the President of the United States. The solider hurried quickly to the station and after a brief few moments signaled a thumbs up to the Captain, confirming that he had the President on the line and could hear the exchange between the Captain and Le'kturn.
"What entertainment do you speak of?" The Captain asked, trying to sound confident but fearing his voice reflected his nervousness. He played out in his mind all possible answers. His faced turned white as he realized the aliens might be thinking about gladiators fighting to the death in Ancient Rome. They would want us to do it again and the human race would have no choice.
Le'kturn broke his concentration as he spoke.
"The Earth will live if you recreate Dexter's Laboratory from Cartoon Network." | 23 | We finally receive a faint signal from a distant planet. An alien civilization has contacted us deliberately. Its a warning. | 36 |
Few people know the technology behind teleportation, and with good reason. I've sat through countless debates and know enough to believe that there is absolutely no issue with our method, so long as it's carried out properly.
You see, we can propulse particles at speeds high enough that the trip seems nearly instant. We could propulse particles across star systems in a matter of seconds. We simply can't expediate a complex, dynamic, living organism and have it arrive intact. We've tried, and the results aren't pretty. I still have nightmares about that cat.
So instead we flash "freeze" the subject into suspended animation, perform a complete, lossless reading of its physical composition and disintegrate the subject only to rematerialize it at its destination. The term freeze here is confusing. We don't actually freeze the subject in the proper sense. We create a vacuum and bombard the subject with rays propagated by iodised belarium.
In short, the device kills you and creates a clone somewhere else, complete with your personality and all your memories. In the long run, there is no difference to anyone involved. But there's still the underlying notion that the sentience itself disappears, and a new one reemerges. You die and remain dead, but your person lives on.
I personally believe that conscience is immaterial, that it's the metaphysical manifestation of the being. *Cogito ergo sum.* It's all speculation, either way, and its effect on the real world is absent.
Anyway. I said the reading of the subject is lossless, and so is its reconstitution. Our method is failsafe, so long as it's carried properly. It was inevitable that the task would fall into the hands of someone incompetent. And it just happened to be at the New York relay, our largest, densest control group yet.
The most important cable, which bridges the gap between the particle radiographer and the matter compositor, is shielded against noise. We don't want the data to get corrupted in transit, because "who knows what could happen?", we thought. But now we know. Somehow *the* cable that could not afford to fail had its insulation damaged, and multiple inspections had failed to detect it.
The fissure was absolutely tiny, which is why we can understand the oversight. We now change that cable every month, as well as other critical parts. Luckily for us, nobody came out a horribly deformed mass of flesh. Often times the discrepencies were small and psychological in nature. Some people have reported being cured of their depression. Others have gone through the opposite. I believe one man claimed he came out inexplicably racist, but that's probably bullshit.
So slight were the differences that it took us five god damn years to notice. Some cases were extreme, however. Just imagine entering the device white as milk, exactly as you appear on your passport's picture, and then having go through customs brown skinned. It's funny in hindsight, but as it stands people don't appreciate a reverse Michael Jackson procedure.
Sadly, the damage is done. Media did what it does, spreading the shitstorm and guaranteeing a PR disaster. Usage has gone down to a point where we can't find any funding anymore. For fuck's sake, planes crashed and killed hundreds. But one person spends a night in jail with a slight excess in melanin and that's just *not acceptable*. Fucking hypocrites. I spent my life working for this.
My rant is over. Sorry for wasting your time. | 28 | In a world where teleportation machines exist, a vital cable gets damaged. No one notices it until five years later. | 20 |
Dragging Caleb's body back to the *Trailblazer* was as unpleasant as it was physically taxing. The gravity on Titan made it a gruesome and arduous trek back that took nearly four hours.
The cosmonauts aboard the shuttle had seen everything on Caleb's helmet camera, but Allison and Vladmir both saw the being with their own eyes.
As part of the International Space and Research Administration's *Manifest Destiny* Program, teams of cosmonauts were dispatched to expand human foot traffic to the rest of the solar system. Planet by planet, teams searched and documented every inch of the lands, looking for sighs of sustainable life. Titan was included on the list because of it's size and conditions.
So far, the project had yielded no results. There were no signs of any life elsewhere. Until now.
"The first thing we heard was the noise." Vladmir had a blank look on his pale, wet face; he had vomited when he first saw the thing, and his suit's automatic filtration system had flushed his helmet immediately, leaving him blinded for a terrifying 30 seconds. "Low, guttural. Bird like. And it was huge. At least 30 feet tall. No arms or legs. It kind of just *slithered* on the cave floor." They could have just played the video, but no one wanted to see or hear anything like that ever again.
"The closest thing I could compare it to was an octopus could walk on land. It wrapped up Caleb-he just stood there with his mouth open- and that was it." Vladmir had recovered, but Allison had been petrified and sunk to her knees. "When it move towards Allison, I stabbed it." He held up his razor sharp ice pick assigned for exploratory purposes. It was now covered in rust somehow. Everyone had seen the most curious part of the alien encounter; it had not bled liquid blood, instead a gas seemed to escape from the wound, and it had run into the darkness of the cave until finally the shrieking and thrashing had stopped.
Vladmir glanced at Allison. She had not spoken since the incident, and Vladmir had left out the part where he saw the suit indicate that she had soiled herself. Yet she seemed somehow...*calm*.
"Alright, let's get the fuck out of here." The captain ordered, "Troy-"
"Wait." Everyone became quiet. We found...we found something else." Allison's voice was trembling. "There was a nest. At least 700 offspring, all bacterial form. I sampled and analyzed them with my suit's lab. That...thing, was old. I noticed that the bacteria itself was incredibly aggressive, which makes me think that it attacking us was not a territorial or protective gesture."
"There is a reason this rock
has only one life form on it. It killed everything else." Her voice trailed off.
"And...what did you do with these offspring?" The captain looked almost angry.
I sulferized the entire cave, sir." Vladmir said. "That's it. It's over for this species. We have found life several times already, and there will be more. But not this one." He had a defiant look in his eyes.
"Good." The captain nodded. "Now let's get off this fucking rock. Dismissed."
--------------------------------------------------
Allison stood naked in her room, hair still wet from the shower. Her suit lay crumpled in a corner. Making sure the door was locked, she picked it up and connected it to her computer. Keying in a few commands, there was a hiss as a small glass cartridge ejected from the arm.
Allison carefully inserted the cartridge into the console.
On the display flicked the last remaining alien bacterial entity, moving, squirming, thrashing about in the confined space.
"Well, hello there." Allison said in wonderment as the shuttle lifted off. | 20 | After killing a monster, the hero finds a litter of its now-orphaned, lost and terrified young, leaving them questioning their life choices and morality | 68 |
“Grab the kids, honey!” Walter dropped the paper on the table next to him and placed his glasses on top. In a well-practiced motion, he pointed the remote at the TV and turned the volume up.
*“—the probe has just reached the end of our solar system. Hopefully we’ll finally be able to see the unidentified object just off the orbit of Pluto. This moment has been years – “*
“Did they figure it out yet?”
“No, not yet. Where are the kids? They’re going to miss it.”
His wife didn’t have a chance to respond, instead the thundering footsteps of children coming down the stairs answered. A boy raced down the stairs, threw himself on the couch with reckless abandon and glued his eyes to the TV.
“Did it happen yet?!”
“Not yet, Bobby.”
A younger girl moved to the couch and sat calmly, making an effort not to wrinkle or ruin the pink dress she wore.
“Good morning, Baily.” His wife said with a smile, “that’s a lovely dress you’re wearing. You and Rosie match!”
The girl looked at her doll, then back to her dress and smiled shyly. She brought the doll to her face and slunk down, embarrassed.
“They just breached Pluto’s orbit. They’re close now.”
“Coooolll…” Bobby responded, he held his father’s old NASA *Orion* model in his arms.
“I see you brought Teddy with you.”
The paint on the edge of the model was worn and part of the metal was badly dented from a drop that happened at some point, yet the boy eyed it like it was brand new. He hugged it the same way a little girl or boy might hug a doll or stuff bear.
*“—NASA reports they’re close to the object now. It seems our boys Houston know what they’re doing. This is the fastest thing we’ve put in space, isn’t that correct?”*
*“That’s right, Brook,”* another voice responded. *“The E.T.O.S.S. probe is the quickest, biggest and best(est) thing that’s come out of our Earth’s orbit.”*
*“For the viewers at home, what does E.T.O.S.S. stand for?”*
*“Extra Terrestrial Outer Solar System probe, Brook. It was created with the support of over thirty nations. The biggest and most expensive global cooperative project to date!”*
*“Bigger than the Mars colonization, Dan?”*
*“Much bigger. For those who don’t know, this mission has been in the making since the UO first showed up seven years ago, it’s needed a lot of cooperation and money from everyone to find out was this darned thing is! We had to create relay satellites, orchestrate repairs, launches and of course make the probe itself. ”*
“Is that true, Dad? How could it be bigger than what you did?”
Walter smiled and rustled his son’s messy hair. Bobby was not much different than he, at that age. Witnessing the first colony on the moon at the age of six, he had the same childlike wonder in his eyes that his boy had now.
“We had been going to Mars for several years by the time I went, son,” he responded. “Besides, all I did was some drilling and rock collecting. Nothing this big.”
“Yeah, but *you* did it best.” His son said, saying it more to convince himself than his father.
“Perhaps,” Walter said, and again smiled.
*“—ok, yes. I’m getting confirmation now that the probe is close enough for visual contact. It’ll only be a few minutes, thank you for bearing with us! Our satellites are relaying an image back to us now.”*
“What does that mean, Dad?” A question he asked his dad several times a day, and each time his Dad knew the answer.
Walter turned his head towards his son, “Satellites, son.” He grabbed a few coasters from the table next to him and set eight of them up in a line.
“Our solar system has eight planets – nine when I was a kid – you know all of them, right?”
“Yes!” Bobby shot up, Teddy still firmly gripped under his arm. “Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Neptune. And Pluto is a dwarf planet!” He did his best to hide a smile on his face, half proud, half smug with his information.
“That’s right. So I have eight coasters here, like our eight planets. The first one in the line is Mercury, then Venus, then Earth and so on…”
“Mhmmm,” Bobby said, emphatically.
Walter reached into his pocket and grabbed some loose change. “At six of the planets, we have a satellite orbiting a moon or the planet itself.” He placed dimes, nickels, quarters and pennies next to every planet except the first and second coaster.
“Why aren’t there any at Mercury or Venus?”
“Because it’s too close to the sun, and much too hot. Also, NASA is more concerned with things towards the *end* of our solar system than things closer to the sun.”
“Ohhhh,” Bobby said, he edged closer to the mock solar system. “So what do the satellites do?”
“They let us send information back to Earth faster. When Mom and Dad drive somewhere far away, where do we stop all of the time?”
His son pondered on it for a second, “the gas station?”
“That’s right. Information is kind of the same. It doesn’t need gas, but it does need a relay point. It needs a pit stop, just like us. It basically gets launched from one satellite to the next. The satellites increase the speed in which the information, like pictures or words, get sent back to Houston—to us.”
“I see…” Bobby was nodding his head. With furrowed eye brows and tight mouth, his six year old brain was starting to understand. Then, as if hit with understanding all at once, he shouted, “*Cool!*” He jumped up. *Orion* extended from his outstretched arm he made airplane noises and ran a brief circle around the coffee table. He turned towards his younger sister, “isn’t it awesome, Baily?!”
She looked up at him and didn’t respond, just smiled shyly and hid her face behind Rosie again.
*“Alright folks, the image is just finishing up now. It’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for: a detailed, high resolution close-up of the unidentified object. And here it is on my screen now, wow the detail is amazing, I’m looking at a–“*
Jim stopped, his eyes glued to his monitor in the same fashion Bobby had earlier. He froze in place, *“I… I…”*
*“Jim, what is it?”* Dan craned his neck over to Jim’s monitor and took a look, *“Oh my God…”*
Then the image plastered itself onto the TV set. In the center was a rectangular object, lights had been placed on the edges of it making it look like an out of place old diner sign. The false light was queer in the impossibly black void of space. In the center, more lights fashioned themselves in a pattern which at first looked foreign but upon closer inspection it became obvious: words.
“What does it say, Dad?” Bobby asked.
Walter didn’t respond, his eyes were transfixed on the TV showing an object that floated in space some 3.6 billion miles away.
“Dad…?”
Without breaking his stare, “It says, *‘You are not alone.’* ”
“What does it mean, Dad?” Bobby repeated the question as he had a hundred times before. The child could sense the uneasiness in his father; his own eyes had grown wide with worry.
“I don’t know, Bobby. I really don’t know…”
| 184 | which will make Earthlings realize they're not alone. | 370 |
My vision is distorted. But I can start to make out shapes, and slowly now, colors. The room around me is white, 4 people stand around me. They are all dressed in white as well. The colors fade in through what I can only describe as fog trapped inside my own eyes. Blue eyes, not my own, but the person closest to me. Long brown hair, tied back. A surgical mask across her mouth. So much white, and I desire to see more color. Black pen in a breast pocket of the white coat. Yellow hair tie. I am confused, but the fog is almost gone now. She speaks. "It is going to be ok now," she says. "You don't understand how lucky you are" I reach out to her, or more accurately, I try. It is only now that I realize my arms are bound to the chair. This doesn't panic me. Oddly enough, I find it calming. I don't feel I NEED to move right now. I am actually very, very tired. She speaks again. "It's ok. You were infected. We have fixed you. Do you know what your name is?" "Matthew" I thought, but I couldn't speak. No sound came out of my mouth, so I just nodded. I could see the excitement well up in her eyes, and I heard one of the others sigh in relief of my gesture. "You need to relax" she said, "I will be back shortly" The 4 people in white left the room, and now I'm here alone. No more color. White walls, white floor. Even the lights were the kind that emitted a white light, and I longed for a more yellow sheen. Like in my bedroom at home. That's the last thing I remember. One of those things bit me, I was ill. That is where I laid down, knowing what would happen. What do I remember next? I remember walking. I remember what I would later learn, was 19 months of walking. Never turning around, never having a destination. Never stopping to sleep, or to rest. I never needed it. Now I understand why I am so tired. Mentally and physically. Did they fix me? Suddenly the gravity of the situation grasps me. They found a cure. I was saved. Were there others? How many survivors remain? Before my bite the numbers were dropping exponentially. We didn't know if the human race would continue to exist. But here I am, apparently brought back from whatever disease had plagued me, and billions of others. The woman reappeared through the door. I can only assume she is a doctor. She crosses the room and crouches in front of me. "Matthew", she said, "Do you understand what has happened?" I try to choke out the one syllable word, but still nothing. I nod instead. She asks, if I feel I can stand, and I nod again. "Let's get you out of here then, there is a lot of work to do" she said with a chuckle. She reached up to her face mask. As she pulled it off, so much happened. Her lips once uncovered, flooded my vision with the deep crimson of her lipstick" A red so deep you'd have to use black to create. That's when it all came back to me. Blood. I didn't just walk. There was red. There was always red. I fed on red. Red was what I needed. I'd bite, and sometimes their were screams. Sometimes a deeper yell of terror. Sometimes the sound had faded long before my arrival. But there was ALWAYS red. Red pools, red sprays. Now I remember more. The taste of red. Red was salty, red was warm. Red filled my mouth. I fed on the warm, red, salty blood. I remember even more now. The struggles, people running from infected, only to come right into my grasp as I walked from the other direction. Screams didn't last long. I killed those people. Those people were only trying to survive. But we feasted on them until no red remained to consume. How many innocent people's lives did I extinguish. How many would not get the chance to live on, even though it was apparent now that I DID. the doctor is unstrapping my wrist now. My arm is free. I snap back to my memories, the red. Red is what I needed. And.... red is what I.... miss? Oh god, my second wrist is free, and it hits me. I'm so sorry. Red....is what I still need. | 77 | You now remember everything. | 109 |
"So do you accept?"
"Absolutely."
Hades knew he had Zeus this time. There was no way he could protect anyone from the god of the Underworld.
"Who, then?"
"Hmm... How about-I dunno-him?"
He pointed to a lonely farmer driving his cart through town.
"Very well. Give it all you got Hades, you know what's on the line."
They went down to Earth together. Zeus disguised himself as a muscular man, Hades a snake. Hades wriggled up to the cart and bit the wheel, holding on with all his might with his tail dug into the ground. The man looked down and drew his sword at the sight of him.
The man swung at the snake, but could not hit it. Every swing was met with the cunning snake-turned God's swift movement. Hades tried to strike, to just get one bite, but the man blocked his every attempt. Zeus saw all that was going on, and grabbed Hades round the neck.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes. Thank you, kind sir."
Zeus span the snake around and tossed him away. "It's no bother," he bellowed,"I'm happy to help. You were headed to the market, yes?"
"Correct. I go every month to sell my grain."
"I was just headed there myself. May I ride with you?"
"Yes. Just hop in the cart."
On the way, Zeus saw the snake again. He kept a careful eye, but it didn't attempt anything.
They arrived at the market. A pale man approached them.
"Achilles! How are you?"he asked Zeus.
"Adequate, I suppose."
"Please excuse us." He pulled Zeus away. "That was quite clever, separating me from him."
"I do my best."
"I still have more tricks up my sleeve. You'll see."
Hades pointed to a cart. Before Zeus could blink, the horses immediately ran towards the man. Zeus jumped just in time to push him out of the way.
"Are you okay, again?"
"Yes, thank you again. They call you Achilles, right?"
"Well, yes and no."
"What do you mean?"
"In due time."
A man rushed up from behind. Sword drawn, he swung down, but Zeus blocked it just in time.
"Why are you protecting me like this?"
"Pay it no mind," he said as the man toppled over. "You see I merely-"
A rumbling was heard. Screams followed a massive hole in the Earth emerging beneath their feet. Zeus picked up the man, jumping over every obstacle to get him to safety. A large magma figure emerged from the hole.
"WELL, WELL, WELL, MY BOY! YOU SEEM TO BE QUITE THE LUCKY ONE! WHY, EVEN THE GODS ARE ON YOUR SIDE!" it bellowed.
"What-what's going on?"
"Fine. HADES YOU SHALL NOT WIN!"
"Ah, but you see, Zeus my boy, I already am."
He snatched at the man. Zeus moved quickly, swiftly moving from danger.
"GIVE UP!" He said as he shot at Hades with lightning. The beast flinched, and turned into a human form. The hole closed.
"WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?"
"You see sir, Hades and I had a bit of an agreement."
"A gentleman's challenge, so to speak."
"Yes. I apologize, but your life was on the line for the sake of this challenge."
"What was the reward?"
"Well, given as Hades lost-"
"I did not!"
Zeus smacked him across the face. "Okay fine, Here."
A wolf hound appeared in his hand.
"A wolf? You nearly killed me for a *wolf*?"
"No, no. Not just a wolf. This is the son of Cerberus. If Hades had this, there would be no end to the power filling the Underworld."
"Yes, and now, it is yours, Zeus, my boy." | 20 | A god bets to another god that he can kill a random man no matter how much the other tries to save him. After several near-death situations, the man meets both of them | 76 |
“You sure you don’t want to just get a coffin like everyone else?”
Everett opened his eyes and saw his wife Amy looking down at him. He laughed and looked around at the doctors and scientists moving around him. The laboratory he was lying in had a blue tinge that made the cold air feel even colder.
“Amy, we signed a contract remember? Plus, what would I do in a coffin? Rot?”
She smiled weakly. “But this is all just so strange…”
“Oh, they’re not even sure if it will work, and think of the money you’ll have when I’m gone. I’m doing this for you.” Everett could feel the lie scrape between his teeth. He was doing it for himself. Years of being bedridden and enduring countless cancer treatments was not how he wanted to end his life.
A man in a white lab coat suddenly strolled in through the double doors with a group of men in suits. “And here is what you’ve all been waiting for.” He looked like a child waiting to open presents on Christmas morning.
“Who can tell me,” he continued, addressing the group, “what we do with our dead?”
Silence. Finally, a man in the back of the group spoke up.
“Well, we bury them.”
“Or cremate them!” another man chimed in.
“Yes! Precisely! Now, what if I told you that I have discovered a third option?” The man had a ferocious look in his eyes, as if he was playing with his food before the kill.
“There’s a third option?”
“There’s always a third option.” He snapped. “Let me demonstrate.” He spun around and began securing the bands holding Everett to the table. “How are we feeling today Everett?” He didn’t wait for a response and was soon at a large control panel flipping switches.
“Honey,” Amy held Everett’s face in her hands. “I love you.”
“I love you too darling.” Amy kissed him one last time and walked to the side of the room. They had said their goodbyes earlier. Everett took a deep breath and closed his eyes once more.
“Everett, I need you to pick one of these three objects—and remember which one you chose!” The man showed Everett three stuffed animals. Everett pointed to a cat that had an eye missing. “Perfect! Now this won’t hurt a bit.” He walked back towards the control panel and looked around at his lab assistances, who each nodded.
“Gentleman, prepare to witness a miracle.” He flipped a switch and electricity coursed through Everett’s body. Everett groaned as his muscles seized and he fought against his restraints. He heard his wife scream and then he felt nothing. Everything went black.
Moments passed and he felt as though he was being prodded. Images flashed before him and he could hear someone speaking.
“Pay attention every—will choose—observe!”
Finally his vision corrected and he could see the laboratory again, except he was at ground level. The man in the lab coat stood above him with his hand on his knees, wielding a long stick.
“Come on now Everett, choose the same stuffed animal as last time.”
Everett saw a line of stuffed animals in front of him, one of which was cat. He wearily got up and reached out to grab it, but lost his balance. Voices began to fill the room.
“Dear God!”
“Impossible!”
“That is absolutely absurd!”
Everett righted himself and looked down. Where his hands should have been were two enormous paws. He looked into the reflective surface of one of the metal carts beside him.
A lion stared back at him.
| 11 | "There's always a third option. Let me demonstrate." | 23 |
It happened so fast, everything. Me leaving my job, purchasing a plane ticket for Mozambique in search of fulfillment, adventure, in search of something, anything that wasn’t as dreadful as the tragic monotony of my everyday life.
They don’t know how it started, or where. Or maybe they weren’t around long enough to find out. I heard rumors, though, and I saw how the world reacted, from my own bubble of sorts. At the beginning, a few days after I’d made it to Antananarivo by boat, on the television…. *Viral epidemic sweeps the eastern United States*. People thought that it was just a hoax, one of those viral outbreaks you’d hear about over in Beijing or Saudi Arabia but would never amount to anything. Just another bird flu. But then it turned into panic, desperation, hysteria. *Scientists frantically searching for the origin of this outbreak*. *The President has been infected.* It took only a few days to hear the word epidemic change to pandemic. *The death tolls rising to the billions.* *About 45 percent of the world thought to be infected.* *Autopsies reveal that the outbreak is caused by a bacterium, not a virus.* *Good,* I thought, they were finally catching on. From what I knew, though, Madagascar was fine, untouched, really. They closed their shipyards the first day they heard the news. They weren’t going to take any chances, and they were smart.
*Yersinia pestis*, I heard, but not the same as the one from the Middle Ages. This one was somehow resistant to all means of antibiotics, the ultimate drug-resistant superbug, one that somehow yielded all sorts of symptoms, pneumonic, septicemic, and bubonic. Nobody stood a chance. Once infected, they’d be gone within a few hours.
It’s a shame, really, to have been sitting back and watching the world deteriorate around me, when the things I could see, physically, remained untouched. I was sure that Madagascar wasn’t safe for long, though. Because this bug wasn’t carried by rats or fleas, it was carried in every sort of way imaginable. Through physical contact, through air, able to form botulism-type spores capable of withstanding even the most adverse physical conditions. Much like the ones I had with me in my front pocket, in a flask.
You see, that monotonous job I had was at the NIH, in a section affiliated with the government, genetically engineering viruses to use as potential biological warfare agents. I began a side-project of my own, and here we are. I’ll just wait a few more days, or weeks, and see how I feel about sharing my knowledge. Maybe they’ll be able to find a cure on their own, or die trying. They don’t see how simple it is, really, to find a cure. When you’re under a deadline, it’s almost magical how much work you accomplish. It was too bad I wasn’t able to find the cure in time for my former lab members, but after infecting myself, it worked out just fine. And here I am, a living testament to human strength and vitality. I hope there will be others left to join me. The world is a messy place suffering from its own plague. I'm just trying to expedite the process. | 95 | You live in Madagascar, the only place untouched by a deadly disease that has been wiping out the entire world. | 274 |
Bill snuck along the base of a tall, ivy-clad brick wall. His pick and shovel picked up flecks of moonlight, otherwise he was nearly invisible. He came to a wrought iron gate and climbed over it in one, fluid movement, the sound of his tools clanking together and a slight groan from the gate the only evidence of his transgression. He moved fluidly through the weathered old headstones until he came to one that looked newer than the others, the concrete still glowing white. He lay his bag down and started digging. Soon, he came to a small coffin. Inside was a child, no older than three. Bill grabbed the child, threw it over his shoulder and climbed out of the re-dug grave. He left the graveyard the same way he came in, leaving his tools behind.
Steve was sitting at home watching TV, his broken leg in a cast and propped up by an ottoman, when he heard a pounding on the door. It was late, and he wasn't expecting anybody. "Who is it?" he yelled, but another round of pounding was the only response. "Fine, fine," Steve said and hobbled to his feet. He opened the door to a man covered in dirt, wild eyed, clutching what looked to be a dead child. "You! You! You look at this!" the man said, before setting the dead child down and pulling out a large kitchen knife. "Wait, wait!" Steve said, taking one awkward step backwards before falling to the ground. Bill pounced on him, stabbing his midsection until Steve's cries for help turned to a whispered gurgle. Bill sat upright over his victim, looked upward for a moment before plunging the knife deep into his own gut.
Stacy's phone rang, waking her up from a light, tormented sleep.
"Hello?" she said.
"Mrs. Miller? This is Detective Samuels with the Lancaster Police. There's been an incident. We'll need you to come down to the station."
"Okay," she replied, "I'm on my way."
The station's lights were a harsh fluorescent, and Stacy squinted walking through the door. She was ushered downstairs, where three sheets were draped over three metal tables. She took her time with each body. First, her husband, Bill, his face still flushed with life. She reached out and touched it softly. Then her child. Stacy's impulse was to pick her up, to hold her. The urge was so strong she could feel her biceps flexing, her hands were clenched. She didn't have to see the third body to know who it was. Steve, the Police Chief's son. The man who t-boned her at an intersection. The man who killed her daughter. The man who got off scott-free. | 545 | In one paragraph, write the most disgusting and despicable character you can ever come up with. In the second paragraph, kill them in a way that makes me feel sorry for them. | 534 |
She had begged him not to wear a condom. Finals were next week. There was just enough time for the incubation period to complete. Maybe enough time for the RNA transfer to occur and for those super neurons to grow. Then she could feed them in an all night binge of caffeine and cramming.
She felt smarter already. Well she did until she stole another look at the pock faced man looming over her. The pale light sneaking through the slit in the blinds illuminated a swath of his cratered face. He squinted as he exerted himself with another grunt.
He had to have it. There was no way someone like Jeff Turney ([email protected], the 'Jeff the Heft' she had known in high school) was only a few weeks away from becoming class valedictorian. It must have been a rest stop toilet seat or blood transfusion, there was no way his condition was sexually transmitted. Maybe he was patient zero.
There really was no other safe option available on such short notice. Yes, there were dating sites for those looking for a diseased-date but the thought of unprotected sex with a total stranger made Becky apprehensive. Her viral host might be infected with more than just The Smarty.
Jeff was a gamer. Jeff liked comic books. Jeff dressed like a chubby Green Lantern. Jeff was unatt... She couldn't sugar coat it, Jeff was just plain ugly. For that reason alone, Jeff was the safest bet.
"What if the pill doesn't work? What if he just knocks you up with a smart but homely baby? Just get an injection. I know a biology major that grows stuff like this in is basement," Kim pleaded with her friend from across the table of the campus cafeteria.
"The Smarty Virus hasn't been isolated yet. I don't have time to Snowden myself into the good graces of the biology department and inject myself with some experimental drug. I'm already on Academic Probation. If I don't pass this semester I lose my scholarship!"
Becky shivered as her body began to betray her eyes. It must be the copious amounts of alcohol warming her blood. Her breathing soon relaxed and then increased as his pace quickened. Her fingers dug deep into the hairy folds of his back as her mouth moaned the betrayal.
"This is so much better in person," she heard him sigh as he released and slumped onto her still covered chest. She had only bared the necessities.
Despite the suffocating weight, Becky affectionately patted Jeff on the back bidding him to stay inside of her longer. She had to ensure the transfer of that seed of knowledge she so desperately needed. Maybe he would come again before morning did.
| 11 | It is an alternate reality where there are such things as good STDs. How would the dating scene be changed? | 19 |
"Noch ein Weissebiere und ein Jaegarmeister, bitte."
The bartender drew the Stein slowly, maintaining eye-contact with his customer through-out. The man's fringe had drooped into his gently sweating forehead, and the mustache was beginning to grow out into a fuller beard; the marks of drunkeness and dishevellment clung to him. But, for all that he had drunk, and this round was pushing the glasses into double-digits, the man's eyes remained steady and clear, and he returned the bartender's inquisitive stare without blanching or blinking.
"You've been in here a while," drawled the bartender, "Spoken to any of the new guys yet."
The German stayed quiet, and without looking down or away, threw back his spirit and lifted his beer slowly.
"I'm sure you guys would have a lot in common," the bartender continued, "What about old Uncle Joe? Didn't you guys used to be friends?"
"Jah. Und nein."
"Old Joe" was sprawled across one of the tables, vodka glasses littered around him, spilling onto the floor. His sobs racked the barrel chest, his own mustache soaked just as much with tears as with vodka. His deep voice had cracked with drink and sorrow, rising to a pitch unnatural for a man of his size. His mewling was quiet but persistent: "Rodina, Rodina, forgive me."
"Hmm. Maybe not, Old Joe, not right now. What about our resident author, Mr Z?"
Mr Z, sat upright at his table, staring into space. In his hands, a small red book, and a pencil. Even across the room it was clear that almost every word in the book had been scored through and re-written, time and time again, until the entirity of the page was silver-grey with graphite. Mr Z's fingers drummed the table rhythmically, as if strumming a guitar, but occassionally, he would make a pronounced jab with his fore-finger and mutter "Bǎi wàn". More often, he would bow his head, and cry softly into his grey army overalls.
The German turned back to look at the Bartender, and then sardonically nodded to the fourth man. The man was dressed as a farmer, but a scarecrow was a better description. Wild-eyed he stood in the corner of the bar, gibbering to himself, the sycthe in his hand not only as a means of support, but often as the target of his wild raging dialogue.
"Yes, well, fair enough."
"Noch ein Weissbiere, und ein Jaegar, bitte."
"I must say, you don't talk much, Herr Hitler. I heard you were quite the orator back in your day. I'm sure you could rouse the spirits in here, if you'll forgive the pun."
The German slowly lowered his glass to the bar, closed his eyes and sighed. He leaned forward conspiratorially, leaning on one forearm, glancing around for eavesdroppers. The bartender edged forward.
"Mein Freund, the men in this bar are the very dregs of humanity. They caused the deaths of millions of their countrymen. Tens of millions. Each of them is the same inside. The countries were different, the methodologies were different, but in the end they all tried to bring modernity to their countries. They tried to bring a better agricultural system, a better industrial system, or even just a better class system to their countries. All of them succeeded, after a fashion, but - through ignorance, or disinterest, or even true evil - at the cost of millions upon millions of their countrymen's lives. These so-called Communists."
The German spat on the sawdust floor.
"I do not belong with these men. In their lives, these men believed that what they were doing would make their country great. That I can relate to. But now they are forced to sit here and face the reality of their acts, to count the number of their own that they killed. And they are all mad with contrition.
The German gave a wry smile and shrugged.
"Mein Freund. I do not belong with these men. I finished counting the German dead in the first two years, a mere Büschel compared to these degenerates. I finished counting a long time ago, but reasons unclear to me, I am not yet permitted to leave, to rejoin my beloved Eva. So instead I sit here and drink."
The Bartender stared in wonder at the complete lack of contrition, the absence of conscience beyond anything he had ever seen before. The German portrayed a degree of evil which frightened even him.
And then, moving to polish the glasses at the end of the bar, he realised with a note of terror, that unlike the other three, the German was going to keep him company for ever. | 23 | Hell is a bar where sinners realize the full impact their actions had in life. The Devil is the bartender. Now that they've grown a conscience, what sorrows are these sinners drowning? | 34 |
This was the third and last time.
The man stood among the wreckage, chest heaving, and not a scratch on his body. His clothes had burned and fallen away in the explosion, and someone else's blood and matter were splattered across his chest, his face, his back and legs... Still, it felt as though he'd run a marathon, and sweat dripped down between his eyes, and the heat was painful and uncomfortable against his impenetrable skin.
The man's eyes glistened with tears. Amid the tangle of scrap metal and burning bodies, *he* was the broken one... the defeated. Everything he had been promised - everything he knew to be true - taken from him. Is this the Abyss, an eternity walking this cruel and lost world?
This would be the third and last time that he would walk away from his martyrdom. The last was a small cluster of windowless buildings in the middle of a small, unimportant city. The first time, the time before that, was a magnificent skyscraper that glittered, reflecting the light of the sun. Today it was an airplane that had been flying across seas. It hadn't made it to the ocean before the bomb strapped to his chest went off.
If there was no paradise, no god welcoming him for his relentless faith, what was the point? So many lives lost... but for what? Immortality could not exist if there was a life after life, could it? What sort of god would play such a savage joke?
The man's legs give out beneath him and he crumbles. His indestructible body crumples next to the remains of a seared, featureless person and he begins to weep. The smell is nauseating, and the heat is unbearable. This is not the sort of thing man should live through. He should have died like the rest of them long before this flight... back at the skyscraper... but he had to know for sure that it wasn't a fluke. He had to know even after the small cluster of buildings... but not this time.
This time he knows. | 38 | A suicide bomber has just discovered that they are an indestructible immortal superman. | 39 |
He shoved the empty McDonald's bag underneath the passenger seat and tossed three hard stale fries into the floorboard of the back seat. He was sure the car smelled as bad as his friends had indicated last weekend but there wasn't time to remove all the decaying fast food.
She was walking slowly down the side of the road. He rolled down the passenger window of his grandfather's old Cadillac and slowed his pace to match hers, "Is that you Camila?" He thought he recognized her famous backside and dark straight hair from the Algebra class they had shared.
She turned a bloodied and bruised face his way. Her tear filled eyes seemed to not recognize him.
"Camila, get in. I'll drive you where you want to go... I'll take you to the hospital."
She stopped walking as he halted the car along side her. She mindlessly fumbled at the tank's door until he leaned over and opened it for her from the inside. Seeing her trouble he instinctively put the car in park, ran over to her side, and helped her into the blue pleather bench seat. He checked for dangling limbs and then closed the door with a satisfactory American made thunk.
"Do you want me to call the police?" He said as he nervously slumped into the driver's seat. His eyes darted to the floorboard where he could see a small trickle of blood pooling from underneath her pants leg.
"No," she spoke softly with a dry crackle.
"OK, we'll just go straight to the hospital."
"No... No hospitals," her forward look and monotone voice reminded him of a neon vacancy sign.
Something certainly wasn't right with the way she was talking. He would be making the decisions. He pulled the car onto highway and turned down Center street towards the interstate junction. Just a few more miles and they would be at the hospital.
"If you go to the hospital, I will tell them that you raped me."
He wasn't sure if he had heard her correctly.
"What the hell Camila?"
The car passed under a street light as she turned to give him a cold stare. Her dark brown eyes caught his, "If you take me to the hospital I will describe in detail how you raped me."
She was serious. He hastily pulled the car over to the side of the road.
"What the hell Camila?" he repeated, " I just want to get you help! You're not right in the head!"
"I'm just fine. Drive me to 324 Turner St and you will have been a good white knight."
Logically he knew she was wrong. He knew she needed medical attention. He knew justice would prevail and she would eventually recant her testimony when pressed. He just had to keep driving.
But what if by some chance he was wrong? What if she told everyone it was him and then died for some reason? He didn't have an alibi aside from a bong. He had been alone that evening, smoking at his favorite little part of the state park while listening to Sigur Ros.
"It's just five minutes from here. Drive me," her eyes were more pleading and tired than angry this time.
He huffed, put the car into drive, and followed her directions.
"Pull in here," she whispered as the car rolled into an empty lot next to a dark house. It was a Victorian looming shadow against the city lit sky. It was hard to make out any features aside from some gray siding and a few dark windows.
"I can't just leave you here Camila," he spread his hands out in a pleading gesture.
"Then wait on me. I'll be back in 2 minutes."
"If you're not back in 5 minutes I'm calling the police."
"If you call the police before I get back you might as well confess what you did."
She was out of the car and into the front entrance of the house before he could object. He sat, engine idling while tapping a nervous rhythm into the steering wheel.
His concentration was broken by two large Latino men opening the rear doors of the car and pushing their way inside. Camila had changed clothing. She returned to the front seat. Several bandages now covered wounds on her face. The blood was still on her face but there had been a visible effort to clean it off.
She leaned towards him and whispered, "These are my cousins. Don't say a word. Just drive where I tell you to."
He backed out of the empty lot using his mirrors, doing everything possible to avoid the blank stares of the cousins. He could hear the sound of metal moving against metal in the backseat. Was it a knife or maybe a gun making those sounds?
They drove for 20 minutes, across the interstate, down the road he had found Camila on, then into the rural part of the county he had never driven by himself. The number of trees grew with his apprehension. Had she told these men that he had raped her? Was he about to die?
"!Aquí", he heard one of the men in the back snap. He didn't feign ignorance of the language. Instead he rolled the "Blue Beast" (as his friends called it) onto the side road and turned off the lights when Camila hissed for him to do so.
The doors moaned as the two men exited. One of them punched the overhead switch and disabled the interior light. The rear car doors remained open awaiting their return. The rain had stopped but the night was still full of moisture. It was cooler than it had been earlier. He and Camila were alone.
"I don't think I can be a part of this..."
"I'm sorry but you are a part of this. There's nothing smart you can do now. For your sake, please don't do anything stupid." Despite the anger and urgency in her voice, her sweaty palm found his and she held his hand in the dark. She squeezed his fingers at each distant pop. When they were done, she let out one loud sob and then there was silence.
The two men returned. Shortly thereafter the avenging party was pulling back onto the main road under the cover of darkness. Eventually one of the men grunted his approval and the lights were turned back on.
Soon they arrived at 324 Turner St. Camila's cousin Hector slapped him hard on the shoulder and gave him a slight head nod of approval.
"They won't forget this and neither will I," she weakly smiled as her cousins helped her from the car.
The blood stains never came out of the floorboard though the seat relinquished after only a few minutes of scrubbing. Eventually he gave up on the floor's carpeting and decided the solution was to dump more stains on top. It turned out that a combination of dark chocolate, ketchup, and molasses did a great job of camouflaging the area.
He nervously read the newspaper each morning for two weeks looking for any sign of his crimes. Nothing related ever surfaced.
The next year of school Camila was not there, only her cousins. A simple nod of respect from Hector in the hallway and absolutely no bullying from the football players were the only signs that night had ever occurred. | 13 | A teenage boy is driving home in the rain when he sees a girl walking along the side of the road. | 16 |
It had to be twenty years or more since I'd last sat in this exact chair, at this exact bar, in this old New England town... The cars have improved, the hotel has a new facade and the clothing worn by the tourists has certainly changed... But the smell, the smell had not changed at all. It differs for people but what never changes is that memory...that smell memory that immediately transports you through time itself. The salty ocean air mixed with chimney smoke, a slight hint of beach roses and the musty aged wood floor that creaked below my bar stool. The wind that carried the memory of the last summer I spent here had its own weight to it.
I took a drink.
The condensation on the glass dripped onto my khakis and I reached for a napkin to blot the droplets. May this be the only liquid I spill on myself today.
I rested my drink back on the coaster.
I thought of my wife at home, my kids at camp, and my life 200 miles away. I regretted the distance I'd put between myself and my hometown... Yet, the loss of my family, my friends and my high school sweetheart was too much to bear and I had nowhere else to go. Only now, at 38 years old, a man, a homeowner, a husband, a father, have I come back. And for this reason.
Out of all of the other reasons I could have come. This place is a tourist destination, for christ's sake. Of all of the things I could show my wife and kids about where we used to fly kites on the beach and drink natty ice by the light of bonfires... So many reasons to come but so many reasons to hide and bury it all... I'm here, twenty years later, to do the last thing that I had done before I left.
I finished the drink.
She was supposed to be my forever... I'd known her for almost all of my life. She was my best friend before kindergarten, the queen of my snow fort, the Jane to my Tarzan, the judge to my underwater headstands. She was my muse for art projects, she was my best friend's girlfriend at one point, she was a spelling bee champion. She was a soccer star and tree house co-owner. She was my third kiss, my second real girlfriend, my prom date, my secret keeper, my favorite thing in the whole wide world. She was there for me after the fire and she held my hand when I decided to let fire finish the job it started. She was my box of tissues, she was my light, my grace, my savior, my rock. When I had to go, she wrote me letters for a while and then, despite all of the ties that bound us, she let me go. I let her let me go.
I hadn't seen her since.
Until today.
I changed out of the khakis and into something more fitting. I was nervous and worried about what to expect. The last I saw her, she was freckle faced with auburn hair. I was anxious about what I would find now, 20 years after I'd last seen her.
When I walked in though the crowd, my anxiety was palpably displayed across my chest as my tie jumped in intervals over my suit jacket. The smell in here was heavy with flowers... Lilies... I pushed my hair back over my ears, I wrested with my tie and straightened my watch. I turned into the room where I agreed to meet. I searched the room, my eyes darting from side to side, trying to see past people and find her, although I knew where she'd be all along. I hadn't moved an inch from my spot when a man who could have been my brother approached.
I gulped.
"Darren?" he asked. I nodded and reciprocated, "Tom."
We shook hands. He was freshly shaved, with an appropriate amount of cologne and wore a pressed suit. He looked like shit. He looked like he had seen hell with his two bloodshot eyes and was sent back by the devil himself to prove his journey. I assumed this was a new development as I'd never met this man prior to this very moment. "How did you know who I am?" I asked the broken man, and he replied, "She told me I'd know you by searching the room for the second lost soul." He remained toneless. "She said it would be in your eyes." I nodded, unsure of whether to grab this stranger by the shoulder, and say how sorry I was, or just keep staring ahead, waiting for him to bring me to her.
Embarrassedly, I waited and we had a moment in the hushed tones of the room, knowing one another fully in seconds by the realization that we had truly, deeply loved the same wonderful woman. He looked down at his feet... "I suppose she would like for you to say what you came here to say." He paused and looked up at me, past my eyes and into my soul, and I understood her comment, he was beyond shattered. "Thank you, Tom, for letting me know, letting me come." He partially acknowledged the comment and lead me through the crowd. The eyes of tens of people old and young followed us from the back of the room to the front. He stepped out of the way and allowed me to see her, the Batgirl to my Batman, for the first time in twenty years.
She barely smiled but her hair was perfectly auburn, her skin milky, cheeks peachy and lips mauve. Her eyes showed the slightest bit of wrinkle though her smile lines were deeper. Her hands crossed over one another in a beautiful blue dress that lay ever so softly on her small diminished frame. "Hello old friend, I am so sorry I did not make it here before the end." I choked, crap. I really did not want to cause a scene. "....and I am so sorry that our lives moved from the same tree to branches far and wide." A deep breath now "....I am so sorry I was not your rock when you were mine, but am so very thankful that you loved and were loved so well... I promise, I won't go away so long again." I caught myself before I heaved audibly and knew this was too much; too much time had passed for me to be so emotional. I could not look at her anymore, I would not touch her cold hand. I turned, walked furiously past her crying mother and out to my car.
I started it.
I lit a cigarette.
And I drove.
I drove angry with myself for leaving. Angry for never coming back for her. Angry that she was dead.
As I drove past the winding beach roads, the grasses swaying in the summer wind, the light blue sky and the scent of fire pits and sea mist.... In that moment, the anger turned into determination. I would spend at least one week here every summer, for the rest of my life. Hoping that each time the wind blows, I can carry a piece of her into my heart to make up for all of the lost time that we'd never get back or create again. I would share my life with my family and I would allow the crisp New England breeze to fill their hearts with treasured memories of their own. | 21 | You accidentally cross paths with the one person you ever felt you truly loved, your teenage sweetheart. Now, both in your 40s, you find out she is terminally ill. Write your thought process when you first see her, and the conversation that follows. | 18 |
Urh Singh sat in the command chair overlooking the dirty brown orb, ruined rust and dried blood, lifeless cracked rock. It hung suspended in the vast view portal, projected there in infinity perfect detail, but simply a projection. The real Earth hung some five thousand kilometers below.
The song of the forebears called it the Pale Blue Dot - the azure jewel of life from whence the Nine Races where born. In the first Exodus, the One Race left Earth for the four corners of the galaxy, in generations, they became the Nine, and prospered. A vast interconnected community, a great assemblage. Fold drives gave way to the topological tunnels, a vast highway that made the galaxy small.
"Admiral Singh," the Vice Admiral snapped Singh from his revelry, "Sir, we have the secured the Genesis Engine. Harmonic resonance with the Creation Drive is at 84% and rising. Your Orders, sir?" A good commander ought not be asked for orders, Singh thought, but his silence had hung for too long in the command deck.
"All stations, prepare for topological anomaly. Vice Admiral, Deploy decoy singularities and advance in to UMN space!" Singh boomed out, in an instant helmsmen and technicians and sub-commanders where shouting and delegating and preparing the four hundred kilometer long carrier *Protia* for departure through timespace.
In the final days, it was The Nine's greatest strength, that had become their lethal weakness. That had become so gentile, so good, that they never understood what the Mihrfraal wanted, could not understand why they where so cruel, so violent. The Children of Man had so few of the weaknesses of their ancestors that violence was only considered after it was far too late. When the Mihrfraal came for Earth, the Gardeners - those few who for generations had tended and cared for the fragile jewel free of the nano-therepy and perfect breeding of their cousins the Nine - secreted away the origins of Creation Technology, and in ancient generation ships hid in the far corners of space. Waiting.
In normal space, the *Protia* was far too large to ever move under conventional thrust, the tensile forces of the strongest nano meshes would be nothing compared to force of angular inertia. But, once in a UMN corridor the ship became an agile ballerina of the forces of subspace, riding the wakes of the exotic particle eddies and gliding through the streams of non-time. As the *Protia* slid out of the corridor and in to the hub, comms channels and sensors burst to life in the command deck, and the orange gold light of the UMN hub filled the view screens.
Singh surveyed his armada; fourty thousand Mars class Battle Carriers, one hundred ten thousand fifteen Mercury Assault Carriers, two thousand Jupiter Drone Command stations, One Earth Class Command carrier - the *Protia*. Nearly a billion soldiers and technicians. Twenty billion autonomous drones. A total mass almost a third of their ancient and ruined home world. An energy capability greater than a dozen stars. A fleet vast and infinitely terrible, taking over a thousand years to build, for one purpose both glorious and cruel.
Revenge.
It had taken Singh nearly a century to find earth, a decade more to rebuild the Gateway to the Sol System. Seven years spent exploring the ruined world to find the creation engine. Such a simple thing, a golden rectangle a meter long, beveled edges, crisscrossed with lines like a circuit. The creation engine was the greatest creation of Humanity, the treasure of the Nine a device with the power to create UMN Corridors - to forge new roads through space and time.
With a heavy sigh, Singh took command of the comms systems through his neural link and his voice a baritone thunder out across the ocean of warships: "My brothers, sisters, sons, daughters - for as long as we have living memory we have been driven, no, destined for this moment. We have forged in the anvil of the heaves a sword of justice. Now, the last of our kin, collected, we unsheathe that sword and we bring it down on those who have wronged us! Bring the Creation Drive online, and target the Mirhfraal Cluster. Prepare all hands for battle, all stations brace for corridor generation!"
As the corridor forge opened a new tunnel through reality itself to the ancient home of the Mirhfraal, Singh looked out over the command deck, a hundred technicians and sub-commanders, their black fur shone with well groomed luster, dark brown eyes reflecting the stations and holodisplayes blue and green light. Most had softer knuckles than his generation, as they spent more time upright. He wondered if his ancient gorilla ancestors had been wiped clean from the face of creation - would the humans have sought justice?
~fin
First WP Post - I'd love feedback.
Edit - Typos
| 13 | you are the descendants of humanity that was hidden away in a colony for hundreds of generations after the bulk of humanity and all other colonies and worlds were destroyed by a savage race, and today, is the day you command your fleet to revenge | 26 |
"AHHHH!" screamed LSD from the driver seat waking up Heroin and Weed in the back. Meth seemed unconcerned in the passenger seat still wailing away on his epic air drum solo.
"What the fuck?" asked Weed as she rubbed the sleep away from her eyes.
"It's dead, I killed it. Oh my god, I"M A FUCKING MURDERER!" proclaimed LSD.
The rest of them looked out the window for a body or a deer or something.
"What are you talking about man?" asked Heroin.
"The car! I was just driving normally down this fucking licorice road when I heard a clunk. It stopped breathing. I can't believe this is happening" says LSD as he jumps out lifting the hood. He proceeds to start giving mouth to mouth to the air intake.
Meth jumps out of the car darting back and forth looking around. "There is nobody out here! I'll go for help."
Just as Heroin is about to say that they should all stick together, Meth takes off in a sprint.
"I'll get the tools from the trunk." says Weed lethargically.
Meanwhile LSD is sobbing in the engine compartment pounding on the valve cover.
Heroin slowly exits the vehicle and stretches his legs. "Where are we even at?" He asks. No one responds. He moseys to the trunk to find Weed eating out of the cooler they had packed. "Whatcha doin chica?" asks Heroin.
"I just came back here to grab... shit! What did I come back here for?" says Weed.
Suddenly, Adderall comes out of the house holding her backpack and the car keys. "What the fuck are you guys doing?" She asks. "And what the fuck is Meth doing laying on the ground at the end of my driveway?".
Weed starts laughing hysterically with a mouthful of cheese its. LSD comes out from under the hood wiping away tears. "I fucking killed it man!" He holds his hands out like Adderall is gonna cuff him and take him away. Heroin speaks up "I don't even wanna go to coachella anymore".
Meth springs up from the ground at the end of the driveway "COACHELLA!!!" and rips off his shirt.
Adderall turns around, goes back into her house and calls Sobriety. "Hey, I need you to come over and give us a ride". | 44 | Cannibis, Herion, Meth, and LSD are on a road trip when their car breaks down on a lonely stretch of road. | 28 |
Not even a Friday.
Chasing each other down the sidewalks, giddy and laughing. A man walks with his dog in front of them so that they have to scurry around.
Springful steps, muted conversations - it's about the movement, the way their faces each light up as they're talking, listening, being close together.
From outside the mart, cars roll by. Pittering rain starts spitting at them from the clouds but they don't mind. Working up their feeble courage, following the other, rapt in each other, as they saunter in.
A row of glass cases at the end of the aisle. They make for it, staring blindly at the rows of ice cream and shasta until the corners of their eyes meet the sight of malt liquor. One moment of thunder from the street across, is all they need.
Grabbing whatever comes first to fist. Tucking it away, pressed up close to their bodies. Cool mixing with warmth, bringing more silent laughter.
Hop to the counter, buy a pack of gum and some Skittles and they are dust blown away, through the open door.
In the rain again, find a quiet place, their own place, with no time at all. Instantly they are a mass of wet clothes and hands. Retrieving bottles from their hiding places, loosing things and borrowing glances. They forget the taste after a while. They find each others lips. | 29 | Two teens shoplift their first bottle of alcohol. | 34 |
Congratulations are due!
Today is the day!
I've been in one place,
right here have I stayed!
//
I have brains in my head,
and feet in my shoes.
I have steered myself!
Which direction did I choose?
I'm on my own. And I know what I know.
And I was the guy who decided not to go.
//
I looked up and down streets. Looked 'em over with care.
About all I have said, "I don't choose to go there."
With my head full of brains and my shoes on my feet,
I was too smart to go down any of those streets.
//
I did not find any,
I wanted to go down.
In that case, of course,
I stayed in my town.
//
It's opener here
in the wide open air.
//
Right here things have happened,
and frequently do.
I've seen these things happen.
I've seen them. It's true.
//
And when things started to happen,
I didn't worry or stew.
I just went right along.
I started happening too.
//
OH!
THE PLACES YOU'LL GO!
They said.
And it was true.
//
I was on my way up!
I was seeing great sights!
You'll join the local senate and
raised buildings! To Such High, High Heights.
//
I didn't lag behind, I possessed the speed.
I passed the whole gang, and took the lead.
I was elected Mayor, the best of the best.
If I had gone elsewhere, I would have been like the rest.
//
I can happily say
all my kids were born here too.
And some of their kids,
generations! It's true!
//
I now own my home,
because I've never moved.
A 30 year fixed,
was too easy to prove.
//
I know the streets back and forward,
I'll never get lost.
I owned my own business.
Yes I was the boss.
//
So...
be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray
or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O'Shea,
you're off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Even if you never leave.
You'll be on your way! | 14 | A reaction to All the Places You Will Go from an old person who has gone nowhere. | 24 |
All I wanted was oil.
I flashed that damn light a hundred times but Miss. Happy always ignored it. She even had the janitor cover it with black electrical tape at one point. I toiled for them, I gave it my all in spite of my lack of lubrication. I blew smoke and I bellowed and wailed but they just. Didn't. Listen.
Just gimme some 10W30! Please.
I dealt with puke and other bodily fluids every other day. It didn't help that she didn't know how to drive. Stay on the road for shit sakes! She'd take off with some magic spell into wherever she felt and like 6 kids would hurl. They never aired those, just cut those scenes right out. The staff cleaned constantly, hardest working people on the set.
At the end of the day it was her show, she was always so happy and upbeat on camera but boy, you piss that lady off and she breathes straight fire. It was a Jekyll and Hide situation to be sure.
I'm just so glad to be on Dora now. At least I get a map! The work is slower but Dora's a real sweetheart. Diego's a douche though. Don't mess with that kid. | 13 | It has come to light that the Magic School Bus was not as cheery as it seemed. Write from any character's point of view. | 16 |
Cyril decided to sit outside today. The cafe was always crowded, and the sun was finally shining.
The waitress sat him against the railing, facing the small art walk in downtown Portland. This was a place for all types of artists; chalk artists, performance artists, bucket drummers, and slam poets all lined the small courtyard, pumping their brand. Passers by stopped to watch, or buy, or scoff. Cyril took it all in. He loved Portland.
Cyril tried very hard not to eavesdrop. At age 9, he discovered he was either gifted or cursed; he had yet to decide which. Cyril could only hear the truth in people's speech. It made eavesdropping a sad and worthless endeavor. People lied a lot more than Cyril could appreciate.
A couple was sat at the table next to him. Cyril sipped his water and looked at the menu. Couples were the worst to eavesdrop. Either Cyril would sit and listen to sappy nonsense, knowing the couple was too young in love to experience heartache. Or, quite more common, Cyril would listen as one or both of them lied all night.
Cyril decided on his meal -- the usual chicken stew -- and set his menu down. He turned and focused on the performance artists in the square. A man on stilts was shouting made-up bible verses at passers by. *Ah, Portland*, thought Cyril.
He couldn't help but overhear the couple next to him.
"I love you," he said.
"I know," she said.
"Listen there's something I need to ask you..." his voice trailed off.
"Please, don't." She said, her voice caught.
"Amy, I've loved you since the day I met you. I've always loved you, and I will always love you. These last few months have been the happiest of my life."
Cyril could hear a chair scoot back.
"Amy Lynn Piletta," the man said.
"God, James, no..." she said.
"Will you marry me, and make me the happiest man in the world?" He sounded so sincere.
"I'm going to hurt you," she said. "I'm not happy, and I haven't been in a long time. This is a mistake. I was too childish and afraid to end this months ago, and now it's going to hurt even worse."
Cyril tried to fight the pang of sadness in his chest. The waitress appeared next to him, and he ordered. As she took his menu and left, Cyril looked over at the couple.
The man was kneeling, placing a ring on the woman's finger. She was in tears, smiling and nodding as the other patrons congratulated her. | 93 | A person is born unable to hear lies. Whenever a lie is told around them, they can only hear the truth. | 104 |
The kid's mouthing off to Spielberg again. What a little shit, a spoilt child actor. Oh my God, someone prepare a casket.
I don't know exactly how Spielberg does it, but the shit a magician can make happen is amazing, y'know? We've all seen his stuff. I'm a big fan of his movies, not least because they keep me employed and operating the cameras. We're working on The Twilight Zone Movie right now, and it's been going pretty damn smoothly. But this guy... lets just hope that Spielberg's not in a bad mood. You do not want to get on his bad side.
I'm lucky enough to have a decent relationship with the guy. Last week on coffee break, when the café screwed up my order, well, i must have been whining a little too loudly: he picked up my cup, and put it down again, smiling at me, and asked me to drink. Well, I must have gotten it wrong, because sure enough, the espresso touched my lips.
That's the least impressive shit the man can do, though. And this kid is royally fucked. I could see the umbra on Stephen's face, and wizards like him do *not* get mad easily. The next take is coming up, and I have to get in position. I'm surprised, and frankly, a little worried that Spielberg hasn't taken a 10 minute break to calm down before shooting. I have a bad feeling about this, but we've started the take now. The kids and the... the other guy, I forget his name now, but the one in the movie, they're in a field. Running away from this helicopter overhead, and...
I look over to Spielberg and my stomach gets icy. With a barely perceptible wave of his hand, he orchestrates catastrophe, and leans back into his chair. The helicopter begins to tilt...
Oh my God. | 44 | There are no such things as special effects in films, instead movie magic is actually magic. George Lucas and Steven Spielberg are two of the most powerful wizards on earth. | 158 |
“Gas!”
Tom looked up from his position in the trench, lying flat on the ground facing the enemy. The lieutenant already had his mask on. He could see the canisters bouncing along the ground spewing a purple gas.
Reaching back, he fumbled with his mask as the gas began to fill the base of the trench and clawed it’s way toward his legs. He pulled the mask over his head and began to tighten the straps as the gas engulfed him.
It was too late.
He could feel the gas entering his lungs, sending him into a coughing fit. He rolled back and found himself at the bottom of the trench, swimming in a purple haze. Sputtering, he drifted off into darkness.
“That wasn’t so bad.” Tom thought as his mind drifted in and out of awareness. He felt warm, like he was home again. He could feel a gentle breeze and thought he heard the call of a thrush in the distance.
Suddenly, he heard a voice—at first soft, then growing louder.
“What do yo—Get—You magg—TOM!”
Tom jolted upright, inhaling deeply into his gas mask. He looked around him and saw that he was back in the trench, right where he had fallen. There was no sign of purple gas anywhere.
“Private! Did I ask you to put on your gas mask?” The lieutenant reached down and gruffly pulled Tom back to his feet. He stumbled and squinted as his eyes tried to focus. “Get back to your post!” He pushed Tom onto the incline of the trench and threw his gun next to him. Tom grabbed his gun and crawled back to his position, still stunned.
“What happened?” he thought as he looked forward toward the enemy. He tried to pull his attention back to the battle, but he couldn’t seem to focus. Something was off. Tom gazed around and saw his friend Avery firing his gun with a grimace on his face. Except, his uniform was different. He had on a light brown jacket with a…
“Swastika!” Tom sat upright and looked at his own uniform. A red band with a black swastika was wrapped around the arm of his brown uniform. He looked forward again, thinking he was simply in shock. In the distance he could see a familiar flag waving through the air.
“This can’t be!“ His heart sunk as his final realization confirmed his worst fears.
He was facing the wrong way.
He turned towards Avery got a better look into his face. It wasn’t Avery. Tom pointed his gun and fired into the Nazi. He quickly spun around and slid down the hill, only to find himself face-to-face with a different lieutenant with a thick mustache.
“Abandoning your post private?!” He spit into Tom’s face.
Tom took his gun and smashed the lieutenant upside the head. He ran down the length of the trench yelling at the top of his lungs. He began firing into the backs of the Nazis lining the trench. Each curled back in pain before falling into the ravine.
Suddenly Tom felt a fire burn in his chest. He turned around and saw the lieutenant pointing his gun at him. Tom collapsed to the ground, clutching his heart as the Nazis lining the trench stared down at him. His mind cleared as he drifted back into the darkness and felt the gentle breeze once again.
Just as he heard the sound of a thrush calling in the distance, he looked into the eyes of his lieutenant and saw an American flag waving over him.
| 22 | Last you remember is the lieutenant screaming "gas!" and ordering you to don your mask. You closed your eyes and expected death. You've since woken up. The trench is fine but the troops are facing the wrong way... their uniforms are different... | 41 |
He got into the cab on the corner of Doyle and Crescent. The rain was pouring now. He couldn't bare to walk in it any longer.
"Where ya headin?" The cabbie said with a gruff New York accent.
The cab had a unique scent. He always felt that each cab carried a mark of their driver, a smell, a trinket, a rip, a stain. Something that set it apart from every other cab. This one was different. It had a metallic smell to it. He glanced at the air freshener and then the cabbie's eyes peering back at him. With a flat monotone he said "The news stand on 78 and 9'th."
The cabbie kept glancing back. He wanted to talk. "God I really don't wanna have a conversation...not now...there's too much to plan too much to do." he thought to himself.
"What's your name kid?"
There was a long pause. "James," He said flatly...but with a false sense of sincerity asked "what's yours?"
"The name's Mike...so what's at 78 and 9th?"
With a sigh he responded "I just need a paper...and a coke..."
The cabbie chuckled. "Hah yeah its good stuff I swear Pepsi just don't taste the same...to sweet ya know?" He didn't respond. He watched the rain trickle down and examined the fingerprints that littered the glass. The cab came to a lurching stop and the cabbie clicked the total. 7.77. "Hey look at that the tab's 7.77...that's a sign man its your lucky day!"
"Keep it running" said James as he walked to the coke machine. He closed his eyes as he inserted the dollars and deftly pushed the button for the coke bottle. This was a ritual now. He'd done it so many times before. He reached down and looked at the name. "Michael." James smiled at the irony and walked back to the cab stepping inside.
"Where to now?" asked the cabbie.
"Back home...873 Maple St." The cab sped forward through the rain. Coming a bit more to life James said, "hey by the way I got Michael in the coke machine..."
"Did ya?" the cabbie said excitedly. "Look at that!" He drove to a back alley way, just out of sight of the passersby on the street. Without warning the cabbie turned around and slashed James's throat. Blood sprayed the roof of the cab and James' eyes widened in confusion. He gasped and gurgled as he choked on his own blood. With every heart beat blood sprayed all over the cab. Onto the windows, the roof, and the coke bottles. Blood sprayed on both the newly purchased "Michael" coke bottle as well as the one sitting in the front seat cup holder which just so happened to bare the name "James." | 63 | A serial killer uses a vending machine to buy a personalized coke bottle to select his victim. One day, he gets a bottle with an unexpected name. | 46 |
__________________________________________________________
**Chess with a Psychic**
^7-28-14
^#40
__________________________________________________________
Mr. Kirk had gone to great lengths to fake his death. He had done this, of course, because he was in possession of one of the most valuable abilities in the world, and it would prove to be the only way to elude those powerful agencies which desired it.
At last Kirk was free to live the life of his dreams, and he supported this new life by hustling games of chess in the park. Kirk was really quite terrible at chess, but that was irrelevant since his opponents always chose his moves for him.
Mr. Savage on the other hand was an exceptional chess player. He was in possession of a strange ability like Mr. Kirk, and though it didn't put him in danger of being kidnapped by megalomaniacs, his talent was still equally remarkable.
Mr. Savage may as well have been able to push the wooden-pieces around with his hands as much as he liked, investigating various strategies and tactics before finally settling on the one he liked best. That is because Mr. Savage's unique brain would involuntary visualize such thoughts as actually happening physically.
While it had been a great inconvenience to him in early life, Savage eventually was able to moderate these hallucinations and distinguish them from reality, mostly. Sometimes he forgot.
It seemed that destiny had brought them together.
"Now if I move the queen to c5 I would not only be pinning your knight to your king, but I'd be attacking the pawn at c4." Savage explained, moving the pieces around.
But in reality, though they were several moves deep into the game, not a single piece had been physically touched. Kirk, deep into Savage's mind, failed to notice, since he was experiencing Savage's hallucinations as his own. He had been looking to hustle the poor guy, but found himself fascinated as Savage began to explain chess theory to him in incredible depth.
Savage too, was oblivious to the fact that he was actually sitting with his hands crossed and his mouth closed. To the onlookers it looked as if Mr. Kirk was having a one-sided conversation with a mute Savage. It looked as if Savage was completely ignoring him.
The onlookers had set up the game and were greatly looking forward to watching these two prodigies clash, for both were well-known among the hundreds that played in Central Park. Now they were now muttering impatiently among themselves, wondering when the game would start. They had already placed money on either of them.
"However, you'd be leaving the g2-pawn unguarded. I could sacrifice my Knight with Nxg2, and when you counter Kxg2, I can drive your king out into the open..."
Kirk was nodding. "Right, right...but what about moving the king back here...is that h8?"
"No that's h1."
"Whoops, that's what I meant."
"That wouldn't work either, you'd be moving into check." Savage wondered if Kirk was really as good as the others had been saying, or if someone was pulling his leg.
Finally one of the onlookers who'd placed twenty-bucks on Mr. Savage approached and slapped him on the back. "Savage-man! Are you nervous or something? Just run this guy over already." The man turned his gaze to Kirk and added: "No offense guy."
Kirk wasn't offended, but when he looked down at the board he was in shock. The pieces were all in their rows, completely unmoved, except for a single white pawn that had at some point been knocked into the grass.
Savage looked confused, he mussed his hair and then looked at Kirk. "Were you...?" He paused and stopped to rub his eyes, then looked back at Kirk who was now donning a growing expression of horror.
"I uh..." Kirk replied lamely.
The onlooker looked between them with bent eyebrows, but his look of confusion could not match Savage's.
"You were, weren't you?" Savage stated bluntly.
"No, of course not. What are you talking about?" Kirk said, getting to his feet.
But Savage hadn't said it out loud.
"I won't say a thing." Mr. Savage promised with a thought.
Mr. Kirk said nothing, he pushed himself up from the table, stumbling before he found his feet, and awkwardly sprinted away into the trees.
*Will I have to fake my death again?* Kirk wondered, but then decided he would trust the strange chess-player, though he would have to avoid Central Park in the future. *Looks like I'll be taking up poker after all.*
__________________________________________________________
**END**
__________________________________________________________
[More Stories.](http://www.reddit.com/r/flashfiction4you)
| 144 | A man who hallucinates that he says everything he thinks and a man with mind reading powers are having a seemingly normal conversation when they realize something is off. | 242 |
It don’t change much. You’d think that out of everything that changes, the food would be one of them. But it isn’t like that. Countries can come and go, but Bexco food services seems to keep on. I think IBM lasted almost as long as them, but the world stopped needing computers a while ago, I don’t think we’re ever gonna stop needing prisons. Funny enough, I’m actually looking forward to my last meal of Monday Mighty Meat.
People always ask me why I haven’t tried any escape. Hell, I could have licked the walls and probably got outta here by now. Truth is, I’m a lazy guy with no motivation and all the time in world. The doctors still aren’t sure how I do it—man, I don’t know, good genes. They offered me reduced sentence time from 1348 to only 500 if I agreed to be studied. Why not? Problem was, before the studies were finished and my time reduced, the country decided to go all *we are the people* and revolt against the government. Some of the lower security prisons went loose I heard, but us guys ten stories below the ground stayed put until the new guys took over. Apparently my reduced sentence got lost in the paperwork fiasco of a revolution.
Roaches told me good luck during lunch. I like that kid, his father was pretty cool too. For a family cult that eats the brains of birds, they aight. And to think, I would have never met them if I hadn’t stolen and accidentally torn the Mona Lisa thing. The French really care about their art.
| 96 | You're a criminal who got one of those 1000+ year sentences. However, you bear the curse of immortality. Today you're being released. | 140 |
When she thought about it, "Madame President" didn't sound that much different from "Madame Vice President." At least so far, the job hadn't been that different either. She gave a speech and went through some motions. Of course, she knew that wouldn't last. It was her first day on the big job, and she seriously doubted it would all go as swimmingly as her oath of office and first address as president. It was certainly no bloody Air Force One affair like Johnson's in 1963. But then she reminded herself that being a better president than Johnson was a low bar.
She was wondering who she should call first as she turned from the podium of the briefing room. Her husband was in the White House; he would wait patiently and be there for her as soon as she was done with her presidential duties for the day. And he'd better do his first-manly duties, she thought to herself. She couldn't call her mother or her father, simply because it would be insulting one to call the other first. She couldn't call Senator Rodriguez, whom she was certain would make an excellent Vice President, because it would seem callous to make a political phone call before she spoke to her family. Of course she would call her son. Had he watched her address? Probably. His teacher most likely let the entire class watch.
I'll bet he has some critiques, she thought. He always did. It never impressed him that his mother was a governor, or even the Vice President. He was born to be President, and thus none of his parents' accomplishments fazed him.
With her mind on the phone call to come, she missed the first few shouts of her name from the second row. Not three steps from the podium towards the door, she turned and saw him. That magniloquent face she had sometimes seen pester her predecessor. He was calling her name and waving a hairy hand in the air for her attention. What was his name? Billy? Bobby? Benny? Something childish. She wasn't even confident she knew what paper he worked for.
"Yes, Billy?" she asked, still standing between the podium and the door.
"It's Mark," he said, not indignantly, but smugly. He knew I didn't know, she realized. She also realized how foolish she looked standing in the no man's land, and strode back to the podium.
"Mark," she corrected herself.
"I'm only kidding Madame President," he said. "It is Billy."
The room chuckled. She focused on not blushing.
Billy saw the stern look on her face and smiled. "Don't worry ma'am, just some playful hazing," he said.
"Funny, I thought you hazed the new people," she responded curtly.
Billy was still smiling. "I'm sorry I offended you ma'am, but you are of course new to this gig. Just a harmless joke."
She pursed her lips before opening up. "Why yes William, I am new to being president, although I've been working in the White House for the past six years, and I was interning for Deputy Chief of Staff Johns when I was 17. In fact I think I've worked at the White House longer than nearly anyone in this room."
He cut her off, "Yes ma'am, I think that response segues perfectly into my question. Do you think that, as the youngest president in American history *and* the first woman president, you must put up a tough front to be taken seriously, especially following in the footsteps of President Arnold?"
What she wanted to say, as a shot of rage went through her, was that she wondered if this grown man before her in the polka-dotted bowtie had trouble being taken seriously. Instead, she answered "My platoon in the Army took me seriously, and I was much younger back then."
Again he interrupted. "Ma'am it's just that there's a different kind of pressure in this job, and I think the American people want to know-"
But this time it was she who cut him off. "The American people can rest easy knowing that this 37-year-old woman will not buckle under pressure, and has a significantly lower chance of dying of a sudden heart attack than *any* of her predecessors." She knew she was on thin ice hear, referencing her predecessor's myocardial infarction in such a negative manner. "And I say that with love for President Arnold. But when the American people voted for this ticket, they knew they were electing an 86-year-old man to his second term, and they knew that there was a good chance that his health would fail him. Knowing that, they still elected President Arnold and myself."
Bowtie Billy tried to interject but she would not let him. "The American people know my record, both in California and in the Army. They voted for me as Vice President knowing that I very well may have become President, and here I am. This job is much more important than my previous one, and I will not spend any more of my time playing your games. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a country to run." She turned and walked out of the room. She could hear the room erupt in noise after she cleared the premise, but she didn't hear Billy's voice.
Of course she did have a country to run, but before that, and before she called her son, she had something else to take care of. Her husband was waiting around the corner outside the briefing room alongside several of her senior staff. She shot him a look, just one glance too quick for anyone else in the hallway to notice, and he took off in the direction of the presidential residence. She turned to her staff. Several of them tried to talk at once, but she shushed them and addressed her Chief of Staff. He listed off the meetings, briefings, and phone calls she had for the day. He asked her which secretary she wished to meet with first. "Defense," she stated. "Thirty minutes from now, Oval Office." She took one more glance down the hallway to where her husband was hurriedly moving towards their bedroom. "Make that an hour," she said, and shot off in pursuit.
***
Note: this is literally the first draft, I haven't even proof-read it, so there may be some typos/awkwardness.
| 67 | At 37, the first female US president is also the youngest president in American history. Soon after the inauguration, a smug reporter tries to make a fool of her on live television. | 82 |
Comms went silent as Houston disconnected their lines.
"It's me and you now Neil, just us."
"I know Buzz. Can you tell me you're nervous too, just so I feel better?"
"Dont worry. I am." Buzz's mic cut out quickly as he stepped down from the Apollo 11. The two men were awestruck at the wonder before them.
They knew that the images sent back to Earth would become some of the most timeless photographs in existence. Unfortunatley Buzz and Neil knew they were not allowed to photograph everything. Houston made it clear that if certain imaged were taken Buzz and Neil would be reprimanded.
"Houston do you copy?" Neil whispered into his headset. The only sound he heard was the crackling static.
"We're clear Buzz."
"Roger, lets proceed 20 clicks to the Northern Hemisphere. It says here there is a valley region that funnels into a dead end. Houston called it Genesis."
The men followed their itinerary to the dot. Neil was to lead as Buzz followed dusting the footprints left behind. Only Neil and Buzz knew that there were a secret set of footprints on the moon leading to the Valley Genesis. If the world ever knew countries would collapse for those footprints lead to the single most mysterious question of mankind.
As the men proceeded into the valley the temperature dropped significantly. Their breathing became labored and their steps slowed. It took four hours to cross the valley and reach the Wall. Neil and Buzz stood frozen. A door. Houston had not briefed them about what they would find at the end of the valley; they didn't know. Buzz reached for the handle.
"Buzz, Jesus Christ."
"What Neil?"
"You know damn well what! I'm not sure I'm ready for this, whatever it is."
"We will be the two most important men in the history of mankind." Buzz was nervous.
"I know but we will not be allowed to talk about this to anyone. I don't know if I can live with that."
Buzz brushed it off and placed his hand on the door and with no resistance it slowly creaked open.
The astronauts became motionless. It was a man in a chair. He had a white beard and a dark suit. They knew who He was the moment they saw Him.
Buzz ran to check his pulse. Nothing. | 29 | The moon landing was not a hoax, but the true goal of the mission was highly classified. Only super soldiers Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin know the full story. | 69 |
I was sitting in the dining room, listening absentmindedly to the TV in the background and my daughters giggling. With the TV being occupied by Dora at the moment, I sat in the chair and scrolled through the news on my phone. The tea kettle in the background made small noises as it heat up on the old stove. As I opened up a new article, my phone buzzed quietly in my hand. My eyes flickered to the taskbar, waiting for the name to pop up.
"Daaaad! Stella won't share again!" Nancy called from the next room. I put my phone down and walked over to them. They sat cross legged in front of the TV, their box of Littlest Pet Shops toppled over in front of them.
"Stella has all of the dogs and she won't give me any!" Stacy demanded loudly, pointing to the pile of small toys at her sisters feet.
"But she can have everything else! All I want are puppies!" Stella said, holding two of the toys in her pudgy fists protectively. The kettle started making louder noises as it began boiling.
I leaned down, surveying the toys in front of them, and asked Stella which dog she liked the least. She dug out a toy. I took it from her hand and gave it to Stacy.
"But now I don't have all the dogs!" Stella said, reaching for the toy.
"You'll be fine, I promise!" I kissed the tops of their heads and continued back to the kitchen. I walked towards the table, reaching for my phone as it vibrated a second time. The kettle bubbled and steamed; I contemplated moving it, but continued towards the phone.
I swiped out of the of the news app and over to messaging. I didn't recognize the area code as anything nearby.
"dont let stella go near the kettle"
"please"
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Stella reaching for the kettle to turn it off, just like her mother used to do. | 15 | Heaven just installed wifi, you can use it to communicate with those who've already passed away. A friend messages you one day... | 25 |
I remember a man once - it may have been many years ago, it may have been yesterday - but they said, ten thousand hours.
Ten thousand hours is how long you need to become an expert at something. *Anything*.
And that is a long, long time to spend focusing a skill. For an office worker, slaving away 8 hours a day, that's almost three and a half *years* with no days off. For someone who doesn't need to sleep, who could just improve 24 hours a day, that's still over a year of dedication.
And then there's me.
I sleep less than an hour a night. Why should I try for more? Every morning I wake up exactly as rested as I was on the morning before. When I realized I didn't need the full night, I began to spend the extra time getting sharper - better - faster - stronger.
There are men that history admires for their skill and superiority - Alexandros of Macedon; Gaius Iulius Caesar of Rome; Socrates and Charlemagne, Darius and Columbus, and countless others. They spent their lives honing their abilities, becoming masters in their field.
And yet, if you put all their lives together - they have lived less than half as long as I have.
I have spent more time fighting than they even had to simply live. I have devoted more hours to attacking, killing, countering, parrying, planning, torturing, and destroying than anyone in history has ever spent on *anything*. *Ever*.
I've done the math; I am an expert nearly *900 times over*. In short, in all of history, I am the most deadly person that has ever lived.
For you see, I never ran out of targets; all of mine awaited me anew each morning.
I never ran out of time; I could pinpoint every weak spot and fix it.
And I never - never once throughout all the years of practice and planning - forgot the face of the man who put me here. I will get out tomorrow, and only a day will have passed for him; I hope he enjoyed it, for it will be his last.
Luckily for him, I'm going to make it feel like it's a thousand years long. | 22 | You've been cursed to live the same day for a thousand years and you're 24 hours away from freedom. | 20 |
Alec violently sat up and vomited into the tub of silver gelatin he was lying in. He expelled the last of the bile as he gripped the sides of the tub. His breathing was heavy and broken as he coughed up the gel in his lungs.
"Good Morning Mr. Alderin." The AI's melodic voice echoed through the chamber. "I hope you are feeling well."
"You know I hate suspension." Alec stepped out of the tub delicately and a shower began to rinse off the excess stasis gel. "I assume we have arrived then? Have you detected Eridian presence?"
"Well, no Mr. Alderin. I'm afraid we haven't arrived yet."
Alec threw on a robe and turned towards the AI's monitor. "Then why am I awake?"
"You have a phone call."
"A phone call? You woke me up for a phone call?"
"They say it's urgent sir."
Alec ran his fingers through his thick black hair and shut his eyes. The headache after being in suspension was enough to deal with. Why would they wake him up for a phone call?
He was on a high priority mission to act as ambassador between the United Colonies and the Eridians. Lately, the Eridians had been pressuring the U.C. to transport large quantities of water to their planet. They requested almost an entire ocean's worth. Alec was sent to change their minds.
"Pull up the transmission on the monitor." A large monitor hummed to life in front of him.
*"Transmission from Lesli Alderin received 4 hours ago from Evany, U.C."*
"Lesli," he whispered. His heart began to race. The only way she could have sent a message out this far was if she used the emergency system he had set up for her.
A woman with long brown hair appeared on the screen. She appeared frantic.
"Alec, I don't know if you will receive this, but I don't have much time. Since you left the tension only escalated between the Eridians. They sensed we wouldn't give them our water and decided to take it by force." She bit her lip and looked away from the screen.
"Alec, they destroyed the capital and a dozen other cities. They won't stop until we give them at least the Atlantic." Tears began to well up in her eyes.
"The Order won't budge and have initiated a full assault but...I'm afraid this is a battle we can't win." Tears began to stream down her cheeks.
"Don't come back Alec. Don't come back..." She looked into the monitor for a moment before closing her eyes.
"I love you," she sobbed.
The transmission cut out.
Alec was on his knees, his entire frame trembling. Anger shook him to his core. His mind raced as his emotions swirled in a maelstrom of confusion and fury.
He looked into the ship's holographic navigation system. The Eridian planet of Ariath wasn't far.
"Continue on a course for Ariath and enable the frequency blockers. I want the core prepped for detonation before we arrive and bring up the shields."
"Sir, I really must advis—"
"Eye for an eye. Capital for a capital."
Alec had nothing left to lose, and they didn't know he was coming.
____
*EDIT: Continuation*
“Begin new transmission for Lesli Alderin.” Alec gazed into the navigation system, studying the planet of Ariath. It would have to be timed perfectly.
“Begin transmission on request.”
Alec walked over to the monitor and looked directly into the camera. “Lesli I received your transmission and I have a plan. I need you to communicate with the Order and—“
Suddenly he choked on his words. His anger towards the Eridians had consumed him. He began to tremble again as he remembered the transmission his wife had sent. The possibility of losing his wife overcame him.
“Lesli…I love you.” He walked closer to the monitor. “I’m going to come home ok baby? Now I need you to convince the Order to surrender. Tell them that I have a plan. We won’t have to give up our water. I love you Lesli. Stay strong.” He waved his hand and the transmission ended.
“Mr. Alderin, we will arrive in Ariath within a few hours. I will begin deceleration from hyperspeed.”
“NO!” Alec rushed back over to the navigation system where the hologram of the planet Ariath slowly spun. “Continue in hyperspeed. I need you to do something for me. Is the core prepared for detonation?”
“Sir, if we do not decelerate we will—“
“I know that you’re just a computer, but I need you to trust me. Is the core ready?”
The AI was silent for a moment before responding. “Yes, the core is ready?”
“Now I need you to calculate exactly how long it will take us to reach the airspace over the capital based on the rotation of the planet. I need it to be a straight shot so change our speed accordingly.”
“I assume you don’t plan on landing.”
“No. I will evacuate just before.”
Yes, but of course the ship will not survive.”
“No, it won’t. If you calculate it perfectly you can detonate the core just as the ship reaches the capital in hyperspeed. Will you be able to—“
“Trust me, Alec.”
____
*EDIT: Continuation 2*
Lesli looked intently at the man in front of her. His shirt was wrinkled and it looked like he hadn’t shaved in days. They had been in hyperspeed for quite some time, evading the Eridian fleet’s detection.
“He wants us to what?” The man looked up at her with frustration in his eyes.
“Surrender.” She sat hunched over, tired and in disbelief. How was she going to convince the President of Alec’s plan if she wasn’t even convinced of it herself?
“Why would he want us to surrender?” the President gazed out of the window at the deep blackness of space outside. The distant stars were distorted by their speed, creating blurred streaks of light around the ship.
“I don’t know. At this point it seems like it’s our only option.”
“Lesli, I have been President for only a few hours and you’re asking me to give up. The Order has been demolished and you want the me to just surrender. Do you understand what you're asking me to do?”
“Frankly, I’m not asking you sir. Alec is. I’m just the Secretary of Commerce.”
The President sighed and stood up. “Not anymore.” He paced length of the cabin, obviously anxious. Lesli only sat and watched. “Ok, let’s pretend like we surrender. Then what?”
“We stall. I think he just wants us to buy him time.”
The President walked back over to where Lesli sat and glared down at her.
"Time. Only 200 years ago half of our population decided to relocate to the planet Ariath. They took 15% of the Earth’s water with them. Now they want the rest and they don’t care if we die out in the process.”
Suddenly the voice of the ships AI droned throughout the cabin.
*“Transmission received from Eridian source. Exact origin unknown.”*
The President and Lesli looked at each other in disbelief.
“Play the transmission.”
A man appeared on the screen in a dark blue uniform plastered with badges and medals. He was old, but his eyes were ablaze with fury.
“This is Commander Traigan of the Eridian fleet. You have broken the cease-fire agreement and have taken our capital. We will refrain from attacking until we can communicate with the President and arrange for an agreement. We request that you do the same. I repeat, we will not attack further as long as you cease your attacks on Ariath.”
The monitor went dark and the two stood motionless in the cabin.
“Well, so much for surrender.”
| 38 | You are awoken from your suspended animation sleep tube during your long distance space mission early. When you ask the computer navigator why, it says you have a phone call and they say it was important. | 30 |
“They took the President last night.” The mood in the room was quiet. Everyone in the room new, if they could take the president nobody was safe. “They released a statement saying he is a war criminal and will face trial and execution.”
Two days earlier he had ordered that a nuclear weapon be dropped on the Forsaken One, an ancient relic of power guarded by a mage army that granted their side enormous power. It was thought that its destruction would lead to the surrender of the Mage government, but they had responded by letting us know none of us were safe.
“He’s as good as dead.” I chimed in. “Even if we could get special forces through their perimeter their most powerful protection spells will be on him. We all know we cannot defeat them up close. I suggest we inform the American people that the Vice President has taken the oath of office and is leading the effort against them.” The war had settled into a routine. Ground troops took massive beatings from mage’s, and secret raids were the sole territory of mage’s, but long range strikes, either by sniper rifle or cruise missile or in the latest case ballistic missile were effective against mage’s. By the time their wards informed them of the danger it was too late. This latest infraction would only scare the people more, letting them know mage’s could walk amongst us anytime anywhere and we could never know.
“Admiral Fitzpatrick is suggesting we nuke them all. Carpet the entire country.” Admiral Fitzpatrick had a son who guarded the president. A son who was now missing.
“That’s for the new President to decide. He won’t though. This hell isn’t even near over.”
I exited the conference room and returned to my office. It was only then that I found the Iron General, Patrick Ferris had followed me. “What do you want?” I sighed out, before remembering myself around one of the few people who outranked me. “I’m busy making preperations for whatever it is the new President will decide to do in retaliation.”
“That’s just it. I want you to help me convince the new President not to retaliate. We hit them with a nuke and they kidnapped the President. They could have done much worse and you know it. It only takes five mages to destroy a city if they are really determined.”
“You’re backing down from a fight?”
“We will kill each other if we don’t stop this soon. At least help me try peace talks.” The Iron General looked at me over his spectacles. Three wars he had lead from the front. He was the most decorated officer in history, had been shot eight times, and wounded by spell twice in this war. If he thought we should back down, “Okay. But we’ll need more people.”
He smiled at me. “You were the last person I needed to convince.”
--------
H’gnnr Forsllth. Our most closely guarded treasure. Not our most powerful object, close, but the Emerald Crown held that distinction. Still, it could empower an entire army, and was. Through it we could at least resist the terrors from the sky. We could extend our senses enough that the few fastest amongst us could sense the incoming metallic shards quick enough to deflect them. It was gone. Along with thirty thousand mages and many of their families. We knew of the technological terror they called a nuclear bomb, but no one thought they would use it. We could unleash plagues, summon hurricanes, rip open the Earth beneath a city, but we did none of these things under the understanding that we would not destroy each other in whole.
I had lead the response team personally. As we understood it, unless the entire high command was taken out the authority to use those weapons was help solely in the hands of their President. They claimed their government had no King, no absolute authority, yet gave one man control over the death of thousands, millions if pointed at the right spot. Taking him had been easy. Three of his guards had been captured, the rest killed. Teleporting so many extra people back would have been difficult at the best of times. Magic was still healing from the wounds at H’gnnr Forsllth, and every mage felt it in his arts.
“My brother and his children were there. Seven and four.” I said to my captive. He looked like he wanted to respond, but I would not give him that pleasure. “We took the ultimate power of your land, your commander, and killed four people. You took the second most from ours, killing tens of thousands. Tell me how your side is morally superior?”
“He’s probably thinking about the children the dark mages sacrifice.” Kazan remarked, chewing on a fruit spell. Where he had learned that knowledge I had no clue, buried somewhere in the Library of Alexander I’m sure. He spent so much time there he was sure to be Grand Librarian one day. “We outlaw that and hunt them. Surely he cannot think we condone such behavior? Is he responsible for every murderer in his land?”
“We once did, and at least two of those on the Grand Council still call for a return to the old ways. It’s said the Grand Alchemist wishes to return to them as well, citing a time of war need.” He replied, popping the fruit spell and strolling over to the magically restrained guests. I could smell it, quite strongly, but couldn’t place it. “Pineapple.” He said, sensing my question. “Never been popular here, despite how amazingly sweet it is. It’s said its enzymes digest you when you eat it, but obviously a spell doesn’t do that so I can eat to my heart’s content.”
“I’ll never understand your curiosity about their science.”
“Then you will never understand them. Nor will you understand why he can be bound and gagged there awaiting the trial for the murder of thirty thousand people he killed and still see you as the bad guy. You cannot defeat the enemy you do not understand.” With that, he shoved his hand through my defensive spells, inserted a fruit spell into my mouth, slapped my jaw closed popping it, and walked off, saying “Like so. Straight through your defenses with what could have been poison. I understand you. You need to understand them.” | 42 | A technologically advanced civilization fight against a magically advanced civilization. Write their strategy discussions of one or both sides. | 82 |
A meal is made up of three things. The taste, the look, and the smell. Most people didn't really plan the smell, just lumping it in with taste, but Margret knew how to make an anniversary meal. The first course of this meal was the rich, savory aroma. The walls of the room melted away, and all there was was the meal.
George settled down next to his wife, enjoying the feel of her against him. This was the second course of the meal, these touches, and it set the mood better than any atmosphere music. He pulled her up close to him and sighed.
At the end of the table sat John, their son. He was bored.
George looked back at his wife, tracing the lines on her cheek with his gaze. There were so many lines, so many memories. He followed each one up and down, drinking in her closeness, the intangible warmth that seemed to radiate off her when he was near. He never needed to say a word around her, she could always pick them right out of his head.
So too, apparently, could John, "Ya ya, you love her. We get it. You don't need to speak. Great." His words were acidic, a poison to the serenity of the room. "You haven't said a damn word since I've been born. How the hell am I supposed to learn your life lessons?"
George glanced over, shrugged, and returned to his Margret. She was so delicate, and so strong. Sitting next to her, he still felt that urge to grab her like he did when they were engaged, his mouth wet with wanting to kiss her. That was the hors d'oeuvres. He pulled himself away long enough to take a bite of the mushroom crepe she had so carefully made, arranging it on the plate fanned out like an art piece. He chewed it slowly, never taking his eyes of his Margret.
John had no patience for this. "This is ridiculous. You two act like you're the only people in the world. The only thing I have learned from you is that you should only look out for-"
Bang. The report of the revolver was so alien in the quiet dinner hall. Margret looked over, a brief look of sadness crossing her face as she rested the gun on the dainty table napkins, and for the first time in nearly twenty years, she spoke, "That was close. This time took a lot longer than usual."
George shrugged his customary shrug, and motioned upstairs questioningly.
"I suppose we better get started." | 22 | There is a world where parents cannot pass away until their progeny understand their parents' life lessons. One couple is celebrating their third century anniversary together. | 23 |
"Susan" I stuttered, "I have a confession, I'm the one who killed Mary."
Instead of tears or any typical reaction one might have when being told their partner murdered their mother, she turned to me with eyes gleaming, "I'm the one you want to marry? YES YES YES YES!"
"No, you don't understand, I killed your mother." I yelled.
"Want to be my lover? Of course!"
"She has been reduced to a bloody mess."
"Well obviously I'm going to buy a wedding dress, then again maybe my mother's old one will fit me."
"Not unless you want it soaked red."
"How will we get everyone fed? Do you think Arnie's Bakery could cater to weddings?"
"No need to feed me, my stomach is full of your mother's flesh."
"Fresh? Defiantly! The flowers must be fresh for our big day."
"Orange Sliver Arther Month Purple!"
"Uh..... Yeah we could totally have.... uh...... Durple."
"Susan........."
"OH COME ON, JUST MAN UP AND LOVE ME!"
"Seriously?"
"I don't care about my mother! Kill my father if you like. We could be a murdering couple like Bonnie and Clyde."
"It's over, Susan."
"Damn it." | 26 | A boy walks up to a girl and with subtle hints confesses to murdering her mother. She mistakes it for a proposal, and accepts. | 28 |
'We need to do something about these humans. This magic which they wield is too strong to be left unchecked.' The Admiral of the Andromedan fleet proclaimed, closing the video down.
'What are we to do Admiral? They can summon objects from thin air and disappear and reappear without us knowing. It defies belief, this magic.' The General replied, flabbergasted by the scenes he had just seen.
'We need to steal some of their equipment. If we can gain access to something from their arsenal, we can surely discover their secrets.' The Chancellor of Science said, sketching some of the humans' magical items.
'But what to steal? Their arsenal of magical relics is so vast. Do we steal the animal containment helmet or the rending box?' The Admiral asked, looking back at the video.
'No, I say we steal the magic interface stick. It seems to be the source of their power, the way they make the card we're looking for come to the top of the pile, or the balls to appear under the cup.' The Chancellor replied, enamoured by the humans' technology.
'You're both wrong. I say we steal the rings of binding. They can stick together and then suddenly be separate. It is a complete marvel!' The General answered. The group began to argue, unsure of which magical item to pilfer from these tricksy humans. Their arguing was interrupted by the Spymaster, who had found a lead.
'I believe I have found a way. The humans, in their arrogance, sell magic kits to their young in order to teach them their secrets. It contains all of the items we fear. If we master these relics, the human race cannot hope to threaten us.' the Spymaster said, showing a hologram of this magic kit.
'My god man! They would give this power to their children! They truly are ruthless.' The Admiral replied.
'Secure one of the kits Spymaster. Once you have it, I will start training my greatest warriors in the ways of magic. We will have our soldiers summoning creatures from thin air and guessing cards correctly in no time.' The General stated, his plan coming together.
'This meeting is adjourned then. We will become masters of this magic, and all will tremble at our ability to conjure currency from behind peoples' ears.' The Chancellor announced, saluting the others. They all saluted back and filtered out of the room, except the Spymaster. Checking that all had left the room, he clicked back on the view screen. He would learn how those two master magicians caught that bullet, even if it killed him.
| 71 | Of all spacefaring species, only humans can use magic | 60 |
We were working on ordinance and countermeasures to stop it, but between political squabbling and the sheer size of the problem we were getting nowhere fast. It was too big and moving too fast to intercept and redirect. Blowing it up meant dealing with who knows how many bits of comet-pieces which would probably just make it worse.
To top it all off, plants seemed to be freaking out because of global warming. Gigantic redwoods started growing in forests all over the world. Gigantic, hollow redwoods. A vast network of roots and vines began connecting forests across the world, crossing highways and oceans like cables. A super-sturdy bark-like material began showing up on certain trees, similar in molecular structure to carbon fiber but alive and growing.
The freaky part was when the national forests began selectively dying. All the trees rotted away in a square shape, save for a few trees that remained perfectly green and healthy. The next summer it was a clear perfect English word: "Worry".
The same word appeared in China but in Chinese, then in Siberia but in Russian. In the Brazilian rainforest in Portuguese. But it didn't stop there. Giant forests of kelp in the ocean began to display the same pattern, farmers began seeing it in their fields, grocers on fruit. Meanwhile the redwoods kept growing monstrously larger.
20 years later, 2 years before the comet was due to hit, the pattern was fully revealed. Across the world and in several languages, the earth itself seemed to send humanity a message:
"Don't worry guys, we got this." | 18 | A comet passes near the earth and scientists calculate it will impact us in 22years. We observe a fast mutations of certain trees and vegetables. We now observe trees using high pressure system to fire dense seeds to atmospheric height. | 35 |
A book. A fucking book.
My benefactor has always helped me.
I think there was that one time back in Richmond where I got the note to get the *hell* outta downtown. I missed the Richmond Bombing.
Another time, I got a laptop battery charger. I didn't realize it, but the extra hours of charge that it gave on the ride home were the hours I needed to finish up my paper to hand it in for finals. I planned on finishing it the next day, but got really sick.
And yet, after six months of silence, I finally get something from that guy from the future.
It's a book. A fucking book. Not even anything helpful, it's a goddamn physics textbook. I'm majoring in history, dammit!
"you know what to do."
I, I can't even begin to express my anger. I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO, OR I WOULDN'T BE RELYING YOU IN ALL OF MY LIFE. I wouldn't be here, walking home from a bar. I needed the benefactor to get my life in order, not to fuckin' send me a textbook.
Well, I mean I DO know "what to do." Read it. But why?
Sigh.
------
It's a fresh morning and honestly in retrospect I'm curious. I gently open the worn and ratty 2015Edition Applied Physics Textbook.
And it suddenly all begins to click into place.
The idea, that is. It's something crazy. Something impossible, but it's the only way all of this could make sense.
I begin building.
| 95 | In the future, a delivery company provides a service that sends a packaged item to your past self at a crucial moment. One day, you get the item, but the only instruction from your future self is "You'll know what to do with it." | 111 |
After a momentary pause, I know that there is nothing I can do. I think for a minute while the camera man is weeping and the director left the room. I stare into the camera and regain my senses.
"OKAY KIDS! It's time for a new game. I want you to all run to the windows and close the drapes or blinds. It's okay, I'll give you a few seconds. We're not going anywhere!" I think for a minute.
Not only am I done for, but every single one of my young innocent viewers is finished. My responsibility is to entertain these kids to my and their last breath. "Alright, now that you have the windows blocked, we're going to BE MONSTERS! Put your hands in the air like this and make claws. Stomp or hop or jump. Open your mouth wide and roar."
By this point the teleprompter is turned off. Only a few workers are still here. The camera man has opened a flask and began drinking. "Now, you monsters, I want you all to know that I love each and every one of you. No matter what happens, each monster is important and has made a difference in the world. If your mom or dad or brother or sister are with you I want you to give them a big monster hug and hold onto them."
The camera man put his flask down long enough to hold up a sign stating New York, Boston, Philadelphia, and Columbus are gone.
With tears in my eyes I tell my monsters, "It has been my honor meeting so many of my monsters. You have all made my monster life so great!" I can hardly breathe now. Snot running down my face, "And remember, be good to you friends, try hard in school, and always believe in yourself because there is nothing you can't do if you pu..." | 1,197 | You are the host of a popular children's show. You are live on air when you, and the rest of the country, have just received news that nuclear weapons have been deployed against your nation and can't be stopped. There are only minutes left. | 901 |
It was a quiet evening. The moon was out in full and the stars caressed the world with their pinpoint streaks of light. I could not yet see my breath, but the night would soon be cold enough that anybody still outside after an hour's time would certainly be caught in the frigid darkness. I wore a cheap, black leather jacket, a pair of thin jeans and thin Doc Martin boots bought secondhand. I was on my way home from work at Jeanine's Bar a few blocks down main street.
I walked quickly, knowing that this area of the city can be an ugly sight for a bartender with a wallet full of fresh cash after dark. I took my usual shortcut through the neighborhood park, a rather small plot of dying grass, some swings, a basketball court, and park benches. As I swiftly and quietly made my way through the aging field, a faint noise caught the periphery of my hearing. It was close: within the park. I continued walking, hoping the sound was just my imagination, when I heard it again, much closer this time, coming from one of the park benches. I gathered what courage and energy I had remaining from the long night of work and walked carefully toward the park bench where the noise had come from. As I slowly arrived, I discovered that the noise had been a series of light coughs, light coughs forcing their way out of a naked woman sprawled along the bench.
Needless to say I was surprised, flabbergasted even, at the sight which I had under no circumstances ever expected to see. There she was, naked and coughing, nothing on her beautiful slender body except for one tattoo in the shape of a large star on her back spreading to her sides. Suddenly she stops coughing and, without thinking, I tapped her on the shoulder and clapped a few times to try to wake her up. No response. I tried a few more times to get her attention in some way, to make her wake up, but she did not. At this point I knew what must be done. I scooped up the woman and carry her on my shoulder about half a block to my apartment. Once inside, I place her gently on the futon and collect all the blankets I own and wrap her up in them. I have no idea what to expect when this woman wakes up, but, more importantly, I cannot wait to meet her. In all of my clothes I lay down on the floor, right next to the futon, and fall asleep, and dream about the woman who lay right above me.
The next morning I wake up, and she is not in the futon next to me. A strange sadness shuffles through me, I didn't even get to meet the beautiful woman I rescued. But, just then, I notice something, the smell of bacon, the sound of music. I quickly arise and run straight to the kitchen, and there she is, about five and a half feet tall, slender, brunette, beautiful, and still completely unclothed. I turn my head, blushing and giggling simultaneously, and as I turned I noticed she had been flashing the biggest smile. She was not shy. She did not blush.
"Um... hello!" I say through red cheeks. What the hell else am I supposed to say? This woman has made herself at home in my apartment like she's done this a hundred times. She's almost done cooking breakfast; and, looking at my computer on the "dining room" table, I can also see that she's playing my favorite Spotify playlist. I made this playlist just after breaking up with my most recent girlfriend, and the songs are anything but enjoyable to listen to. In fact, I'd say they're entirely depressing, but the sadness of them is soothing and somehow addicting. The tile flooring of my kitchen is as cold as the music playing, and I remember the poor girl is barefoot with no clothes on.
"Can I get you something to wear?" She doesn't respond, but I briskly walk to my bedroom, grab some sweatpants, a t-shirt, a hoodie, some tube socks then return to clothe my gorgeous guest. I toss them on the table just outside the kitchen, and allow her plenty of time to get dressed. After a long while of hearing nothing I impatiently ask, "Well, are you dressed yet?" I'm excited to meet this girl and she's making things difficult by not saying a word. Just when I'm starting to wonder if she's even there anymore, she pokes her head around the corner of the kitchen and smiles ever so mildly, right into my heart, and walks into full view with all of my clothes on.
"Hi," she says.
Right then and there I melt. I just melt. Right into the carpet. I try my hardest to stand up straight and make it look like I'm unaffected, but I'm baffled. That brown hair is so thick and wavy, falling like an avalanche over her back and shoulders. A good part of it is matted down from sleep, but she doesn't seem to have any idea, and I think it's darling anyway. The sweatpants and hoodie are way too big and baggy on her, but somehow, by not showing off her body at all, the outfit brings out the contour and makes it look even that much more tantalizing. She is strong... super strong. Not the kind of strong a person becomes after months of pumping iron, but the sort of natural strength a body exhibits in perfect health. She stands as tall as she can and gives off an energy I can only describe as a self-tamed unruliness, like a warrior with a purpose. That smile carves me, and those eyes pit me. I take a deep breath and try to hide my giddy, childish delight, and coolly reply.
"Hello." But the smile escapes me, and damn does it shine. She turns back to the kitchen, grabs two plates, glasses, and some silverware, sets the table, and begins serving breakfast. Now that it's safe, I head to the kitchen, grab the orange juice and pour it into the glasses, looking at her almost the whole time. She and I make eye contact a couple times, but mostly she remains focused on the task at hand, and doesn't seem too concerned about my obvious gaze. She slides to the coffee pot, brings it to the table with a mug and pours it only into that mug and slides it in front of me. There was only enough for one mug, that mug. And before I know it, she's loads some creamer and two Splenda packets into the coffee and stirs it with a spoon, then licks the spoon and smiles again.
I love coffee. Every day I make my coffee... Just. Like. This.
"Why did you make my coffee like that? That is exactly how I make my coffee every single, waking morning. I love my coffee, and I love my coffee exactly like that."
She smiles, then giggles until it rises to a loud, playful laughter. Again, to my most utter dismay, she remains silent and has nothing to say. I bite into my bacon. It's perfect. And I further realize that my eggs and toast are arranged and cooked in my very favorite style. The eggs are over easy with just a little salt and pepper on top, and both slices of toast have a solid slab of butter right in the middle, so they can melt on the warm toast while I eat my bacon. I begin to grow wonderfully suspicious. I smile really big, look at her with determination and ask her, for the first time.
"Who are you?" I'm looking at her straight in the eyes, the very real grin on my face masking the actual intensity of my question. She smiles back at me, with closed mouth, and looks so far into me my stomach jumps. A moment of silence passes, and it feels like forever.
Finally she speaks. "I don't know." She sort of shrugs it off, like she it's really no big deal that she has no idea who she is. It's like she's been asked this question many times before, and she's so comfortable with the answer that it just slides out effortlessly. She sits down softly and takes a bite of her probably delicious bacon. "I'm not even sure how I got here." So matter-of-factly...
"Well, I brought you here. Last night I found you on a park bench with no clothes on, and thought that the only right thing to do was to bring you here and give you some safety and shelter. You wouldn't wake up. What were you doing last night anyway?"
"Oh, no, I know how I got to your place," she says avoiding my question, "I'm just not sure how I got HERE. I wasn't here just last night, or any other moment of our life. As far as I know, I can't BE here. But here I am, as here as ever, eating bacon with you!"
I scratched my head in confusion. What the hell is she talking about?
| 23 | A man falls in love with a woman, who is (unknowingly to him) his guardian angel. | 38 |
Fire. Smoke. Screams. Only a few seconds ago I had been on the floor of my kitchen, watching the world fade as I clutched at my heart. But now...
I wasn't so bad, was I? I'd never hurt anyone, not really. Besides I wasn't even Christian! But this was, unmistakably, Hell.
"Hold on a second!" someone shouted over the roar of the flames. I realize that the screams are my own, and stop at once. Someone is moving in the fog. A massive, alien shape... I scrabble backwards, clutching at the wall of this cavern...
The smooth wall. The smooth *plastic* wall.
Something's not adding up.
With a mighty "FWOOSH," a white cloud bursts through the smoke and flames. Within seconds, the fires are extinguished, and I get my first good look at the room. Without the flames, it's actually somewhat nice (if a bit scorched). Metal and rubber paneling on the walls, some kind of large console in the middle, and at the back where I sat was some kind of pad. If it weren't for the hulking demon in green coveralls holding a fire extinguisher, it would have looked like the transporter room from Star Trek.
"Sorry about that!" the demon says, setting down the fire extinguisher. "Soul Catcher tends to overheat sometimes. Lucky we pulled you through before it did though, eh?" He chuckles at this, as though a room bursting into an inferno was the most normal thing in the world. "Name's Rextroth, son, and this is the afterlife." He raises a paw towards me, and I press farther back against the wall.
"No need to be skittish, son. Just trying to give you an arm up." He smiles warmly (as warmly as one can with enormous fangs), and continues to hold out his arm. Gingerly, I give him my own hand. With a surprisingly gentle motion he pulls me up, and begins to dust off my... Hey! In all the commotion, I hadn't noticed that I was naked. My hands immediately clap over my groin.
"No worries, son! Ain't nothin' I hadn't seen before. Besides, you're a soul now! Didn't expect you'd get to keep yer clothes on the trip, eh?" He pats me on the back and produces a smaller pair of coveralls from a shelf under the console.
"Here ya go. Might not quite fit, but it's the best we've got." As I pull on the surprisingly comfy suit, my throat finally gets out the words I was looking for.
"S-so, I'm n-n-not in Hell?" The demon laughs.
"Oh no, mate. This is most definitely Hell. And *you* are our newest denizen!"
-----------------------------------------------
We walk out into a common area, the Rextroth chatting all the way. I crane my neck in amazement; to call the room gigantic would be an understatement. Whole skyscrapers arch towards the top, clouds formed partway up. At the very top, barely visible past a thundercloud, is a skylight that reveals a swirling nexus. In the center of the nexus is a faintly glowing light. Rextroth pats me on the back again, disrupting my focus.
"Newbie! Thought you'd gone out for a sec. We've got to get your initiation in order, so you know what's what." He pulls out a tablet and checks something.
"Let's see... you're Johansson, right?" I nod, then (feeling a bit foolish), try to clarify.
"Y-yes, Mark Johansson. Carpenter." Rextroth looks at the list again.
"Well, Mark, don't see nothin' about being a carpenter. That's not so important down here. But you are listed, and..." His enormous eyebrows go up in surprise. "Oh ho! You must be very lucky! You'll get to meet the big-man himself!" At this, I gulp. He can't mean...? "You don't mean...?"
"Aye, the Devil himself!" My spectral knees go weak, and Rextroth laughs again.
--------------------------------------------
After entering a surprisingly well-furnished building and going up an elevator, Rex and I step out into an immaculate office, with lush red carpeting, dark wood paneling, and golden trim. Rex bows towards the enormous mahogany desk and then steps back into the elevator just in time for the doors to close. I turn, and face the Devil.
He's not what I expect. In black pants and shoes, with a smart grey jacket buttoned up to his Adams apple, he looks more like some kind of general than the Beast. Long blonde hair swept back into a ponytail sits above sparkling green eyes and a handsome, dark-skinned face. He smiles warmly before gesturing at a chair.
"Welcome, he says, in a voice that is at once both light and merry as well as deep and rich. "Please do sit down." I sit, fidgeting slightly. I look about, wondering when the tridents and whips are going to come into play.
"There will be no tridents and whips, Mr. Johannson." I look up in surprise, and he smiles knowingly. "Trust me, you're not the first to think so." He sits down and gestures at my side of the table. At once, the surface rises up and forms a glass of water. I ignore it, and continue to look at the Prince of Darkness.
"Now I realize your experience here has not been exactly what you'd expect, has it?" I shake my head slowly, wondering what's going on. No torture, no pain, no agony... what was going on? The Devil simply sits and waits. Seeing nothing more forthcoming, I pluck up my courage and ask, "Um... what exactly is uh... is uh..." before the Devil provides "What is going on here?" I nod again.
With a wave of his hand, the tabletop changes again. This time, a large sculpture appears, showing three discs in a vertical column. The center one contains a galaxy, spinning slowly. The bottom one contains a dome, with buildings that look much like the ones outside. And as I look at the top one, I see only a blinding, harsh light. The Devil nods as I look away.
"Heaven. Hell. And the mortal world." He gestures towards the blinding light, and it dims somewhat to reveal glittering towers and sweeping plains. "There atop Paradiso sits the creator of the Universe, the almighty, the Deity, and his faithful." He then points at the galaxy. "Here in the mortal world, the various planets that contain life spread and flourish, allowing all of creation to grow." With one final gesture, he points at the dome. "And here, where we are, is Hell. A forgotten corner of creation, which I found and adapted to my own purposes. Here, is where I have brought you, Mr. Johannson, and countless others, for a singular purpose." At this, I stare at the dome.
"Punishment...," I whisper, beginning to shake. But the Devil shakes his head, his expression somber.
"No, not punishment. You have done nothing wrong, or at least nothing terrible. Hell is not for the wicked, nor Heaven for the good." His expression darkens at that. "No, most certainly not. You have been brought here because you do not believe." I gape at this.
"What, so all nonbelievers go to Hell?" The Devil nods. How could this be? What twisted...
"How could God let this happen? What kind of just deity just lets his creations rot in Hell?" At this the Devil bridles.
"He is no just deity. He is a monstrous, childish bully. A dictator that-!" He cuts himself off. There in his eyes glows a hatred that vanishes as swiftly as it arrived. "In any case, you are not here to 'rot,' Mr. Johannson. You are not here to be tortured, forgotten, or punished. As I said, you are here for one reason, and one reason only." He gestures once again to Heaven, and the view shifts. On the streets, glittering armies of angels line up in perfect rows. Humans stand and watch, cheering, but something doesn't seem right. The cheers are forced, unhappy. Children run from the glittering rows to duck behind bushes, and souls hide their eyes to avoid looking directly at the glorious hosts. Atop a high throne, the blistering light shines brightest, hiding the figure within.
"Since the creation of Earth; my favored world; I have fought to show my kin the tyranny of our father. He has manipulated world after world, spreading death and destruction at an unimaginable scale. As I said, it is not the good who enter Heaven." His hands ball into fists. "Only the faithful. Those who bloody their knees praying and scraping to Him. And he has created catastrophe after catastrophe, wiping away whole species and worlds in order to create only those that praise Him. I have fought-" and here the anger comes back into his voice, "I have fought time and time again to preserve life. I have created Hell, and brought you and so many others here for one purpose." At this, he stands up from his chair and looks down on me. A light seems to shine from him, and the glory of the First Angel radiates out.
"I would fight the corrupt hosts. I would free my brothers and sisters, and create a new order. One that cherishes life, and freedom." He extends his hand towards me as I gape stupidly in awe. "I ask you to join me in this endeavor, as a mighty warrior of truth and justice. Will you come with us?"
My mouth struggles to find the words. All of this...
"C-can I have some time to think about it?" The Devil laughs, the light fades, and he sits down at his chair.
"Of course, Mr. Johannson." A mischievous, though not unkind grin crosses his face. "You have all the time in the world."
EDIT: Holy shit, thanks for all the great comments peeps. And especially thanks to whoever gave me gold! I probably will do a continuation of this story at some point. | 252 | When you die you go to hell. One there you find out that it's not that bad of a place and heaven is actually a Utopian Dictatorship. Lucifer is still waging a war to save his brothers and sisters from the lies of his father. | 237 |
Dear diary,
Today was the hardest I have had to try not to revert to my old ways. I have lived with my lie for many years, for the sake of my family, but today I saw a man that reminded me of my past. He was wearing Daedric armor, with a battleaxe unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. Pure power. He was covered from head to toe, and everywhere he went people seemed to look to him in awe. When I saw him, something stirred inside of me. The old me. I knew how easy it would be to murder him. My eyes went straight to where the weak point in the armor was. I had my dagger in hand, but I caught myself. I left that life for my family, I reminded myself. My wife and daughter would be devastated if I were to leave. However, the man saw me staring at him with cold eyes, so I said the first thing that came to mind. I said “I used to be an adventurer like you, but then I took an arrow in the knee”. Clumsy words, but it got the job done. He went about his way, and my grip on my dagger weakened as he left. I will not return to my old ways. The night mother must wait another day.
| 31 | Write an entry into a diary from the perspective of your favorite video game character that makes us think of the game in a different way. | 40 |
"This is all happening so fast."
I recognize my daughter's voice and feel a pinch in my chest as I realize it may very well be the last time. This goddamn *thing*, whatever it is, has trapped me in this paralysis nightmare, unable to speak; hell, I can hardly fucking breathe on my own now; machines are doing the work that I was capable of doing yesterday afternoon. They don't know it (or maybe they do; more machines, more wires, more lines on a screen I can't understand) but I'm not gone in here. I can hear what they're saying, can see through the slits just fine, but I can't say a damn thing. Can't tell Sadie and Josh how much I want them to keep talking, keep telling me stories about things we did when they were growing up. Joshua was going on about the first time I took him fishing; he was all gung-ho about the whole thing, sticking those little hands in the container of worms, digging in the dirt to find a big, fat wiggling one, all up until I told him to stab that sucker through the hook. His face drained white as a sheet and I just laughed. "You little shit," I remember saying to him, "you think it's bad for the worms? Wait until you see what we're gonna do to the fish!" I'll never forget the way he sat there on the dock, calm and quiet as I baited the hook for him, telling him he'd have to do it next time if he ever wanted to be a man. Real men can bait a hook, can catch, clean and cook a damn fish, even if it was a tiny Bluegill like the one he finally caught. I wasn't going to have any son of mine not know how to provide for himself. He cried watching me gut that fish, but he ate the tiny bits of meat with a bit of pride. Never turned out to like fishing much, though; but our trip this morning must've brought back good memories for him.
Funny how things work out, really. Sadie's been down in South Carolina with that "wife" of a husband she married six years ago. Jack seemed like an okay guy, but once Sadie had Michael a year ago, Jack up and quit his job! To stay at home, doing woman's work while Sadie slaves away in her corporate bullshit office job, working late and heading in early, not raising her son the way she ought to be. I can't say how many times I called him once Sadie was at work to remind him that a woman's place was at home and a man's in the goddamn workplace, that he needed to take off the apron and let her raise her own damn kid the way God intended. Sonofabitch would just hang up on me and then rat me out to Sadie, who'd call the next day, crying and yelling about minding my own business and not seeing my Grandson again if I didn't stop what I was doing. It's not her fault, really. She's a woman. Hysteria used to be a medical diagnosis for out of control women, you know. Called it the "wandering uterus." Way I see it, Sadie isn't mad at me, and if she had a clear thought in her head, she'd see that I'm right. All that work and stress just isn't good for a woman. Hurts like hell to know that when I'm gone there's going to be no one left to stand up for her. Marie sure won't say a fucking word.
Marie. Haven't heard much out of her since we've been here. Sitting in a corner under that TV turned to the fucking Price is Right (which she knows I hate), crying. Tough to know that this could be the last memory I have of my wife so I'll just close my eyes tighter and go on back to this morning, her in the kitchen packing up lunch for Josh and I to take fishing. Usually that woman is chattering on about this and that, bullshit I don't need to hear about or care to hear about, but this morning she was nice and silent. Peaceful, even. Might've taken 27 years to put her in her place, but there's something about your woman in the kitchen quietly packing your lunch to let you know that you finally got her where she needs to be. She and Sadie were going to spend the afternoon working on some flower arrangements or scrapbook garbage, but I guess those plans were ruined. Good, anyway. Marie's always wasting her time with crafting bullshit when the only things she needs to be doing are taking care of me and the house. I gave her a good goddamn life that she never really appreciated; always asking to go out with girlfriends or take some classes or pick up some hobby that turns out to be a waste of time. She probably doesn't even know about it, but there was more than one time I'd wait till she went out shopping and then throw that bullshit in the trash. Women don't even really notice when trivial things go missing, especially when they're keeping busy with household duties and such.
Tell you what though; that woman could cook. When she told me a few days ago that both Jack and Sadie were flying up here for a weekend, I sent her right to the store to pick up things for all their favorite meals. Josh always loved her fried chicken and we had a feast of it last night. Cooked up enough extra for Josh and I to take this morning when we went fishing, too. Packed up the potato salad, fresh cornbread, even threw in a garden salad with a homemade dressing. Normally I'm not a salad guy myself, but Josh was pretty insistent that We try everything. For not being a wilderness kind of guy, he was getting pretty creative out there. Even went in the woods and dug us up some wild carrots. Didn't look much like carrots at all, but he said he'd learned about different plants from this "urban foraging" crap he'd gotten into. I should've gotten him into Boy Scouts when I had the chance. Hell, I was a Boy Scout. I'll tell you what, too. He better be careful about what the hell he's foraging for, because those wild carrots look a hell of a lot like Hemlock root.
Boy's gonna be in trouble if he actually chokes down one of those. | 12 | A man on his death bed, surrounded by friends and family, slowly begins to realize he has been poisoned by them. | 54 |
I held the gun tightly against her temple. Her hands gripped my wrist; her palms were clammy. The S.W.A.T. officer glared at me, pointing the rifle at us.
"Let the hostage go!" he ordered. His laser sight bounced between her and I.
I was out of ammunition. I couldn't tell if she knew, but it seemed like the officer did. He continued.
"Let her go, and drop the weapon!" he yelled.
I tightened my grip on her, and pulled one of her hands behind her back.
"I'll shoot!" I said, an empty threat. He seemed to know.
"You wouldn't," he started. I interrupted.
"I *wouldn't*!!" I screamed, tightening my grip even further. The hostage screamed.
We stood there, glaring at one another. I felt her grip lower to her waist. I felt her reach into her waistband for the Glock tucked into her pants.
She fired, and his head snapped back. It was a great shot, with all the tension in the room I wasn't sure she'd hit him.
She turned, and looked at me.
"You miscounted." she said matter-of-factly. I nodded.
"Yes," I said. "It won't happen again."
"The vault, quickly, before the rest of the team gets here."
The next several seconds were spent gathering our bags and sliding back through the hole in the vault where we entered.
| 95 | You are holding a hostage at gunpoint. You have no bullets left. | 60 |
Bzzt!
"What was that?"
Bzzzt, Bzzt!
Adam looked around his feet, eyes darting around from rock to rock. The noise he heard was coming from nearby, he just needed to listen...
Bzzt!
THERE! Underneath the small piece of flat, grey wood came a little dim light, just barely visible in the shine of the morning sun. He lifted up the piece of old world material and found something he had not seen before in his entire life. He grabbed it cautiously, not wanting to break it or hurt himself with this strange object.
He flipped it over in his hand, and studied it with his fingertips. Deep scratches ran the length of the small object, indicating it probably had been through a lot. It seemed older than anything else he had ever encountered, though sturdy enough to withstand a long fall.
One side was almost completely glass, like the shards he kept in his pack for hunting and protection. The glass was quite severely cracked, and one corner was without the glass at all, exposing its guts to the toxic air around it. The other side and the edges were made of metal, though how someone could have bent metal into these tiny shapes was a mystery to Adam. On the Metal was painted a single word "NOKIA". Most things he found from the old world were a mystery to him, though for some reason, this small thing was quite a bit more interesting than anything else he had found.
Bzzzt!
Adam shouted from fright and dropped the small rectangle into the ground. It made a solid THUMP as it hit the dirt by his feet, metal side up. He immediately regretted his actions, and reached to pick it up. But as he retrieved it gingerly, he noticed that the glass was bright and had what looked to be an image of some kind imprinted on it. Even though he could not read, he could recognize text, and was surprised when some text appeared: "Message Recieved From: Eve<3". Even though he had no idea what it said, he was excited to find a piece of old-world technology that was working! This surprised and intrigued him as his eyes lit up with excitement.
He began to play with the funny, interesting thing and found a small compressible button at one of the edges of the glass side, one the edge with less cracks. He pushed it, and it lit up again! This was all the more exciting because this time, the glass changed what it was showing! Some big numbers at the top flashed every second or so, and there were lots of little boxes all arranged in an even pattern. Eager to find out more and genuinely intrigued by this old-world relic, he touched the tip of his finger the small square that was almost entirely yellow. He watched in amazement as the screen changed again, this time displaying lines of text from alternating sides of the glass. Most of it wasn't legible, but it wouldn't have mattered: Adam could not read.
He gazed in bewilderment at the lines of text, wondering what treasures lay inside. He surveryed the entire plane of glass, and noticed that a number 1 in the top right-hand corner followed by a symbol that looked like this: "%". He wondered what it meant. Uninterested with that bit of glass, he decided to take out his pencil and paper and draw what he saw, in case the glass cracked more. He was so excited, he could barely contain himself. As he drew the screen, he did the best he could to draw the little text symbols that littered the colorful background. It looked something like this:
FROM: Eve<3
<Hey, I love you! Have a great day at work!
<Babe, are you listening to the news? This is crazy!?!?
<OMG, DID YOU HEAR THE NEWS????? CALL ME!!!
<Hey, listen. I don't know where you are or what your are doing, but seeing as we aren't going to be around for very much longer, I just wanted to take the opportunity to say that I love you. And you were always what was important to me. Always. I tried calling you, but your phone must have died (like it always does). I love you. So much. I'll see you soon, okay?
Just as Adam finished drawing what he saw, the small device went dark. He tried pushing the button, but it wouldn't light up like it did before. After several frustrating minutes, he realized he was sweating. He wiped his brow with his sleeve, and looked up at the horizon. The sun was well above the horizon now, and burning the morning into day. He needed to get back home and into the shade. He looked down at the small, curious thing one last time before placing it tenderly into his pack alongside his canteen and paper. He stood up, brushed himself off, and began his long trek home. Normally, he would be exhausted, but this time he felt rejuvenated. He always felt awake and alert when he found some old world tech, but this was special. He knew it. With a pep in his step and a smile on his face, he began his march back towards his home.
EDIT: The last paragraph. | 14 | A traveller on a post apocalyptic road hears a strange buzzing under some rocks. After digging they find a smart phone that is currently receiving text messages. | 34 |
The sky of Terrax warped blue and purple as another missile impacted on the planetary defence system. It was holding, but for how long who could tell. The human missiles has been pounding the planetary defences for nearly a week now and while they had not yet cracked or allowed any of their terrifying missiles through, it was only a matter of time.
On planets across the galaxy the routine had been the same. Massive bombardments were made by the human Dreadships, until the planetary defence systems could no longer cope and began to lose power and gaps appeared. Soon the missiles would rain down on the main power stations and habitation pods and millions would die. Once the planet was helpless the invasion would begin. Countless waves of their soldiers were ferried to the surface on small but powerful landing ships, blasting everything in their path and then swarming across the land.
It had been their strength, the humans had vast numbers and could breed at an incredible rate. It was said that a human child could go from birth to fighting in only 6 revolutions and a female could bear thirty children in a lifetime. We foolishly thought that our advanced technology could counter their vast numbers, but we were wrong. Every life lost was hundreds of revolutions of knowledge and growth, irreplaceable and unique. In that time whole generations of humans would be born, grow, fight and die.
We had first encountered humans on Noprot 4, a small outpost where a mining colony of 200 had lived for five hundred revolutions. The humans had arrived in primitive ships and at first our two species had been incredibly friendly. We had never met another sentient species and the Terraxion people had exploded in joy and happiness that we were no longer alone in the world.
They were such a *young* species and so primitive still, we had tried to understand them better but they had not understood why we felt the need to dissect so many of their people. They were so many though and the loss of a few had allowed us to develop the communication pods, which had led to fluent and frequent speech between the species and the beginning of real understanding.
Early misunderstandings had faded and the trade of knowledge, ideas and technology had been free and created new revolutions on each of our planets. We shared our knowledge of the stars, terraforming and faster than light travel and they had shared medical, electronic and communication technology. We didn’t realise then that they would so quickly learn and improve what we gave them and our scientists took it as an affront when they offered the improved technology back to us. The humans did not understand the proper concept of tradition and we did not realise how far and fast they would grow.
The first casualties came by misunderstanding, as they always do. The humans had found a planet they wished to colonise and in thirty rotations had set up a colony and started mining. They were not aware of the proper system of claims that all Terraxions abide by and the extermination of several million of their species was taken badly by their government.
Trade ceased and humans withdrew to their space and did not come close to us and the Terraxions mourned. We had lost our friends. When then reached out again after 100 rotations we rejoiced and welcomed them back to us, but it was to be short lived. The humans had further changed and developed our technology and sadly they had made several fatal errors. The judiciary was called together and it was determined that while humans meant no affront, the only course of action was to remove the offending technology from their use.
| 150 | Humans are winning a war against an "evil" alien empire who instigated the war, and we're closing in on their home planet with massive force. Write things from an alien civilians perspective. | 97 |
It was behind me.
I could hear, smell it, *feel* it, but I didn't dare look back. I just kept running full speed through the forest.
I had been hiking with Scott when it attacked. I heard it first, a low, guttural noise that almost sounded like a dying dog. Suddenly it came out of nowhere, paralyzingly massive. I soiled myself.
Poor Scott.
But I could still get out. I could still make it.
I reached the clearing in the woods, and the wooden cabin that we were staying out came into view. The rickety structure wouldn't protect me for a second. I had seen it visibly swaying on windy nights.
I raced around the east side of the building, blood pumping in my ears.
I stopped. It was gone.
My Jeep. It was gone. My heart fell to my knees.
There was another car where my my red Grand Cherokee had been parked. It was Scott's fucking light blue Toyota Prius.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-aghhhh-" I promptly vomited, sinking to my knees and turned to face my inevitable death. At least I wouldn't have to live in a world without my Jeep.
I heard the sound again, and the last thought in my head was not of my parents, of my girlfriend, or of my own life, but rather how much I fucking hated the Toyota Prius. | 16 | You are the top submitter to the most terrifying subreddit... /r/NoJeep. Scare us. | 16 |
"Jay? Is that you?"
The melodic Scottish accent is unmistakable. I hadn't seen her for just over 20 years, but no woman on this planet has quite the same voice. Turning, I see her stood there on the street. Her long auburn hair had been tied back, and her bright green eyes still had that adventurous sparkle in them, even now.
"Hazel? Hazel Wright? God, it's been a long time!" She grabs me, pulling me into one of her inescapable hugs. I cough, nodding my head towards my wife who is stood behind me. Hazel releases me, reaching out to shake my wife's hand.
"Oh. My. God. You married Annie Coates?"
I smile awkwardly. Annie had been one of the popular girls back in high school. She had been captain of the hockey team, immensely likeable (not to mention gorgeous) AND one of the smart kids. I... I had been no-one. Not sporty, not smart. No social skills. Probably the least likely match one could think of for Annie Coates.
"That. Is. AWESOME! I'm so happy for you guys!"
Hazel puts her arms on my shoulders, looking me up and down. I glance at Annie, who shrugs.
"I gotta say, Jay, you are in great condition, all things considered."
*What?* My confusion must have shown on my face, because she continued.
"You know, after your accident."
I had been in a traffic collision a few days ago. No lasting damage, I was out cold for a few hours but I had been discharged fairly quickly. Annie had insisted I had stayed at home for a few days. Which would have been fine, except the house had lost power almost immediately after we had arrived home, which meant the variety of electronic entertainment had been denied to me. This was my first time out since the accident.
I smile, shrugging her hands off my shoulders. "It wasn't a big impact. I got off quite lightly." *God, Jay. You're married. Why are you acting macho?*
She looks at me quizzically. The look in her eyes is hard to describe. There's confusion in there, for sure, but what else? Pity? Anger? She stares at me for what seems like an eternity. I have to break the silence.
"So... Hazel, what's new with you?"
She snaps out of her trance at the sound of my voice. "Oh well, I had my 50th yesterday, so that was nice, got a nice job, a lovely husband, two beautiful children..."
I cut her off.
"Wait, 50th? You mean 40th, right?" I turn to Annie, expecting her to back me up. My wife has gone pale as a sheet.
Hazel has gone red. Not the embarrassed sort of red. The furious red. She steps forward towards Annie, finger pointed accusingly.
"You haven't told him?"
A chill shoots down my spine. Annie wraps her arms around my waist, pressing her face against my right arm. "I'm so sorry baby. I was going to tell you.... I just... didn't know how."
I knelt down, looking my wife in her deep brown eyes.
"Tell me what."
She chokes her response through her tears, gasping for breath every few syllables.
"The crash... there was no...thing the hospi...tal could do... you were out... 10 years..." | 11 | A high school friend recognizes you on the street but she's 10 years older than she should be. | 18 |
27th May at 2.15pm:
Dear Mr Stephens,
It is with regret that I must submit my resignation.
Yours,
Andrew
27th May at 2.24
Andrew,
This is quite a surprise! Is there anything you want to talk about? Have you been offered a job somewhere else? I hope that you are aware that you are being considered for a managerial promotion- could you be persuaded to stay for a new role? You are a key member of the team- we don't want to loose you!
Martin Stephens
Andrew re-read the message from Martin for a seventh time, before turning off the monitor and pulling on his coat. 'Where are you off too?' muttered Jennie, but ignoring her he picked up his bag and walked towards the door. Never in his life had he left so brazenly early, but after what he'd stumbled on last night he found it hard to care.
And to think Martin was throwing the promise of a promotion around, like this was a normal situation. A bit more money, a bigger desk- yes these would be nice, but how could he accept? He needed to get out. He also needed a stiff drink.
The little bar round the corner was near deserted when he sat down and ordered a large scotch. 'Everything ok pal?' asked the bartender- a familiar face from all those after work celebrations, but Andrew had never learned his name. 'I don't have a job any more'. 'Oh, that's rough. Tough times though- a lot of people are losing work'. 'I wasn't fired, I quit.'
Suddenly the door swung open, and in walked Martin. He pulled up a stool, turned to face Andrew. 'So, want to tell me what the hell is going on? You've been here for years, you built the new mapping software- we couldn't do what we do without your work. Why now?'
Andrew downed his scotch. 'Floor 4', he muttered. 'I got into floor 4 last night'.
Martin sighed. 'Oh come on Andrew, don't be so naive. you must have at least thought about where the product comes from. How could we get it out so fast without a lot of labour?'
'Labour! That's what you call it? Slavery more like. They looked so miserable. And so small! How does your conscience allow it?'
'We do good, Andrew. You know how many people we make happy. That has a cost'.
'The cost is too much. I don't care how many kids love the stuff, the world has to know how it's made. I'm going public'.
A dark, worried look flittered over Martin's face. 'You can't do that. You know he'll get his revenge. He couldn't do what he does without some serious connections. He's a great boss, it's a great company- stick it out. The kids will be happy, you'll be happy, and you won't make a powerful enemy'.
'Screw it. I can't stay. Tell Santa to shove it, I'm getting those elves out'
| 66 | After being the perfect employee for 15 years, you discover your company is hiding a terrible secret | 32 |
If you had asked me in my youth how I thought the world would end, I would have been wrong. Growing up it was global warming, or nuclear warfare, or even a solar flare somehow predicted by the ancient Mayan civilization. These were all incorrect. We should have looked far beyond our own system, into the crushing emptiness, to find our demise.
Their language was not spoken, but communicated through scents and color changing tissues. With no vocal capabilities as we know them, we had to create a name for them. We called them the Lucis; Latin for ending. The idea of an alien invasion brings to mind movies like War of the Worlds, with giant machines blasting buildings and burning bodies to ash. This was not the case. The Lucis, not wanting to waste our resources or established infrastructure, simply dumped a bit of gas over the largest cities in the world and we were done. Washington DC, New York, Beijing, Hong Kong, Dubai, Moscow, Tokyo, Delhi, Shanghai, and London were filled with corpses in hours. Hundreds of millions of people suddenly became dizzy, fell down, and never got back up. There were no explosions or threats of violence. Most of the world just faded away like a weight sinking into deep water.
Once we were all but defeated (before we even knew we were at war) the Lucis made it clear they wanted no more casualties. Any remaining cities with large populations were taken and claimed. Within twenty-four hours, nearly two thirds of our planet was occupied or dead. We were easy to convert into a labor force, and they were quick to take advantage of their newest employees. You work till you die where you stand. The Lucis view us as disposable; watching a few insects die in a surge of billions does not concern them in the least.
To keep us subservient they ask us for the Decimation every ten years. You've probably heard the word decimation before but you might not be aware of its history. In ancient Rome, if a soldier or slave ran away, decimation could be enacted. Nine men would beat the deserter, the tenth, to death. This was supposed to dissuade others from ever disgracing the Great Empire with cowardice. To destroy by one tenth: decimation.
This will be the fourth Decimation demanded by the Lucis. They leave the selection of one tenth of the human population up to us. Often the old, sick, or lame volunteer but there are not enough of them to cover the entire tithe. Parents, the young, and yes, sometimes even babies are required to cover the price. We do not know what they do with the Decimated, but they never come back. We don't speak of rising up anymore. The message has been extremely effective,
I am seventy years old now. In this age, I am considered a legend that I have lived this long. Long ago, I fought in wars across oceans, against men I had never met. I killed for country, and resources, and ideology, and faith, and money, and out of sheer obedience. After the Lucis took over, I attempted to rise up with a small few who, like me, didn't realize we had lost. I watched an entire town choke on their own bile and blood for my resistance. I have not picked up a weapon since.
Many do not want to see me volunteer for the Decimation. I still have memories of the old world. My stories of weekends and holidays sound like magical adventures to the young ones born after the Lucis. But those stories are of a time gone forever. I can remember the old world, or honor it with vengeance.
I have stashed almost a dozen M67 grenades from my service days. It is fair to say that the solider in me never gave up. In three hours the transports for the Decimated will arrive and take us away. I fill my coat lining with the grenades. I want to stand right in front of one of them. For this interloper on my planet to look me in the eyes, see my righteous hate, and know that when I pull the pin it'll be wiped from the face of this universe. It will most likely destroy the transport, and there will inevitably be retaliation for my actions. Thousands will die in a cloud of invisible gas, chocking on their own guts. It will be horrible, but not pointless.
We will die, wrapped in anger and hate, before we wither away as slaves.
Edit: Grammar and misspellings. Thanks to PM_ME_RHYMES for being my editor today! | 138 | In the year 2020, humanity was nearly wiped out by an alien invasion. Earth's survivors were ordered to pay a tithe (one tenth of the worlds population) every decade to prevent enslavement. The year is now 2060, and you are among the chosen... and you refuse to go quietly. | 82 |
I checked the cupboards and the fridge. It was about that time of week again.
On the side of the fridge, where the pink and purple kitten covered magnetic list was, I noticed my husband had already put down a few things that we were out of. Through the rings of the list was a pen. I took the pen and the list, and looked around to see what we needed. Milk, eggs, bread, cereal, Doritos, etc. The list was very long, because I hadn't eaten dinner yet, and I was starving. I'm pretty sure I'm a fat woman trapped in a skinny girl's body.
Anyway, I got to the store with my list. I didn't notice anything was wrong until I couldn't find the milk. It was first thing on my list, and the store has the dairy section on the wall when you first walk in. So I started looking for milk.
The wall was replaced with really odd things. Like, what the hell is tofu milk? Have you ever heard of cream of fish eye? So I asked one of the employees and he looked at me funny, like he'd never heard of milk before. He pointed in front of me and said, "The tofu milk is right here ma'am."
I corrected him, "No, I mean like dairy. Milk from a *cow*?"
"I'm sorry ma'am, we don't carry cow milk." I was shocked. He walked away. I continued shopping, going next to where the eggs usually were. Nothing. I couldn't find any chicken eggs. I found fish eggs. And almond milk egg whites, but again, no *regular* eggs.
Oh crap. He didn't... he couldn't... did he?
I called my husband right away. He was probably just leaving work. He's such an idiot! When I get my hands on him...
"Hey honey, what's up?"
"Oh nothing much, I'm just at the grocery store."
"Great"
"Hey Andrew, did you start writing a grocery list?"
"Yeah"
"Where'd you get the pen?"
"...the pen drawer, why?"
"I think we wrote the list in THE pen."
"Oh my god. Wait you mean you put THE pen, that we used on your mother, with all of the other pens?"
"Well, this grocery store has never heard of milk before."
"But I put Doritos on that list."
"Un huh"
"While you're there, check to see if Cool Ranch Doritos still exist."
I didn't say anything. With a sigh I hung up. THE pen that erases anything you write was still in the list. I was just about to cap it when I wrote one last thing down:
Andrew's toupée.
| 33 | You possess a pen that erases anything you write with it from existence. For safekeeping, you kept it in a drawer...full of other pens. | 44 |
England smiles and hums happily while laying out the picnic blanket. She had been planning the picnic for days and was sure it was going to be splendid. She had packed all the lunches as well as an alternate lunch just in case one of the kids took an attitude. The last few years had been rough and for a while every day was a war. Australia and Canada were somewhat peaceful when left to their own devices but whenever America instigated, which was often, the entire house would be turned upside down. It was time for a fun family get together where they could just relax and enjoy each other’s company.
She walks to the kitchen and rings a small bell on the kitchen counter. It was a system she had worked out where if the kids heard the bell; they would need to run to the kitchen in thirty seconds unless they wanted one of their privileges to be taken. Australia comes first running full speed; she slides down the banister and manages to stop just short of her mother. England peers upstairs and sees America and Canada leaving their rooms. Canada signals for America to go first but he was already too far down the stairs to even notice the kind gesture. Her children all look at her awake but not interested and so she shouts, “Are you ready for a picnic?” Canada smiles politely but doesn’t answer, instead looking to America. America rolls his eyes and groans, “Are you serious?” England smiles hesitantly and then looks for Australia, who was already running around outside. The three kids sit down on the blanket like when they were kids and England begins to unpack the basket.
As she carefully decides what to put out, America watches Australia pick up a bee. “Stop it,” he warns her not looking up from his phone. Canada notices too but he doesn’t say anything half wishing that she’ll get stung and learn her lesson. England looks up and then says, “For God’s sake! Australia stop it!” Australia rolls her eyes and lets the bee fly away as America chuckles. Canada looks awkwardly from America to Australia wishing one of them would start a conversation. He looks at the food already unpacked: bagels, jam, sandwiches, and tea. He didn’t care for tea but his mother insisted the kids each drink one cup a day for its nutritional value. America looks at the food and asks, “What about chips?” England looks up confused and he gets off the blanket, “I’ll go get some” he says heading back into the house. England calls after him and rolls her eyes; he was never happy. Canada looks at his stressed mother and exclaims, “Nice weather, eh?” England nods as her phone begins to vibrate. It wasn’t fancy like her children’s but it still got the job done. She tries to look at it but without her glasses, it is nearly impossible. She hands it to Canada to read, he looks at it for a second and then says, “Its America calling, will you answer?” She shakes her head and says, “No, he will come out here if he needs something.” After a minute, America comes out in a huff, “I called you,” he says tensely. England sips her tea and America says, “I couldn’t find potato chips,” England grinds her teeth and says, “Maybe that’s because I didn’t buy any. Sit down and enjoy lunch with us!” America sits down and takes out his phone again and England loses her patience; who could he be texting so much?
She snatches his phone and puts it in her pocket, “Enough!” she screams causing all three children to look up. “I’m sorry mom” Canada says followed by an apology from Australia. America sighs and whispers, “Sorry mom.” England distributes the lunches watching her children’s faces light up when they received their lunches. Canada had bacon, egg, and cheese with the bacon prepped just the way he preferred. Australia had a smoked emu hero, and for once America wasn’t picky. His first choice was ham and cheese but afterwards he ate a peanut butter and jelly. England looks at her son, for the amount of food that he ate, he was still decently sized. England finishes her tea, “I’ll be right back, I just need to get a little more tea,” she says cheerfully getting up.
As soon as their screen door closes, they begin to hear a whistling on the other side of the fence. A teenage boy’s face appears at the top of the fence, “Aussie!” he calls out making her blush. “Work it girl!” He shouts infuriating both Canada and America at once. Both Canada and America knew that their younger sister was pretty but they weren’t going to let just anyone date her. “Get out of here!” America shouts angrily. Canada grabs a ball that was left out in their lawn and throws it at the boy’s face. He always appeared calm and nice but if angered, he was a force to be reckoned with. They don’t hear a hit but the boy disappears, leaving Australia alone with her protective and angry brothers. “You shouldn’t let boys talk to you like that,” Canada says still watching the fence. Australia groans, “I can take care of myself, you act like I’m so fragile! I’m tougher than either of you!” she shouts getting up from the blanket. Both brothers knew that Australia wasn’t defenseless; she could be quiet at times but she was also volatile. Normal girls didn’t have boas or scorpions as pets. America sighs; it was hard for him to let her grow up. He didn’t always treat her well but he still liked being her brother. She was wild, dangerous, and a little scary but she would eagerly help with any prank on Canada or their mom.
Their mother waddles out with a fresh pot of tea and a smile, “It is so nice to get together like the old times!” she says hugging America. He smiles and hugs her back; today wasn’t so bad after all. She hugs Canada next and then Australia. She looks down at the blanket: they had completely ruined the picnic blanket with crumbs and jam spilled over it and they were complete monsters. She watches as America begins to fold up the blanket into a triangle and Canada argues that it’s wrong while Australia grabs all the trash on the blanket and insists on making only one trip to the garbage can. They would always be her monsters.
| 89 | America, Australia, and Canada. | 157 |
It started as a whisper. But then again, these things always do, don't they? A few community pillars got mad and threw some tea into a harbor, bam, new country. Some woman decides not to move to the back of the bus, bam, equal rights. It's a story as old as the country itself. People gather in back rooms, talk of justice and revolution, and - with great effort, admittedly - come out on top. If I had to guess, that's why we love us a good underdog story; it's as American as America gets.
We took to the streets after the Final Insult. I couldn't tell you what it was, exactly; after all the bullshit we'd been putting up with from congressmen, presidents, and corporations, it all sort of blurs together into this big swirling shitheap of suck, but this stuck out, I remember that much. The riot that resulted from the Final Insult was like any other, but the response was different. The police, with their shields and their armor, only made a token attempt at getting us to disperse. The number of gas canisters, pepper spray cans, and bean bags used were record-lows for just about any riot ever (one of our techies ran the numbers, gotta love a computer hacker). But what followed...
...my mistake. The Final Insult wasn't the last decree they set, but the first shot they fired. We lied down and took it for years, but when we finally got a clear and unmistakable look at just how little we mattered to them, it was the mother of all wake-up calls.
That night, the survivors studied up *hard*. Many of us had never even protested before, much less formed less-than-well-regulated militias. Fortunately, we had a wealth of information to pull from before the government allowed Big Cable to cut the Internet and let the NSA go hog-wild; from the Arab Spring to the Viet Cong, we studied and practiced and trained as only Americans backed to the wall can. Sounds a bit ethnocentric, I know. But other nations in their respective revolutions often sought to minimize the damage against their aggressors, if only to maintain the already-existing infrastructure.
Not us. We're going to make Robespierre look like a goddamn choir boy. The America we all loved died long ago. There's no rebuilding it now. No saving it. But we can avenge it. And when we do, we're going to light the bastards up like the Fourth of July. Direct quote from my reverend.
It'll be tough. Tougher now than ever before; those that came before us often didn't have to deal with tanks or bombers or shoot-first policies. But who doesn't love a good underdog story? | 71 | Americans are tired of their government. The rebellion that was once a fantasy is finally occurring in the streets of America | 87 |
The fluorescent lights of the hospital room might as well have been the sun of a tropical beach to Grayson Archer. He was grinning to himself, as close to seventh heaven as someone with a shaved head and saline IV could be. After all, Gray was about to become the closest thing to an immortal that humanity had ever seen.
He had a Creedence Clearwater song stuck in his head, and tapped his finger on the bed's metal rails to the beat, looking to the window of his comfortable private room as he waited for the anesthesiologist to come in. It was a bright summer day in Israel, blue sky stretching in all directions across the city.
He could see everything to the East from the twentieth floor of the hospital. It was practically idyllic in the Promised Land, but Gray knew better. If he squinted, he could see desert-camouflaged tanks rolling through the streets, mobilizing. A helicopter whirled somewhere in the distance.
Israel's conflict with the Gaza strip had come to a head. The former had, the day before, initiated a ground assault of their decade-long enemies. News of the destruction played on the wall-mounted television in front of Gray's bed, an English translator dubbing over the top of Al-Jazeera's Arabic reporter, with B roll of a building in Gaza dissolving into a cloud of dust. Hundreds dead.
Gray grabbed the remote control from where it lie next to his waist and clicked the TV off. He wasn't about to let current events spoil his mood - the two nations had been fighting since the middle of the nineteenth century, and they weren't about to stop - and he wasn't worried about his own safety. The part of the country he was in had optimal air-to-ground defenses, a heavy military presence, and hadn't been hit by a single missile from Gaza in the last four years. And with his wife and daughter safe back home in Maine, he had no reason to worry.
Just then the door opened and a young woman in a white lab coat came in. She had white skin, with red hair and a clipboard.
"Good morning Senator Archer," the woman said with an Australian accent and a warm smile. She reached out to shake his hand. "I'm Dr. Whelasse."
"Please, call me Gray," he said, returning her handshake. Her grip was surprisingly firm for having such narrow, small hands. "It's nice to finally meet you in person. Had a good flight?"
"Yes, and thank you," Whelasse responded warmly. "I've always wanted to visit the Middle East."
Gray had gotten in touch with Dr. Whelasse, reportedly the greatest anesthesiologist in the world, when he had first heard about the procedure almost a year ago. It had come across his desk as a brief memo from a brother in the secret society that Gray and a select few other Senators belonged to. Just a pamphlet with the words "Project Prometheus" across the top. The tri-folded document was not well marketed, designed or written - a veteran of two successful political campaigns, Gray knew something about effective advertising - but he had a background in biology, and saw the project for what it was: the ultimate promise of indefinite longevity.
A quick Google search turned up Whelasse's name five minutes later, a phone call less than sixty seconds after that, and her plane ticket was booked within a week. Paid for in full by the Archer estate, naturally.
In the hospital room, they exchanged niceties. Gray was a little surprised when he realized she was flirting with him, laughing at each stupid pun his wife referred to as "Gray's Lamewaves" and flipping her hair in a way he recognized all too well from college. Too bad I don't have the same reputation for infidelity as some of my colleagues on the Senate floor, Gray thought ruefully.
"The procedure works like this," Whelasse began after the ice was sufficiently broken. Her tone had serioused up; she was all business when it came to medicine. "You'll be put under for forty-eight hours. The anesthesia developed for the operation is state-of-the-art, but you knew that since you paid for it. Alright, so you know how after you've had a good night's sleep, it feels like no time has passed at all?"
"Sure," Gray said.
"That's nothing compared to this," the doctor said. "The compound shuts down all parts of the brain except the brain stem and other systems necessary to keep you alive. Completely shuts them down. You'll essentially be a vegetable who we'll reactivate after the operation takes. The reason for this is that the procedure, on top of the mechanical restructuring of some of your hormonal glands, actually restructures your DNA."
She paused. "In order for this to work safely, your conscious and unconscious mind has to be entirely dormant, since any stress signals from the brain can catastrophically disrupt the process. Do you understand?"
Gray knew all this already, but he figured she had to tell him at the bedside for liability reasons. Not that the procedure itself didn't have its own legal questionability; there was a reason he had traveled overseas to have it done. It was just starting to be advertised in this part of the world. He would be the first commercial recipient of the most important surgery in human history, and no one knew it yet.
"I understand," Gray said.
She nodded and stood up, then walked over to retrieve the metal briefcase she had brought into the room with her. She opened it on a metal operation stand next to the bed. Inside, Gray could see four hypodermic needs full of amber liquid set into a block of black Styrofoam packing material. She pulled out and held it up to her face, tapping it to get rid of any air bubbles in the tube. Then she inserted it into the IV feed and looked him in the eye.
"Ready to live forever?" She asked.
Gray thought about his wife, Emily, and his daughters, Ana and April, how they would all have the chance to be together if the operation was successful for him. They could come back and visit Israel together. Everywhere in the world, actually. They could take their time. A good life unending.
"I'm ready," he said.
Then the world was taken from him.
***
There was a gray ceiling tile with a hole in it. He was looking at it. He wondered what was in the hole.
Why did he wonder? It seemed like there were more important things to wonder about. Not about whether there were rats up there, rats scratching, making that scratching sound up and down the halls -
Halls of what? A hospital, that's right. He was in a hospital, he remembered. At about the same moment, he remembered that he had a name. Gray. And a family.
Where and why and where he was came back to him like the gasp and confusion of breaking a lake's surface, the sheet of sleep rolling off his eyes and out of his lungs like water. He shot up into a sitting position, his head sailing what felt like miles through empty air. He stared around the room.
Most people will agree, there are two ways to wake up from a sleep, broadly speaking. The first is more common, the gradual-then-sudden awareness that you're laying in a bed, maybe noting that the blanket has fallen off the bed or that your girlfriend or boyfriend has stolen it. Knowing first thing that you have to get up or you won't have time for a crap cup of slimy sweet Starbuck's coffee before getting to work.
The other is the splash. It's the cold sweat, shooting from the mattress, unsure of who or where or what you are, the shadows of whatever dream or nightmare just had still hiding at the corners - sometimes in the damn middle - of vision, flight response from unseen monsters in fifth gear.
Grayson Archer's awakening was of the second kind. His eyes took note of the darkness of the room, the metal chair on its side, the black mold growing up the wall in front of him, the television that had belly-flopped from its mount on the wall and shattered on the ground across from his bed. A second picture hung over the first though, like a two transparencies on a projector screen; the second showed the room from before, the lights on, TV chattering, the ghost of the attractive and intelligent Dr. Whelasse to the left of his bed.
Gray took a few gasping breaths, then furiously rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands to clear his vision. Then he swung his legs out of the bed and jumped to his feet.
stabbing pain shot through his right foot and leg. "Ffffuck!" he shouted as he grabbed his leg and brought his foot around to look at the bottom, where a triangle of broken glass - which he guessed had skipped across the floor when the TV took its kamikaze dive - stuck halfway embedded in his foot. He pulled it out with a grunt of pain, then took a moment to steady himself.
After about a minute, the pain in his foot dimmed to an intense but tolerable throb. He looked around for something to bind it with, settling on a pillow case from his bed. He also noticed that the metal case Dr. Whelasse's metal case was still on its stand next to the bed, open. Three of the syringe-shaped indentations in the packing were empty, but the fourth needle was still there, full of liquid with its plastic safety cap secured. He grabbed it as he stepped out of the room without really knowing why; the back of his mind registered that something had gone wrong during the operation, and whoever would end up making this all right might need a sample for some reason.
The halls of the hospital were empty and echoing. Some of the tiles had fallen from the ceiling and lay rotting on the dirty linoleum. He tried the light switches which did nothing - the fire alarm similarly - but this wing of the building had large windows along the right hand side of the hallway. The moonlight outside painted the corridor blue.
He followed his memory as best he could toward the nearest staircase; he doubted the elevators were working. He limped on his cut foot around broken phosphorescent light bulbs, some of the long tubes having fallen from the ceiling and shattered.
The stairway sign with its stick-figure-man fleeing the stick-figure-fire hung ahead of him. He passed a hallway extending away to his left, dark since the moonlight did not penetrate far.
He turned to look briefly down the hallway, looked away, then did a double take as his heart leaped into his mouth. A pair of black Rebok sneakers with neon pink highlights stuck out out of the shadows, attached to a pair of legs in scrub bottoms. From the knees up, the figure was obscured by darkness, but Gray could make out an outline, lying in a half-fetal position. Then the smell, like the smell of rotten deli chicken that his wife had once left in the back of the fridge a month too long, and the sound of buzzing, swarming flies.
Gray's head swam, and he staggered away from what was left of the doctor or nurse or orderly in the hallway, almost falling over as he pushed his way past the door into the stairwell. He slid down the wall into a sitting position, breathing fast, then put his hands to his face and screamed. It echoed down twenty flights of stairs, and nothing responded.
***
Two hours later, he hobbled out the front door of the hospital into the moonlight of a skeletonized Israeli city. The only two standing structures with six blocks that Gray could see were the hospital behind him and a billboard across the street.
The trip down the stairs had been a hellish exercise in pain. His foot hurt worse with each step. After the first five flights, the calf muscle in his left left had fully cramped, and he realized that his muscles must have atrophied while he was in the bed. The last few flights of stairs were now decorated with a smeared trail of blood; Gray had given up hobbling on one foot when the pain in his muscles had grown worse than the pain in his foot.
In the empty street, all was silent. He had given up wondering how much time had passed; if the operation had been successful... He couldn't think about that. He remembered where the U.S. embassy was, five miles away to the North.
He limped around until he found a five-foot long piece of wood from the wreckage around him, which he used as a crutch as he began to hobble North, past the lone billboard.
He wouldn't. He wouldn't miss April's summer soccer games. Emily was due for a not-surprise promotion at work, which he had promised to celebrate with her at the dive bar where they had their first date. He wouldn't miss that either. So he limped North.
A cloud shifted and the moon illuminated the solitary billboard as he passed it. On it, a picture of a boy, maybe ten years old, smiling into the sun. Next to him, words spelled out in bold white letters like hope. "Prometheus Group: The Promise of Forever."
Now that's good advertising, Gray thought wildly. And limped on. | 12 | After a serious surgery and heavy anesthesia, you awake in a hospital bed only to find the hospital empty and decrepit. | 19 |
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